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Chapter Text

 “Tonks, Lucille.” McGonnagal called. 

 Whispers and hisses echoed from the right side of the Great Hall. From the Slytherin side. They knew the story of Ted Tonks and Andromeda Black. They still resented the eldest Tonks’s audacity. They were still furious a mudblood convinced a Black to sully her honor and that of her family. They were furious and resentful, but they were curious. The first Tonks was a nuisance and the war hadn’t truly begun then. What would the littlest Tonks prove capable of? 

 Lucille Tonks was a cute little girl. Plump and round cheeked with thick blonde braids. She was surprisingly graceful, surprisingly prideful. A few of the Slytherins shifted in their seats. That was the way a Black held themselves, the way a pureblood child was raised to be. Andromeda Tonks had done unspeakable things, betraying things, if this little girl was any indication. It was one thing to cast off her family’s legacy for a mudblood. It was another thing to tell that mudblood their secrets. 

 The Hat lowered onto her head and laughed. It laughed and laughed, a booming sound that echoed over the Hall. McGonnagal stared down at it nervously. 

 Then, when the cackling subsided to a chuckle, it cried, “SLYTHERIN!”

 Everyone froze. Everyone knew the story of Ted Tonks and Andromeda Black. They knew he was a muggleborn. They knew this little girl was his sister. They knew of the war being fought beyond the castle walls. 

 It seemed the girl did too. Her big blue eyes widened and she pulled the Hat further down onto her head, casting her childish face in shadow. 
 
The Hat laughed again.

 “Oh no, Miss Tonks. I’ll not be sorting you anywhere else. You are meant for great things. Terrible, yes, but great.” It laughed again, like it had told a joke only it could understand. “You will not achieve that greatness anywhere other than Slytherin.”

 The girl clutched the stool in a white knuckled grip. 

The Headmaster, who had been warring with himself on his throne, suddenly stood tall, resplendent in gold robes.

“Hat, perhaps it would be wisest-“

 “Nonsense, Albus. I haven’t seen a hunger like this since Tom Marvolo Riddle himself.”

 Albus Dumbledore paused. His fearful eyes darkened as they cut to the girl frozen on the stool beneath him. 

 “Go, Miss Tonks,” the Hat said. “Go and be terrible and great and come back to me so I can say I told you so.”

Later that night, Lucy Tonks sat up straight in her bed with her wand gripped tight in her hands. She stared at the emerald canopies and recited every spell she knew. She did not sleep that night. She would not sleep for two more.

Chapter Text

Lucy hated Hogwarts. She loved magic, practiced and studied it with something bordering on reverence. She’d never felt anything like it either of her lives. Magic set her heart soaring, made her stomach swoon with anticipation, and made her eyes sting with wondering adoration. 

School did the opposite. She was essentially a twenty something- thirty something now?- studying third grade material. That also meant she lived with them. She was surrounded by the cretins almost second of the day. As if that weren’t enough, they were all a bunch of racist little shits with a personal grudge against her last name. She spent most of her days in the library and empty classrooms, avoiding the common room until the very last minute. She spent her nights dodging curses and hexes and ignoring sneers and whispers. The worst had been a sickly yellow jet of light that melted the stones. 

The third night, the night her body had finally collapsed, she’d woken up to someone screaming. A third year girl had tried to break into her trunk. The very trunk Lucy had warded with the most complicated thing she could find in the library. Lucius Malfoy had strode in, saw the third year with burnt, bleeding hands, looked at Lucy’s proud smile, and rolled his eyes. He yelled at Lucy for being a mudblood, at the girl for losing to a mudblood, and at both of them for waking him up. Lucy had rubbed her sleep swollen eyes and asked how his hair looked so good. He had not been amused. 

They didn’t manage to land a hit until the first Monday. Even then it had been her own fault. She’d gone around a corner to find an older Ravenclaw bullying Severus Snape and Violet Brown. She stood over her fellow snakes and raised her wand defiantly. The boy laughed and sent off another jinx. Lucy dodged. It hit Snape, but she used the opportunity to yell “DIFFINDO!”. He screamed as a red line opened across his cheek. 

“Leave or it’ll be your throat next.”

It wouldn’t have. Lucy couldn’t kill a fly, let alone a boy, but he didn’t know that. He ran off with his hand pressed against his bleeding cheek. Lucy turned around to find Brown and Snape scurrying away. 

“We don’t need your help, you filthy little mudblood,” Brown spat. 

“Apparently you do,” a cold voice drawled. 

There was the clacking of heels on stone, then Narcissa Black stepped out from behind the corner. She had the same natural grace and haughty beauty as her sister, only Andromeda didn’t have that nasty glint in her eyes. She waited until the others hauled themselves to their feet and grabbed their things, then silently ordered them back to the common room. There, she hit Snape and Brown with a barrage of stinging hexes. 

“Worthless,” she hissed. “Pathetic. You let yourselves be overtaken by one Ravenclaw and then have to be saved by a mudblood. A mudblood. You are shame to our house.”

She cursed them one final time before rounding on Lucy. Lucy stared up at her defiantly. A thousand insults came to mind, almost all of them involving Andromeda and Bellatrix, but she kept her mouth shut. She had more important things to do than die at the ripe age of eleven. Narcissa, however, must have seen them all on her face. She raised her wand and intoned a curse. Some of the sixth and seventh years watching chuckled. Lucius Malfoy looked as though he was going to ravage Narcissa right there in front of them all. 

“Run along, little ones, before you’re late. If you lose any points for this, I’ll hex you into the ground again.”

The three of them did not hesitate. They rushed through the wall and down the corridor. They didn’t dare stop until they were panting at the top of a tight spiral staircase. 

“Where are we supposed to be?” Brown asked. Her hands were shaking as she tried to rearrange her blonde curls. Part of Lucy wondered if this girl would be Lavender Brown’s mother, but she was too preoccupied with Narcissa’s curse. She didn’t recognize the Latin and she felt fine. Any curse from a Black that didn’t leave you begging for mercy couldn’t be good. 

“Potions,” Snape grumbled. 

He winced as he rearranged the strap of his bag, but set his shoulders back and led them through the archway. Already displaying his badass side. At eleven. No eleven year old should have to be a badass. 

Yes, Lucy definitely hated Hogwarts. 

The resentment churning in her stomach worsened when they came across a group of children dressed in red and green. The last thing she needed was a bunch of brats feuding with each other in a dark room filled with dangerous fumes. 

“Sev!” A pretty redhead called. 

She hopped over to Snape and began bombarding him with cheerful questions. Brown scoffed. She toyed with strap of her designer bag, stealing a glance at Lucy through her hair. 

“Are you alright?” She whispered. 

Lucy shrugged. 

Brown frowned. “That can’t be good.”

Lucy sighed in agreement. 

“Thanks, by the way. I...I shouldn’t have called you that. I was just embarrassed and angry.”

“Won’t you just fuck off?” Lucy said, surprising herself with her own bluntness. 

“There’s no need to be crass!” Brown cried. She shoved past the both of them to join their dorm-mates across the hall. 

Slughorn appeared not soon after. He chortled and beamed as they walked through the door. Lucy threw herself into a seat in the back corner, glaring at anyone that got to near. She outright showed her teeth at Peter Pettigrew. In the end, she had the entire table to herself. Until Sirius Black and James Potter barreled through and collapsed into the seats across from her, at least. Lucy wanted to cry. There was no possible way the day could get any worse. 

“Has he started yet?” Potter asked. 

Lucy scowled. He cowered on his stool. 

“Hey! You’re that Tonks girl!” Black said. “You know my cousin?”

“Yes, I know your bitch of a cousin! That cunt just fucking hexed me.”

Both boys jumped back in alarm. Sirius connected the dots first. He whistled lowly. 

“I wasn’t talking ‘bout Narcissa, but she’s always a right bitch. What’d she do?”

“Good afternoon, students!” Slughorn called. He peered at them from over his ridiculous mustache. “Now it looks like you’re all here, but I’ll be taking roll just in case. First, Yvonne Adams?”

“Here.”

Lucy slumped over the table, stewing in her misery. All she’d try to do was protect her fellow Slytherins, show some sort of house solidarity, but noooo. Apparently, they’d rather suffer than be saved by a mudblood, the idiots. She’d spent most of the weekend practicing shields and curses in an empty classroom and she’d be damned before she wasted her hard work on those ungrateful brats again. 

A sharp pain in her shin cut into her thoughts. 

“Lucy Tonks?” Slughorn asked. He swished his wand to brighten the lights. “Ah, there you are! With your cousin, I see. Oh dear, are you quite alright, my girl? You’re looking a bit pale.”

“Fuck off,” she snapped. 

The class gasped. Across from her, Potter and Black looked as though Christmas had come early. 

“I beg your pardon?” Slughorn asked. 

“You can take my pardon and shove it up your fat ass.”

“Miss Tonks! Now, I understand this is a difficult-“

“You don’t understand shite you unctuous wanker.”

“Lucy, if you keep this up I’ll have to take points.”

“Take your motherfucking points, you slimy git. They’re only a way to promote ass kissing. It’s all anyone knows how to fucking do. If they’re not trying to suck Dumbledore’s cock, they’re bending over for Voldemort to fuck them up the ass.” 

The dungeon was deathly silent. Sirius Black had tears in his eyes. Slughorn waved his wand with a shaking hand. Lucy braced herself, her hands tight on the stool. This was it. She was going to be expelled. She’d never get the diadem. She’d have to lie and say she wanted to run upstairs and say goodbye to someone. Sirius, maybe? The Grey Lady? Who else lived upstairs? She didn’t have any friends in any part of the castle. 

“Finite incantatum,” Slughorn said. 

White light flashed and a warm feeling rushed through her body. 

“Miss Tonks?” Slughorn asked. 

“Yes, Professor?”

“Tell me about your favorite potion.”

“The Polyjuice Potion is an incredibly complex concoction that...Sweet! Thanks, Professor!” Then, sheepishly she added, “Sorry.”

Slughorn stared at her for a moment before he turned his attention to the class. “That, ladies and gentlemen, was the cursing curse in action. It lowers the victim’s inhibitions and replaces their vocabulary with foul language.”

“Please, Professor,” Violet Brown said. “Don’t take any points. We were ambushed by a fourth year Ravenclaw and Lucy stood up for us. I’ve got the stinging welts to prove it.”

Slughorn was quite for a long time. “I am the Head of Slytherin. Do not lie to me again, Miss Brown.”

“Yes, Professor,” Violet murmured.

“Class is dismissed, I think. Seeing a child cursed by a near adult ruins one’s inspiration. I expect a ten inch essay on the Calming Drought.”

“Yes, Professor,” they intoned. 

“Then I will see you all on Monday.”

Lucy let her feet lead her through the halls. She found herself standing outside a portrait of a fat lady on the seventh floor. She stood there wondering how different this new life could have been and how much worse it was going to get. 

The weeks passed. Lucy kept her head down, only bringing attention to herself in class. She felt a little guilty for succeeding, but she wouldn’t be able to excel if she focused her efforts on academic anonymity. Her worst subject was transfiguration and even then McGonnagal assigned her alternate work. She skived off history to practice dueling and study wards. Her trunk would give a NEWT student pause. 

Everything came to a head in the third week of October. The upper years came in from Hogsmeade half drunk and carrying a crate between them. Lucy looked up from where she sat against the window, trying to decide if she could sneak back to her bed. Her roommates ignored her for the most part, and the older girls had stopped trying to get in her trunk after their third attempt sent Mia Mercier to the hospital wing.  

Yes, she decided. They’re too drunk to notice me. 

She closed her history book and skirted around the room. She kept to the walls, giving the upper years a wide birth. 

It was Lucius Malfoy that stopped her. 

“You. Mudblood,” he called. She cursed under her breath. The third years she was standing behind cleared out. “Where do you think you’re going?”

She didn’t say anything. She just gripped her wand and studied his figure across the room. He was annoyingly handsome. There was something inherently masculine in his appearance despite his long, white hair and glittering robes. She respected him, much in the way she suspected he was beginning to respect her. There was nothing wrong with respecting one’s enemies. Some might even call it wise.

“Well?” He drawled. “Snake got your tongue?”

A few of his friends laughed. Narcissa Black watched him with adoration in her eyes. 

“I’m going to my room. I don’t want any trouble.”

Malfoy tutted in faux disappointment. “Now that’s a lie. A mudblood can’t come to the dungeons without wanting trouble.”

“It wasn’t my choice. I tried to get sorted into Ravenclaw. You heard the Hat. It wouldn’t even budge for Dumbledore.” 

“Ah, yes. Great and terrible and hungry.” His sneer suddenly dropped into a frown. “Did it tell you who Tom Marvolo Riddle was?”

She chewed on her lip. It would be stupid. Foolish. Word had probably gotten back to him somehow. There was no reason to speed things along on that front. 

“You do know,” Malfoy crooned. “Will you tell us? Or will you let me make you?”

Fuck it, there was plenty reason to speed things along with Snakeface. 

“I’ll show you,” Lucy blurted. 

Malfoy raised a brow. “Indeed?”

Unfortunately, most of Lucy’s passive magic came out bubblegum pink. Her handwriting was even more embarrassing. It always had been. So it was with big sloppy pink letters that Tom Marvolo Riddle rearranged itself into I Am Lord Voldemort. She managed to count to ten before Malfoy broke the eerie silence. 

“You dare?” He hissed. 

“I can’t help that my magic-“

“Release it.”

A few boys cheered. One of them, it might have been Rosier, flicked his wand at the crate. Lucy watched, gulping, as it creaked open. 

The head rose first. Lurid orange and triangular with slitted red eyes. It was a snake that she’d never seen before. It could have been a ball python if it weren’t for its obviously magical nature. It danced up and up and up and climbed out, it’s heavy bulk thudding on the carpet. It hissed happily. 

“There. Her,” Malfoy ordered. 

The beast followed the line of his wand and focused on Lucy’s trembling figure. It’s mammoth bulk curved and flexed as it slithered in her direction. Lucy cast every spell she knew. Everything, even the bone breaking one she’d read in Andy’s grimoire, bounced off. The carpet singed. Chair legs broke. Stuffing exploded. She screamed them all again and again, hoping against all probability that something would hit. Curse upon curse erupted from her wand with the force of grown witch. They were blinding and powerful and they did nothing. 

The snake paused not a foot from her. It eyed her curiously, it’s lipless mouth quirked into a smirk. It hissed something, reared it’s head back, and just as it was about to strike, two words broke the tense silence. 

“AVADA KEDAVRA.”

The murky green of the Slytherin common room lit up a bright, brilliant chartreuse. The snake fell to the floor with a haunting thump. Lucy’s heart pumped painfully hard. It pulsed in her ears, throbbed in her teeth. 

She licked her lips, finally tearing her gaze away from the body at her feet. Lucius Malfoy stared down at her with a dangerously pale face. 

She could do it. It had been easy, so easy. It hurt, yes, but no more than pulling a muscle in her chest. The pain was already ebbing away. Lucius couldn’t be much more intelligent than a snake. He was an animal, a murderer. He wasn’t an innocent. 

Something cold burned through her veins. The Bloody Baron floated in front of her. His piercing black eyes met her own. Slowly, as thought not to startle her, he raised his wrists. The metal cuffs clanked ominously.  

Lucy sucked in a breath. Right. He’d spent eternity shackled with regret and shame. Her fate would be nearly so kind. She doubted she could become a ghost after the dementors devoured her soul. 

“Right,” she murmured to herself. She nodded, tapping her wand against her thigh nervously. Louder, she said, “Right. I’m going to get my trunk and one of you is going to shrink it for me. I am going to leave you lot alone and you’ll do the same for me. You good with that?”

Nobody agreed, but nobody spoke against it either. She went to get her trunk, waited patiently as a sixth year shrunk it, and began the long trek up the stairs. She spent that night in the Room of Requirement. The next day, the Bloody Baron silently led her back to the dungeons. They came to halt outside a simple wooden door. It swung open to reveal a dark, musty room with a rusted sink and half rotted shelves. It might have been an old broom closet or an abandon end professor’s office. Either way, it was hers now. It was where she would spend the next seven years of her life. 

Chapter Text

Lucy became a bit of a thief. Most of her trophies came from the Room of Requirement. She spent more and more time there, filtering through the piles of junk. She’d amassed a small fortune of coins and had a nice pile of jewels hidden in her trunk. She planned to take them to Gringotts as soon as she was old enough to go on her own. 

There were even more books. Useless books on breeding flobberworms and carving cheese. Ancient, crumbling books about runes and battles long since forgotten. Her favorites were the spellbooks. Some were banned, tossed in the room by students escaping punishment. Others were outdated textbooks with spells deemed obsolete or illegal. There were even a few that looked like they might have belonged in a family library. She handled those with dragonhide gloves. She wouldn’t put it past some of the purebloods to hex their books against people like her. 

Time passed slowly. Dumbledore tried to move her up a year or two, but Mum refused. She thought it best for Lucy to be around children her own age. It was very sweet, if not exasperating. In the end, the professors gave her alternate assignments. Dumbledore watched her grow warily. She tried to put his mind at ease, but it never worked. He might have loved her, maybe even cherished her, if the Hat had put her in Ravenclaw. 

She never really made friends until her later years. After their first Christmas holiday,  Violet Brown didn’t ostracize her like the rest of the Slytherins did. They even began eating together in fifth year. Severus Snape hunted her down when they were thirteen. They spent hours dueling and debating theory. She even helped him work out the kinks in a few of his spells. 

Lucy avoided the so-called Marauders as often as she could. It proved more difficult than she liked. All of the castle knew about her, the girl who was rumored to cast an unforgivable at eleven, got six Outstanding OWLS her fourth year, and outed the Dark Lord’s true name. They feared her just as much as Voldemort was intrigued by her. Of course the four troublemakers would be drawn to her like a moth to a flame. 

Everyone thought she was someone to be feared so she kept the image up as well as she could. She wasn’t placed in Slytherin for her ambition alone. Lucy wasn’t the next Dumbledore or Voldemort. She was intelligent and driven, but she didn’t possess half the power they did. For all the hours she practiced dueling, it didn’t come naturally to her. She didn’t have the reflexes and quick thinking that people like Sirius Black and Severus Snape had. Lucy relied on plans and practice.

Her entire life revolved around one massive, insanely complex plan. It was mapped out in a heavily cursed journal hidden in her heavily warded bag that never left her heavily protected side. Each bullet point had its own page. Over time, the plan became more of a table of contents. There were plans for the plan. She had pages and pages of notes for each part. Some of it was legitimate research. Others were half-thoughts scribbled in the margins. 

The Table of Contents looked something like: 

• Master Occlumency
• Buy poison. QUICK!!(and preferably painless)
• Buy tent. 
• Learn
  • Apparation
  • portkeys
  • fighting
  • wards
• Master fiendfyre/get dagger & venom
• look for another way to destroy horcuruxes
• diadem
• ring
  • summer maybe? easier to find than cave.
• buy house elf.
  • escaping from cave/manor
  • how are they with gringotts/goblins?
• destroy locket BEFORE RAB GRADUATES
• contingency plans
  • ted & andy obvs.
  • moody fo sho
  • amelia bones?
  • dumbledore, probs.
  • Lucy? Black? Potters? -- someone needs to know about peter if i die
• join order
  • prevents suspicion
  • closer to pettigrew
• if fail -> go to godric's hollow
• Fail again? STOP SIRIUS.
• Better yet, don't fail.
• Kill Pettigrew if neccessary.
• Become Animagus? To escape Azkaban?
• DO NOT GO TO AZKABAN.
• Break into Malfoy home. Steal diary. Destroy it. Simple!
• On second thought, maybe Azkaban>dying agin.
• Study goblin laws and look for work around.
  • Dumbledore?
  • Maybe let Vol get blown up first? Get cup after?
  • Flitwick?
  • Robbing is last option.
• Live so I can see Queen and Nirvana and Tupac and maybe even the Backstreet Boys.

Every decision, every waking moment centered around the Table of Contents. To most, Lucy seemed to be an eccentric scholar. There could be no other reason a bright young girl would be so obsessed with warding and runes and ancient rituals and magic. The denizens of Hogwarts learned not to look twice at a Slytherin girl waving her wand at random walls and fixtures of the castle. For the longest time, it was just Lucy and the Hogwarts wards. Then, in sixth year, everything changed. 

A couple of firsties clamored out of their portrait hole one cold morning and came to an abrupt halt. An older Slytherin sat cross legged on the floor, her eyes bloodshot and sunken. The Gryffindors shuffled on their feet nervously. Lucy Tonks cast the killing curse and single handedly revealed You-Know-Who’s heritage all in her first year. Dumbledore looked at her funny. They could only guess what she did in her independent studies.

One firstie nodded at the other grimly. Everyone knew not to go into the sixth year boy’s dormitories, but this was an emergency. If James Potter and Sirius Black couldn’t defend them, no one could. 

Well. Maybe except for Lily Evans. She scared even James Potter when she had a fit. 

The Gryffindors rushed back inside. Lucy hadn’t even noticed. She sat utterly enthralled by the wall. It was several moments before Sirius Black, James Potter, and Remus Lupin burst through the portrait. They stared in bewildered silence for a moment, then rounded on each other in furious hisses. Whatever argument they had, Sirius Black lost spectacularly. 

He approached with something that looked suspiciously like caution. 

“Hello, cousin,” he said.

Lucy jolted. She glanced over her shoulder and cringed. 

“Not your cousin,” she muttered before turning back to her work. 

“Now, now. There’s no need to be rude.”

She ignored him. Sirius hesitated before dropping to the floor beside her. She looked like shit. Her eyes were swollen and her hair was piled in a messy knot on top of her head. She hadn’t even changed out of her uniform from yesterday. 

“Luce, how long have you been working on that?”

“Dunno.”

“Well when did you start?”

“Dinner.”

“Right. Maybe it’s time you take a break.”

“Can’t.”

“And why is that?”

“Almost got it.”

“Got what?”

“Look for yourself.”

Sirius glanced at his friends uneasily before casting a personal revealing spell. The wall lit up in a maze of lights. He gaped. It was a tapestry of glowing threads, some new and strong, others old and frayed, and a select few ancient and sturdy. It was mesmerizing. 

“You’re breaking into our common room,” he said. 

“Yep,” she said. He watched, enthralled, as she twisted a pink cord around a golden one. It hummed with primordial magic. 

“Is that...is that from Godric Gryffindor?”

She turned to beam at him. Sirius, romance aficionado and two time consecutive winner of Hogwart’s Most Eligible Bachelor, had to blink several times to ground himself. It was easy to forget how beautiful she was. Everyone, even the Slytherins, could not deny that Lucy was one of the most tempting girls in school. She had the face of an angel and a body that promised all sorts of wickedness. Smiling like that, like she knew every secret in the world and was happy to share it with you, was dizzying. 

"What was that about cousins, Padfoot?" James asked.

Lucy, thankfully, didn't seem to hear him.

“Yes! It’s fascinating!" she was saying. "Every common room has different wards along with the usual Hogwarts ones. It took me weeks to figure them all out. It doesn’t help that students and professors have added their own over time, so they go all the way back to when the castle was built. Did you know the House colors are based on the Founder’s magic? You better thank god I wasn’t here because a quarter of us would be wearing pink and indigo.”

“Your magic is pink?” 

She waved him off. “Yeah, but it’s not just the colors that are so cool. It’s the magic itself! Ravenclaw was a breeze. It’s hardly warded beyond the standard protection spells and runes. Their founder was a scholar and didn’t really care if anyone got in as long as they were there to learn. It still applies today. That’s why they’ve got the eagle knocker.”

“....You’re telling me you broke through the wards of Ravenclaw Tower.”

“That was nothing. Slytherin’s weren’t even that difficult. I think he thought that if someone was sly enough to get in then his students deserved it. What was most difficult was preventing the wards from recognizing me as a Slytherin and pushing me through without any trouble. That and the Parselmagic. It’s everywhere, all throughout the castle. It’s even in some of the columns. I bet he had the best gossip. It was the Slytherin students that were so difficult to get by. I’m pretty sure I found Voldemort’s signature and I suspect Merlin left something that turns animagi into flobberworms, but I’m not completely positive that was his magic.”

Sirius paled. “Good to know.”

Potter stepped forward, eyeing the wall with wariness. “Sooo you’re breaking through everyone’s common rooms because...” 

“The Professors hardly ward their rooms at all. Slughorn’s took the longest and that was only forty seven minutes. This is amazing. There are runes here that I’d never even heard of. Godric Gryffindor was a fucking badass. Feel this.”

Sirius didn’t miss how she avoided the question. Instead of confronting her, he flicked his wand and a jet of light sped to ravel around the golden string she offered. Lucy canceled her own spell to give him more room to explore. Sirius poked and prodded as he wove through the lattice of protections. 

“It’s is a puzzle,” he whispered in awe. 

“Oh dear God, I’m going to go eat. He’ll be here for hours,” Lupin said. 

Potter groaned. “Sirius, mate, come on.”

“Nah, you lot go ahead. Go visit Peter. I’ll meet up with you later.”

Potter rolled his eyes, but he trudged off without further complaint. Lupin hesitated beside them. 

“I’m sorry about your mum,” he said. “I just lost mine too.”

Lucy gave him a small smile. “It’s alright. I’ve still got Ted. And at least it was natural and not...not him.”

He nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Keep an eye on Sirius, will you? We’ve got Charms at half nine.”

“Just tell Flitwick he’s working with me. It’ll probably make him happy.”

Flitwick was indeed very happy. He arrived at the Fat Lady’s portrait just before lunch with Minerva McGonnagal, who was decidedly less happy. The last thing she needed was Sirius Black armed with such catastrophic knowledge. Nevertheless, the professors conjured chairs and cast a universal revealing spell. A group of passing third years gaped at the sudden appearance of the wards. 

Sirius and Lucy were silent except for small exchanges and muttered curses.  

“Who’s this yellow line? It can’t be...”
“Yep. That’s Helga Hufflepuff.”
“But it’s so dark!”
“You should see their common room. There’s a reason no one other than a Hufflepuff has been able to get in for centuries.”

“Fuck! That stung.”

“Goddamnit! Don’t touch that if you want to keep your fingers.”

“Bloody hell! What was that?”
“Huh. You know, I think Voldemort put that on the dungeon. I wonder if he got it from here.”
“But what does it do?”
“I dunno. I felt him and didn’t play with it too much.”
“But what does it do?!”
“Something Voldemort appreciated.”
“...right, moving on.”

Finally, at one in the afternoon, the wards suddenly flared to life and the Fat Lady’s portrait swung open. Professor Flitwick burst into applause.

 “Well done, well done. Most impressive!” Flitwick cried. “A hundred points to you each for your success, and another fifty for such a heartwarming display of interhouse cooperation. I suspect you’ll want a tour of Gryffindor Tower, Miss Tonks?”

Lucy blinked. Her eyes were rimmed with red and burned something awful. 

 “What time is it?” She asked. 

“It is just after one. When did you start?” Flitwick asked. 

“Six yesterday evening. Sirius jumped in at what? Nine?”

“Seven,” he said. 

“You broke through a thousand years worth the wards in less than twenty four hours?”
McGonnagal asked incredulously. 

Lucy bit on her cheek to hide her smile. “Well, I’ve been working my way up so it wasn’t like the material was new or anything. It’s just a matter of solving the puzzle.”

“Indeed?” McGonnagal raised a brow. “And what, pray tell, are you working your way up to?”

“The Headmaster’s Office, of course.”

Sirius barked out a laugh. 

Flitwick hopped from foot to foot excitedly. “Fascinating! I daresay you could write a dissertation instead of taking the Charms NEWT. Though of course, neither of you would have a problem sitting them this very minute.”

“Please do not inflate Mr. Black’s ego further,” McGonnagal said, her twitching lip betraying her own amusement. 

Sirius smirked. “Oh, Minnie. You don’t have to hide your affections from me.”

“Tonks, come along for the tour,” Minnie snapped. 

She nearly dragged Sirius through the portrait. He could be heard saying something about eagerness and pleasure. Lucy shuddered despite herself. She had no doubt that Sirius would bang his teacher for shits and giggles. Hell, he’d probably bang Dumbledore just to know that he had. 

“Miss Tonks. A word.”

Lucy paused outside the entrance. Flitwick peered up at her with a dangerous glint in his eyes. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention. 

“Miss Tonks. I am not so easily fooled. You are not a Ravenclaw. This is not a passion project, no matter how much you have enjoyed it. You are up to something. Something that will require you to get through complex wards. What are you planning, girl?”

She chewed on her lower lip and scratched at a groove in the stone wall as she weighed her options. Flitwick was hardly mentioned in the books. He seemed to be loyal to the school rather than the Order. In fact, he probably wasn’t even in the Order. What had the Ministry ever done for magical creatures? 

Lucy glanced down the hall, even peeking past the open portrait to ensure their privacy. When she was completely sure of it, she licked her lips nervously and looked down at her professor. 

“I’m going to rob Voldemort,” she said as quietly as she could. “He’s hidden several....things in several different locations. I don’t know what I need to know, so I’m not taking any chances. I figured if I can get past Dumbledore in his own castle I can get past anyone.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Hmm. And have you told Albus about these items?”

“No, and I don’t plan on it. I don’t trust him. It might be stupid, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. I do have several contingency plans in place in the event of my disappearance or death, so he’ll know when he needs to.”

Flitwick let out a heavy sigh. “I must confess my relief. I was afraid you were thinking you could rob Gringotts.”

“No.” Not if I can help it. “I think I might have to bring Dumbledore in on that one.”

“Merlin’s beard,” Flitwick gasped. He stumbled back against the doorsill. “What ever have you got yourself into?”

She gave him a sad smile. “I didn’t choose this. I even thought about running away. Still don’t know why I haven’t, if I’m being honest.”

“Luce!” Sirius Black called. Flitwick and Lucy glanced over to find Sirius leaning into the other end of the tunnel. “You coming? Or can Minnie and I-“

“SIRIUS BLACK IF YOU FINISH THAT-“

He winked as he vanished from their sight. “Okay, okay. Don’t get yourself in a tizzy.”

“It’s for them, I think,” Lucy said slowly as she thought aloud. “I don’t have anybody, but that doesn’t mean everybody else should lose their somebodies.”

“There are many somebodies out there waiting for you. Take Mr. Black, for instance. Us teachers notice more than you’d think.”

“I promised myself I wouldn’t get involved. It’s too dangerous for them.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re a Slytherin. Your kind are always great at finding loopholes in vows and laws.”

Lucy tilted her head thoughtfully. “That’s very clever of you, Professor.”

“I am a very clever wizard, Miss Tonks, and you are a very clever witch. Now forgive me, but I must prepare for class. Go and explore the Lion’s Den. Maybe invite Sirius to study or lunch? That boy could use a steady hand in his life.”

“You know, I think I might do that.”

She did something better. After the tour, she pulled him aside and invited him to spend Christmas with Nymph and Andy. He accepted cheerfully, then pulled Lucy down to the kitchens where they both fell asleep by the fire with full bellies and cozy blankets. 

The next day, Lucy made herself comfortable in front of the Hufflepuff common room. After that, it was Dumbledore’s office. And after that, she cornered Sirius Black at King's Cross.

"Sirius," she said. "How would you like help me steal something from Lord Voldemort?"

Chapter Text

Sirius waved his arm to signal Lucy. She tilted her borrowed broom to set it on a gentle decline. She hadn’t initially planned on bringing anyone along, especially not Sirius fucking Black. He was smart, though. And good in a fight, and an animagus, and familiar with dark magic. Part of her would have preferred Severus. Another part of her, the part that she’d buried deep for so long, the part that wanted to race Sirius to the ground, was glad it wasn’t Severus. 

In a sudden bout of energy, Lucy urged her broom forward. The wind thundered in her ears, the bright sky raced past, and the earth seemed to rush to meet her. She heard an indignant cry before a dark figure blurred past. The bastard was even upside down. Lucy frowned, determined not to be outdone, and threw herself against the smooth, wooden handle. 

Sirius twisted at the very last second to land deftly on his feet. Lucy pulled out of her dive and landed gracefully beside him. 

“I win,” he said, a wide smile cutting across his face. He had prominent canines. She wondered if he always had or if it was Padfoot bleeding through. 

“Show off,” she muttered. 

She tapped the broom with her wand. After it shrunk to a quarter of its height, she shoved it deep into her leather bag. Her bag was one of the rare things she allowed herself to splurge on. If she was going to die, she was going to do it in style. Lucy had always liked pretty things. She wouldn’t let destiny or fate or some stupid god take that from her too. 

“Right, so, where are we?” She asked. 

Her abysmal sense of direction was another reason to bring someone along. She’d probably somehow end up in the Falkland Islands if she tried to do this on her own. Granted, if she’d done it alone, she would have just used Muggle transportation. Apparating to a new place was never a good idea, especially for the inexperienced, and she didn’t know if Voldemort was keeping an eye on everything. Probably not, but it didn’t hurt to be safe. 

Sirius pulled the map out of the back pocket of his jeans to study it. 

“Looks like a few miles northeast through this forest and we’ll be there.”

“Is the village close to the trees?”

“Yeah, looks to be.”

“Okay. Then we should use our animagus forms.”

Sirius froze much like a dog that had caught a glimpse of a squirrel. 

“I don’t have an animagus form,” he grumbled, suddenly very concerned that the map was stowed away carefully.

Lucy bit back a smile. “Mm. Neither does James Potter, I presume.”

“Of course not, we’re far too young.”

“And definitely not Peter Pettigrew.“

“No. And neither does Lupin, so let’s move. We’ll need-“

“Cut the bullshit, Sirius. This is important, far more important than a stupid ministry law.”

“Fine,” he decided. What are you?”

“You’ll see.”

“No. You brought this up.”

“You won’t know what it is anyway.”

“Try me,” he demanded, setting his chin defiantly. 

Lucy straightened her spine. “I’m a raccoon.”

His scowl lightened to a confused frown. “A what?”

“It’s a small mammal native to North America.”

“Shift.”

“No. We need to talk first.”

“I want to see.”

“Sirius, this is important.”

He crossed his arms and planted his feet. Lucy groaned, throwing her hands up into the air. Maybe she should have brought Severus. Boring was safe. He would have simply taken the muggle train with her. They could have spent the day reading in a peaceful quiet or spent the hours perfecting their plans. 

Lucy took deep breaths to calm herself. She focused inward, pulling on her magic, imagining every part of the raccoon. With enough experience, she would be able to switch between forms in the blink of an eye. As it was, she hadn’t mastered the transformation until March. Three months didn’t make her an expert. 

Soon, the world grew. The trees towered over her. Light became brighter as the colors dulled and the scents sharpened. Lucy shifted her weight from side to side. The most jolting  change wasn’t the tail or the near colorblindness. It was the sensitivity in her paws. Humans didn’t have anything like it.  

Sirius threw his head back in laughter. He laughed and laughed. And laughed. He laughed long enough to that she grew bored and decided look for a snack. That was another thing about raccoons. They were always hungry and always curious. They always wanted something to plunder into or a new place to explore. She couldn’t wait to go back to Hogwarts. 

“Merlin!” Sirius cried when he finally gathered himself. 

Lucy jerked, nearly falling into her bag. That would have been a nightmare to get out of. Would the curses allow Sirius to help her out? Shit, she’d have to tie him into the magic in case something bad happened.

“Come here. Let me get a closer look.”

Well. She was extremely adorable and she had worked on it for over a year. It wouldn’t hurt to show off. She strode over with light footsteps to highlight her elegance. Sirius didn’t bother trying to hide his amusement. 

“I cannot believe this,” he said, grinning like a maniac. He knelt on the ground to study her further. “I would have thought you were a scorpion or a snake or something! May I?”

She nodded her acquiescence. He reached out run a hand down her back, which was far more enjoyable than rubbing against the bottom of her bedframe. Next, he held out his finger. She wrapped her tiny black paws around it. She squealed as he scooped her up and held her close to his face.

“Look at that nose,” he said, twisting her this way and that. “You’re so fat and fluffy!”

Quick as a snake, Lucy struck out and bit him hard on the nose. He cursed and fell back on his ass. She scampered away to shift back. This was the most difficult part. Lucy still remembered her old body. She remembered being tall and slim and brunette. Sometimes she got bits of her old self mixed into the new one. The first time she’d done it, she’d had to go to Madam Pomfrey to get her legs to match. 

It took a moment, but she soon  stood tall and regal above Sirius Black. 

“Don’t ever call me that again,” she snapped. 

“Oi!” He protested, rubbing his nose. “I didn’t mean it like that! It was cute is all. None of us turn into furry woodland creatures.”

“What do you turn into, then?”

Sirius smirked. Far quicker than she could, far quicker than he had any right to, he morphed into a massive black dog. It was tall and broad with pointy ears that added to his threatening demeanor. 

“Show your teeth,” Lucy said. 

He snarled. She shuddered involuntarily. Poor Ron being dragged around by such a beast. 

“You’re much more terrifying like this.”

He wagged his tail eagerly. Lucy snorted and conjured a piece of fabric to sit on. 

“Come on. We’ve got a lot of work to do,” she said, summoning her bag. 

Sirius transformed back and sat across from her on the grass.

“Didn’t take your for the girly type,” he said, eyeing her makeshift seat as if it had deeply insulted his personal honor.

She sniffed. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Like how you’re a cheeky little fuzzball at heart?”

“Yes, exactly,” she said drily. “Now, its time to focus. We’ve got a country to save.”

Lucy would have liked to brainstorm until the sun dipped below the trees. She wanted contingency plans for her contingency plans. Sirius would have none of it. He declared them prepared after they had two different ways to escape. Lucy consented with great trepidation. It certainly wasn’t her style, but that might be for the best. Flitwick had given her advice that she would have given someone else. It was time to open up. Her peers were no longer children. They were young adults that had grown up in a time of war. 

Little Hangleton was indeed nested against a thin forest. Unfortunately, the shack was half buried in a copse of malevolent trees. Darkness waded from it, choking their animal senses. They decided to set up camp a good hundred yards away, warding their campground until even Dumbledore would be hard pressed to notice them. They watched for three days. On the third night, they decided they were ready. It seemed that Voldemort was arrogant enough to think no one would investigate his past. Either that or he had moved the horcrux. Or set a deadly trap. She couldn’t decide which was worse. 

They cast dillusionment and silencing charms on each other, then crept across the rolling field. Lucy could think of no other way to describe the Gaunt shack other than sad. A sorrowful aura permeated the very ground they stood on. Beyond that, though, were the wards.

“Bloody hell,” Sirius cursed. He waved his wand in a complicated pattern. “This is almost as bad as Grimmauld Place.”

Lucy’s lips quirked into a small smile. “Almost?”

He sneered back. “Almost.”

It took them the better part of four hours. It might have taken Lucy twice as long on her own. She was good, but she didn’t recognize have the curses woven into the latticework. Finally, just as the moon began to dip from its apex, the wards hummed and dropped. 

“Fuck,” Sirius cursed vehemently. 

“Fuck,” Lucy agreed. 

She tightened her ponytail and stepped forward. There was a magical tripwire of sorts that she banished with half a thought. The door, however, nearly caused her to turn back. She’d never been afraid of snakes until her first year. She liked them still, found their magical abilities and genetic makeup fascinating. To not have any limbs and still be one of the most feared predators on a planet! She loved odd things like that, special things. It was what made her and Tom Riddle alike. 

Still, seeing a dozen dark hissing things unfurl from the vines ran a shiver up her spine. 

“Inrita maledictum,” Sirius said. He stood tall in front of her, waving his wand and chanting a melodic set of words. “Inrita maledictum. Eiecto anathema. Ego ex cruor purus, ego ex magica nigrae. Inrita maledictum.”

Black tendrils of shadow fell from the tip of his wand. It fell onto the writhing beasts like soft snow. They hissed almost contentedly before fading back into the nettles and thorns. 

“What was that?” Lucy whispered. 

“That was one of the only good things about being a pureblood. Black family magic. Dark magic.”

“It was beautiful.”

Sirius let out a shaky breath. “It’s tempting is what it is. Stay behind me. I might need to do it again.”

Lucy did not argue against it. She’d encountered books cursed against readers with ‘dirty blood’. Voldemort might be half muggle, but he was also half Slytherin. She didn’t have an ancient lineage to fall back on. Dragonhide gloves wouldn’t protect her against fatal curses. She couldn’t even fall back on the AK like she had so long ago. 

Sirius silenced the snake nailed to the door with a jet of white light, then waved his wand to open the door. They stepped through threshold and quickly moved to stand back to back. It was dark and filthy. The sheer amount of dust and dirt and magic itched at her nose. Something terrible was inside, something that called for them. A shiver ran down her spine and made her toes dig into her trainers. 

“What the fuck is that?” Sirius asked, his voice a hoarse whisper. 

“That’s what we’re here for.”

Lucy waved her wand in a wide arc. Soft pink witchlight erupted in a series of sparks, then danced together to hover in the middle of the room. It cast a bright glow onto their surroundings. Sirius, meanwhile, was already fighting his way through another magical tripwire and literally burning through runes seared into the floor. 

They worked in tandem, fighting their way past Voldemort’s defenses. A rune set out a jet of flame that scorched Lucy’s arm. She grit her teeth and tried to ignore the pain and the smell of burnt hair. 

Finally, after what felt like hours, they found themselves staring down at a loose plank in the floorboards. It was still calling as it had been the entire time. It scratched at the base of their skulls and violated their senses until it was nearly irresistible. She wanted it, desired to cherish and care for it until the end of her days. She didn’t know why, but the irresistible urge was there. She would be complete if only she could possess it. 

“What is it?” Sirius hissed. 

Lucy shook the compulsions off slowly. It felt as if she were surfacing from a murky pond. She reached into her bag, shuffling around until she found a small iron box. Runes were carved into the border in a precise pattern. 

“Here, hold this open for me,” she ordered. 

Sirius squatted to hold the it close to her side as she knelt on the dirty floor. She hesitated, chewing on her lip as she thought something through. Sirius waited with surprising patience as she came to a decision. 

“Right,” she murmured, nodding her head. “Better to do this all in one go.”

She stuck the tip of her wand in her bag and muttered a spell. A pair of dragonhide gloves and a large ring shot out into her waiting palm. She put her wand and the ring on the ground long enough to pull on the gloves, then took a deep, steadying breath before she cast a spell. The floorboard creaked as it pulled itself up. Another spell and a ring floated out from the depths.

“Holy fuck. I can almost taste it,” Sirius said. He sounded strangely wistful. 

Lucy nearly shoved the horcrux into the box. He snapped it shut just as hastily. Immediately, the slimy tendrils of dark magic ceased pawing at their exposed skin. They both let out sighs of relief. 

“Put that away and let’s get out of here,” he said, sounding much more like himself. 

It took them almost an hour to escape back out onto the rolling plains. They didn’t remember or even know all of Voldemort’s curses, but they warded the shack with everything they knew. Lucy reasoned that he might send someone to ensure the Shack was untouched. It wasn’t, of course, but it might fool anyone who didn’t investigate thoroughly. It might earn them a day or two sometime in the future. 

“Can you apparate to the Leaky?” Sirius asked. 

“I don’t know,” she admitted. She was exhausted and London was nearly three hundred miles away. 

“Come on,” he said, gripping her hand.

He took a deep breath and the night disintegrated around them. 

Lucy hardly remembered paying for a room or trudging up the stairs. Sirius, thank god, was the one who warded their room to the high heavens. She collapsed on the leftmost bed to watch as he cast spell after spell. She passed out after the third one. 

They woke long after the sun rose. It was nearly noon by the time they were both showered and dressed and full of caffeine. She was surprised to find that he had applied salve and bandages to the burn on her arm.

“So are you going to tell me what that was?” Sirius asked, leaning back against the small table in their room. 

“No.”

He scoffed. “Are you going to tell me where you’re going to hide it?”

“No.”

“Lucy!”

“I have motions set in place in the event of my death or arrest,” she said, sipping on her coffee. She was infinitely grateful that she wasn’t lactose intolerant this time around. In fact, she wasn’t sure if witches and wizards suffered from it at all. “Copies of my will will be sent out to several people from several places. All of them have instructions on where to find a copy of my journal, all of which are hidden in different places. Those people will convene and decide what to do with the information I’ve given them.”

He frowned. “But what if something else happens? What if you’re captured?”

“You ever seen a spy film?”

“No,” he said, almost amused.

Lucy settled onto his bed to explain. “Spies in movies have something called a cyanide pill. It’s implanted into their mouths somehow and when they’re captured, they bite down and die almost instantly.”

“Merlin, you can’t mean-“

She cut him off by pulling a necklace out from under her shirt (an authentic Led Zep concert tee from the show Ted had surprised her with earlier in June- seriously the best brother ever). A strange waxy stone hung on a silver chain. 

“I’ve got seventy two seconds to swallow this antidote after I speak the password that activates the fake molar in the back of my mouth.”

“Fucking hell, Luce!” Sirius said, rising to his feet. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Of course I’m not! He can’t know what I know or the whole fucking world is doomed.”

He raked a hand through his long hair. “There’s got to be another way, something else-“

“You’re smarter than that, Sirius,” she admonished. 

He scoffed and crossed his arms. “Who else knows. Who else knows what you’re doing.”

“No one.”

“No one?”

“Flitwick knows the most. I had to tell him something. He was afraid I’m trying to rob Gringotts.” Sirius huffed in amusement. “Ted and Andy have an idea, but they know better than to ask questions. It’s safer for Nymph that way.”

“So it’s just me?”

She shrugged. “Pretty much.”

“Why me?”

She shrugged again. “I thought you would be more fun than Severus.”

Sirius choked. She smiled placatingly. 

“Come along, minion,” she said. “We’re off to the banks.”

At a small bank in Muggle London, she gave him access to a safety deposit box. She rolled her eyes at the ID he carried around. He had a cheeky smile in the picture and boasted the name ‘James Padfoot’. After flirting outrageously with the teller, he followed Lucy into the private room. A large metal box waited for them on the table. 

“What is all this?” He asked, looking around the room curiously. 

“Muggle banks offer these things called safety deposit boxes. Only you and the people listed are allowed to request the box be brought up from the vaults. It’s usually used for expensive jewelry or important papers.”

Sirius broke out into a devilish grin. “And you’re using to hide the Dark Lord’s artifacts.”

“I figured no one would think to look here. And I don’t plan to keep them here forever, just until I have the means to destroy them.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”

“Telling you that would tell you what they are.”

“They? How many do you have?”

She opened the box to reveal another box, this one much larger than the ring’s. 

“Just two. But there are five altogether. For now, anyway. He’ll make more as time goes on.”

“So it’s something he makes that has to be destroyed in a specific way?”

“Yep. You’ll figure it out. Don’t worry.”

At Gringotts, the goblins led her to one of the newer, smaller vaults. There wasn’t a lot of money. Most of her funds came from things she’d scrounged up and the little she’d inherited from her mum. She could’ve got more, but she figured Ted needed it worse. He had a family of his own on top of keeping Lucy fed and sheltered. 

She took out fifteen hundred galleons, a sizeable chunk of the small mounds of gold and silver and bronze. Sirius shifted uncomfortably. 

“My Uncle Alphie left me-“

“No,” Lucy said sharply. “We can’t be connected more than we already are.”

He sighed. “When are you going to-“

“Thank you, Griphook. We’re ready,” she said firmly. 

Sirius rolled his eyes, but took the hint. “What do you need that much gold for, anyway?”

“You’ll see.”

An hour later, Lucy stood on an upscale wizarding street with Sirius Black and a house elf at her side. Coco was named for her big chocolate colored eyes. Her ears were longer than any of the others in the shop (“a sure sign of fertility”) and walked on near silent feet (“you won’t even know she’s there!”). Most importantly, she was the first elf to step forward when Lucy had said she needed a brave elf that wouldn’t mind going on adventures. She’d even chosen the same tea towels that Lucy would have chosen herself. Their’s was a match made in heaven.  

“Thank you for all your help, Sirius,” Lucy said. “I would say I couldn’t have done it without you, but I could.”

“Wow. Thanks, Lucy.”

“Anytime. Thank the Potters for letting me borrow a broom.”

“What? You think I’m going back to Prongs’?”

Lucy frowned. “You’re staying with Andy?”

“Absolutely. I can’t wait to see her face when you come home with a house elf.”

Chapter Text

Lucy has never really felt any positive emotion upon entering Hogwarts. The first time there was the required awe and excitement, but she got over that as soon as the Hat sentenced her to death. Tonight however, on the eve of her final year, she feels an almost overwhelming rush of relief as she steps into the entryway. It’s almost immediately replaced by guilt. 

As much as Lucy loves her family, as eternally grateful as she is for their patience and goodwill, Nymphadora has officially reached her toddler years. Toddlers are already bad enough. Throw in some magic and shapeshifting and they’re a bloody nightmare. Lucy often wonders if this second life of hers is actually a part of some hell. She’s always hated children, always vehemently swore against ever having them. Now fate has decreed that in addition to suffering through six school years with the pests, her summer home has an infestation of the worst kind as well. 

Sirius Black is often just as difficult as Nymph. The horcrux hunt has reached a dead end. Apparently, the City of London has better things to keep record of than orphanages that have long since been transformed into salons and shops. It doesn’t help that Lucy can only remember two things about it: It was possibly in the east end and definitely involved a Ms. Cole. Maybe. Despite all of his cleverness, Sirius is of no help at all. He quickly grew bored with all of the research and demanded to practice dueling or go visit the pool. She’d made the mistake of losing her temper with him on one particularly hot day. Nym was wailing at the top of her lungs, Andi was refusing Coco’s help, Lucy was PMSing, and Sirius was restless. She exploded in a torrent of curses and insults, ending her tirade with ‘You’re no better than a thirteen year old boy and yet you always ask why I like Sev better!’ 

She knew the words were a mistake as soon as they left her mouth. In all of her ignorance, she thought he would scream for a bit, go sulk at the Potters, then return so they could make up. It was wishful thinking. Sirius immediately disappeared and came back three days later with a dangerous glint in his eye. Apparently, the only part he heard of her tirade was ‘thirteen year old boy’. He spent the next two months walking around shirtless and driving her absolutely mad with his flirtatious antics. Ted and Andi seemed to think it was hilarious. They happened to grow suddenly concerned for their daughter’s wellbeing when Lucy brought it up. 

“It’s sad, isn’t it?”

Lucy jolts to attention. A pretty girl with long blonde curls sighs as she wraps her arm around Lucy’s. 

“I know you haven’t had the typical Hogwarts experience,” Violet Brown says as she leads them into the Great Hall, “but it’s still sad. It’s our last year of freedom. I’ve only got a war or marriage contracts to look forward to after this.”

They spend the Welcoming Feast gossiping about nonsense: Zafeera Shariq’s enchanted hijab, Alice soon-to-be Longbottom’s new pixie cut, Dumbledore’s latest eye-gouging robes. It’s a nice change of pace from soul splitting and battle tactics. It takes a while for Lucy to realize it’s an escape for Violet too. Pure of blood as she is, her brother is an auror. She’s probably spent her time in the common room dodging Death Eaters with hints of dowries and promises of fertility. 

The thought keeps Lucy up throughout the night. She spends the night sitting on her bed with the Bloody Baron for company, flipping through an old book she bought in Knockturn. 

Lucy only attended classes her first three years of Hogwarts. Even then the professors assigned different lessons to work on in the corner. Dumbledore finally took pity on her in fourth year and agreed to self study so long as she met with the professors two or three times a week. There are three exceptions to the rule: astronomy, potions and defense. 

Astronomy is learned better in a practical setting and she had it with the Ravenclaws besides. They always made lessons interesting.  As for potions, no one meets with Slughorn during office hours unless it’s absolutely necessary. Defense, on the other hand, is a necessity. The experience of the instructor is just as important as the technique and theory of the magic. There hasn’t been a professor to offer a specialized lesson plan each year either. 

This year, Dumbledore has had to resort to dividing the Defense position between three aurors. Rumor has it Auror Diaz was offered the position first and refused to teach anyone other than NEWT students. Lucy has a feeling they’ll get along famously. They can bond over their hatred of children if nothing else. 

Her classmates don’t seem to be half as confident. The Slytherins have commandeered the left side of the classroom, desperate to soak in as much sunlight as possible before curfew. There are twelve of them in total, glancing from the door to the fourteen Gryffindors nervously. Lucy pointedly ignores a set of grey eyes burning into her back and drops into a seat beside Severus. 

“You mind?” She asks, already passing over a box of candies in payment. All the Slytherins fight to sit beside Severus Snape. It’s usually Lucy that is chosen for the honor since she’s the only one that doesn’t want to copy his answers. 

He pops a caramel sweet in his mouth. “Black looks like he does.”

“I’ve had enough of Black, thank you.”

“Ah, that’s right,” he drawls. “How was your summer, Lucille?”

“Simply marvelous, Severus. How was yours? ”

Before he can answer, the door slams shut. A short man with broad shoulders and deep brown skin strides quickly through the Gryffindor aisle. He’s either a halfblood or a pureblood judging by his wizarding apparel, though not overly concerned with his appearance. His trousers are ruffled and his grey robe is on the verge of slipping off one shoulder. 

“Good morning.”

Lucy startles. It’s been so long since she’s heard that accent. Something warm and sad rises in her chest. She’d assumed their professor would be Spanish. She hadn’t dreamed....

“My name is Julio Diaz. I worked in the US Auror division for fifteen years before I met my wife. She wanted to move back to Ireland, so here I am two decades later. Teaching you.” His dark eyes trail over the classroom slowly. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this. There’s a war on. I won’t be preaching about which side to join or lecturing you on right or wrong. You’re adults. That’s your decision to make.”

He ruffles his wiry grey hair as he scowls. 

“I’m a teacher. You’re a student. It’s my job to keep you safe and teach you how to keep yourself safe. Sometimes that means fighting. Sometimes that means running. Sometimes it means passing your NEWTs.”

A few Gryffindors chuckle weakly. He flicks his wand and scrolls of parchment soar to land on each of their desks. The more athletic students catch theirs out of the air. Out of habit from potions, Severus unrolls his syllabus and charms it to hover in the middle of the table. He and Lucy read it hungrily. It’s so rare to have a competent Defense Professor. 

“As you can see, most of this class will be practical with an emphasis on dueling. I’ve never understood why Hogwarts doesn’t have a mandatory dueling course. And you lot, simmer down.” James and Sirius turn back to the front with innocent smiles. “The first time I catch you doing anything other than learning, I will punish you in a way you’ve never even dreamed of. The first thing you learn to do as an Auror is bend the rules.”

Severus snorts in amusement. It immediately fades as Lily Evans raises her hand.

“Yes, Miss...”

“Evans. Lily Evans. I was just wondering....the syllabus says we’re to receive a demonstration on the unforgivables this week.” 

The temperature in the room plummets. Almost as one, every student in the room swivels in their seat to stare at Lucy. Auror Diaz follows their gaze with a raised brow. 

“It seems you’ve already had a demonstration.”

Lucy smiles an Andromeda Tonks smile, the same smile Narcissa and Bellatrix Black learned at the knees of their mother. Several of the Slytherins shudder. 

“Just the once, Professor. I checked and it was all very legal.”

“That was the only legal thing you cast that night,” someone mutters. Someone else kicks at their chair. It’s one thing to get the mudblood in trouble; it’s another to rat her out for using the Dark Arts. It goes against an unspoken code passed down from Slytherin to Slytherin and Ravenclaw to Ravenclaw for centuries. 

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that? What’s your name?”

“Lucille Tonks. Mudblood of Slytherin.”

Sirius is the only one to bark out a laugh. The Slytherins have long since grown used to her ‘low brow humor, must you drag our name through the mud further?’ The Gryffindors, however, look like the common room had that terrible October night. All wide eyes and gaping mouths.

“Why don’t you tell us the story, Miss Tonks? What could have prompted a student to use an Unforgivable in Hogwarts?”

Severus huffs in contempt. He and Sirius and James haven’t resorted to Unforgivables just yet, but they’ve thrown worse things at one another. His disdain doesn’t go unnoticed by the professor. Auror Diaz’s gaze darts from Severus to Lucy and back again.

“Tell me, Miss Tonks. What happened in your first year?“

“A snake attacked. I killed it.”

“Killed it how?”

“With magic.”

“What kind of magic?”

“The green sort.”

Severus manages to snort and scoff at the same time. 

“Why the Killing Curse?”

“Everything else bounced off.”

His bushy brows raise. “What sort of snake was it?” 

“Magical Burmese. Hagrid helped me look it up.”

One of the Gryffindors curses vehemently. 

“You said everything else bounced off. What else did you try?”

“Oh, you know. A little bit of this. A little bit of that.”

“No, I don’t know, Miss Tonks.”

“No, I suppose you don’t. I do suppose you know who my sister-in-law is, though.”

The tension in the room tightens enough to snap. Several people glance over at Sirius. Lucy suddenly wishes Regulus was in their year. His reaction would be interesting. She’ll probably hear of it, anyway. This calls for a summons. She’s never mentioned Andromeda in public before. 

Sirius flips his wand in the air, catches it, and winks roguishly. “They don’t call it black magic for nothing.”

The professor relaxes against his desk, crossing his arms thoughtfully. 

“Yes, why don’t we talk about that. Black magic. Dark magic. Tell us, Lucy, what did it feel like to cast the Killing Curse?“

Lucy weighs her options, before deciding the truth might make them fear her more than mystery. The enigma of it all can only work for so long. 

“A rush. Of relief at first. Then power. There was pain, you see, but only a little. It felt like pulling a muscle. I figured he wasn’t much more intelligent than a snake. It could hurt too bad, could it?”

“What couldn’t hurt?” A ginger Gryffindor named Robinson asks. Though hardly more than a whisper, his voice booms like a thundercloud in the silence. “Why would it hurt?” 

“Murder splits the soul,” Sirius rasps. His face is drawn and darkening to a dangerous shade of grey. “Battle is one thing. Revenge is another, given the magic and the circumstances, but murder...”

He jerks to his feet, his chair clambering to the ground in a deafening crash. 

“Excuse me, Professor. Beans gave me the shits.”

James Potter screws his face up incredulously as Sirius rushes out of the room. The class blinks after him stupidly. 

“Fucking Blacks,” Yaxley mutters. “Mad, the whole lot of them.”

“But they’re all so pretty,” a Gryffindor boy sighs wistfully. 

Auror Diaz sighs too, his full of annoyance. 

“Very well, that’s enough for one day. I’ll see you this time on Wednesday, where we’ll discuss the Unforgivables in detail. Class dismissed.”

Everyone is slow to leave. Several of the students immediately surround the professor, bombarding him with questions. Lucy takes advantage of the chaos to slip out the door and hurry down to the dungeons. She isn’t the least bit surprised to find Sirius pacing outside her room like a madman. He lunges forward and shakes her shoulders. 

“Horcruxes?” He hisses. “Voldemort’s hor-“

“Not here, you idiot!”

She shoves him off and places her palm against the door, whispering an incantation. The door glows, runes alight on the frame, and it pops open gently. She drags Sirius inside, glancing over her shoulder to ensure no one is watching.

He pulls up short as they enter. She frowns, trying to imagine her little flat as he’s seeing it. The house elves helped her expand it a bit and she suspects the Headmaster is responsible for the bathroom hiding behind the thick emerald curtains. A double bed is shoved in the corner. Books line the transfigured shelves covering every inch of spare wall. She’s kept the Slytherin theme for the most part, but thrown in some complementary colors and posters throughout the years. 

He runs a hand over the silver sheets of her bed. 

“You’ve been this isolated since first year?” 

Lucy rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m not as extroverted as you are, Sirius. I get exhausted being around so many people all the time.” 

“I know but...aren’t you going to close that?” He asks, glancing at the door. 

“No one can hear us.”

His broad frame tenses. “Well yeah, but this is...” he waves his hands wildly. “This is different! You could have told me! Horcruxes, Lucy? Voldemort’s bits of soul hiding around the countryside?!”

“You don’t have to help me anymore,” she says softly. “I know it’s dangerous-“

“That’s what you think this is about?!” He claws a hand through his hair and begins pacing again. Lucy sighs, makes her bed with a flick of her wand, and makes herself comfortable. “How did you even find out?! How he had them, where they are? Do you even know what you’re dealing with? You’ve got them in a muggle bank, for Merlin’s sake!”

“If I’ve got someone tailing me, they’re not going to think twice about a mudblood going to a muggle bank and I can’t very well leave them at home, can I?”

“No, but-“

“But nothing. As soon as I can destroy them-“

“You can’t destroy them! That’s the whole point of a horcrux, Lucy!”

Lucy scowls. “Don’t raise your voice at me. And yes, there are ways to destroy them. Fiendfyre and basilisk venom are proven, but I think-”

Sirius’s brows raise into his hairline. “And when, pray tell, have you had the opportunity master-“

“Careful, Sirius. Your pureblood is showing.” She waves off his anger with a dismissive hand. “And anyway, the Baron and I thought up a plan for the-“

The walls suddenly glow and vibrate as magic brushes against the wards. Sirius and Lucy spin, wands raised, to find Albus Dumbledore smiling at them in spangled blue robes. Curiously enough, Regulus Black stands proudly at his side. 

“Bloody fucking hell,” Sirius mutters. 

Lucy gives him a scathing look. “Sit down, be quiet, and whatever you do, don’t look either of them in the eye.”

He grumbles and obeys, crossing his arms petulantly. The amethyst duvet crinkles as he climbs on the bed. Lucy slashes her wand at the doorframe until the doorframe lights up a blinding pink. 

“Come in.”

“Thank you, Lucille,” Dumbledore says. He looks around curiously, a twinkle in his eyes she’s never seen on him before. He’s always Dumbledore the War General in her presence. She’s never had the opportunity to meet Professor Dumbledore. “Extraordinary wards. Extraordinary.”

Regulus enters on his heels, his sharp gaze immediately going to the innumerable books. 

“Thank you, Professor,” she says. 

“Of course, of course. I’m glad to see your stomach has settled so quickly, Mr. Black. Beans on toast can be hard on the digestive system.”

Sirius, to his credit, doesn’t hesitate. 

“Just needed a quick potion.”

Regulus snorts. He glances over his shoulder at Lucy. If Lucy were going to fancy either brother, it would be the younger one. He’s just as tall as Sirius, it not more slender. His eyes are deeper set, his lips less shapely, and his face a bit longer, but he still looks like Sirius. In fact, he almost could be Andromeda’s brother rather than Sirius’s. Lucy is wise enough to keep that thought to herself. 

“May I?” He inquires, gesturing to her library. 

She nods. “Just be careful with the top shelf.”

“I’m far more interested in this.” He pulls down a yellow book from the second shelf. “‘72 Charms for Curing Cheeses.’”

“Compiled by a Mongolian wizard, believe it or not,” She adds. It’s one of her favorite finds from the Room of Requirement.

“Fascinating,” Dumbledore murmurs. He begins perusing the shelves as well, his long nose mere inches from the spines. 

Lucy cringes. “Careful, Professor. There’s a nasty tome in that corner that doesn’t react well to halfbloods.”

He immediately backs away. “Oh, of course. Thank you.”

“Doesn’t seem to mind muggleborns or purebloods or even Professor Flitwick. Only halfblood wizards and witches.”

“A truly singular discrimination.” He shakes his head as though clearing his thoughts. “Regretfully, I didn’t come here to discuss literature. My visit pertains to your Defense class.”

Lucy nods. “I figured. There isn’t much room, but I think we can manage a few conjur-“

“What’s he doing here?” Sirius demands. 

Regulus returns the book and smiles gently at his brother. “Perhaps I just wanted to check up on our dear cousin.”

“She’s not our cousin.”

“Don’t worry, Siri. That’s never stopped any of our family before.”

Lucy has the sudden urge to disappear through the floor, much like the Baron has a habit of doing. It intensifies when Dumbledore busies himself with conjuring small armchairs in an poor attempt to hide his amusement.

Regulus smirks as Sirius clenches his jaw.

“It’s like that muggle saying. How does it go? You can take the wizard from of the purebloods, but you can’t take the-“

“Regulus,” Sirius snarls warningly. 

“Oh, come off it,” Lucy scoffs. “You know he’s right. You even said ‘pray tell’ a moment ago.”

Regulus’s eyes shine with a familiar mad glint. Before he can say anything, Dumbledore claps his hands. 

“Here we are, seats for everyone,” he announces jovially. 

Lucy picks the closest, a rather pretty pale blue one. Dumbledore and Regulus choose the others, one yellow and the other white. The two of them are so tall and the room so narrow, their knees almost knock together. For once in her life, Lucy is content with being as short as a second year. 

Dumbledore beams at his students, causing Lucy to shift uncomfortably. She’s not accustomed to him being so friendly. 

“Very good, very good! Who would like to begin? Regulus, perhaps?”

Regulus nods deeply. “Of course, Headmaster. I also came to discuss the Defense class. Lucy has always been an outsider in Slytherin. Despite that, she’s always remained respectful of the Black name. Today is the first time she’s ever mentioned Cousin Andromeda in public.”

He catches Lucy’s gaze and holds it. 

“I wanted to thank you for your discretion. You have had every right to be anything other than mature. I know it’s more for Andromeda and perhaps even Nymphadora than myself, but I am still grateful.”

Sirius’s eyes bug out at the mention of Nymph. 

“You’re welcome.”

“You know Nymph’s name?” 

Regulus huffs impatiently. “Who do you think handles the Black affairs now that Father’s passed? It certainly isn’t our sweet Mother and I wasn’t about to let Lestrange sully our name.”

“But-“

“I must be discrete in these things, Sirius, a word that you are apparently unfamiliar with. How Lucille tolerated your presence over an entire summer, I’ll never know.”

“I’m not an idiot, Reggie.”

“No, you’re just a Gryffindor,” Lucy snaps. She cringes, glancing over at Dumbledore. “No offense, Professor.”

“None taken,” he chuckles. 

“If Sirius is done, I’d like to finish,” Regulus says. 

At his brother’s stiff shrug, he continues on as if he were never interrupted. Lucy is once again reminded of why she holds purebloods in such envious contempt. They’re all so fucking graceful. His type might kill you slow, but they’d do it with poise. 

“I also wanted to commend you on how you handled the situation. Not that I expect anything less, mind you, I merely wanted to clarify that there are no ill feelings harbored.”

“Thank you.”

Regulus sucks in a breath before turning to his brother. “I’d also like to give you a gold star, Sirius. You handled the situation well, at least until you used your breakfast beans as an excuse to escape a stressful situation. Honestly, brother. You’ve been using that since you were five.”

“If it works, it works,” he shrugs. 

Dumbledore clears his throat rather violently. None of them are fooled. Regulus reverts his attention to Lucy.

“I’d also like to issue a formal invitation for you to return to the Slytherin common room.”

Lucy straightens her spine. Now, this is unexpected. The current King of Serpents accepting a known muggleborn and Voldemort antagonist into Slytherin. She narrows her eyes at him.

“Does this invitation come from you or the Dark Lord?”

Dumbledore sits upright, but doesn’t interrupt.

“From me,” Regulus answers calmly. “If Lucius had half a brain, he would have cultivated you all those years ago. Only a fool would ostracize a Slytherin with a mind like yours.” 

“He did more than ostracize me.” 

“That he did.” Regulus smiles his first genuine smile of the afternoon. It gives him a distinctly wolflike appearance. “And look at what you did. Would you have done it? Would you have killed him if the Baron had not intervened?”

Dumbledore peers over his spectacles sharply. 

“Your darling Cousin Cissy would be better off for it.”

“Hmm. Maybe. Lucius is malleable. Others may not be so...soft.”

“I’m afraid I must intervene,” Dumbledore interrupts, making a point of meeting Lucy’s eyes. “Would you have killed Lucius Malfoy?”

Lucy holds his gaze steadily and says, “No.”

He deflates visibly. 

“Don’t be mistaken, Professor. It was only because even as a child I realized Lucious Lucius wasn’t someone worth shredding my soul over.”

Sirius laughs almost desperately. Dumbledore doesn’t appear nearly as amused. 

“You think yourself capable of murder?”

Lucy lets her gaze wander over her room as she gather her thoughts. 

“It’s like Sirius said earlier. There’s a distinction between murder and defense or revenge.”

“But when does revenge go too far? Who are we mortals to dole out death?”

Lucy laughs. She’s can’t hold it in. It’s an ironic question coming from a man who raised a boy for slaughter. 

“I have my anchors, Professor, just as you have Fawkes, correct?”

Dumbledore nods slowly, confirming a controversial opinion on the nature of domesticated phoenixes. Most scholars believe only the purest wizards and witches are capable of bonding with phoenixes. Lucy has always disagreed, from the very moment she read the words on the page. It always seemed pointless to her. Others argue that phoenixes bond with conflicted wizards, wizards that require a light in the darkness, so to speak. Someone reborn from their own ashes. Maybe it’s romantic, but Lucy always liked the idea. 

A sudden crack rings out in the room and a house elf appears. He drops a crate of clucking roosters at Lucy’s feet. 

“Here’s you go, Miss Lucy. Is you be needin’ anything else for you’s project?”

“Bloody fucking hell!” Sirius roars, jumping off the bed. “You’ve got to be FUCKING KIDDING ME!”

Lucy groans. He’s as bad as a house elf. No subtlety at all. 

“No thank you, Zoopey,” she says tiredly. 

The house elf nods, disappearing with a cautious glance at Sirius. 

“First h-“ he begins, but Lucy jabs her wand at him, vanishing his mouth entirely. His eyes widen comically as he claws at his face. 

“Miss Tonks, I demand that you set Sirius back at once.”

“Don’t worry, Professor,” Regulus says absentmindedly, his attention caught on the annoyed roosters. “Mother used to hit him with it twice a day. He’ll remember the counter curse after he calms down.”

He rises and squats in front of the crate, curiously poking his wand through the hole. One squawks in protest. 

“I’ll keep my mouth shut for ten percent and three vials of venom,” he says nonchalantly. 

Dumbledore rushes to his feet, much like Sirius had moments before. 

“Miss Tonks, please tell me Mr. Black is mistaken. You surely cannot mean to hunt down a basilisk.”

Lucy takes a deep breath as she stands, straightening her robes and pinafore as she gathers herself. She really, really didn’t mean for anyone to get involved, let alone Albus Dumbledore. It wasn’t even a scenario she thought up in her planning the night before. All because of Sirius fucking Black and his Gryffindor tendencies. 

“First, Professor, I would like to your remind you of the Bulstrode-McNair Act of 1809, stating that-“

“That the proceeds from the killing of a magical creature classified above XXX go directly to the hunter and her assistants, no matter which lands, government owned or not, the creature was killed on.” Dumbledore presses his lips together firmly. “I cannot allow this, Lucille. You will lead me to the Chamber and I will contact the proper authorities.”

“Can’t do that, Professor.”

“Yes, you bloody well can!” Sirius interrupts. “You accuse me of being a reckless idiot twice a week, but I’ve never done anything half as stupid as going after a goddamn basilisk!”

Lucy raises her chin, ignoring him entirely. 

“Professor, I really must insist. I am of age and the law clearly states-“

“You are a student, Miss Tonks, and I will not allow endanger my students so carelessly.”

“If that were true you wouldn’t have left an eleven year old at the mercy of Voldemort’s followers.”

Dumbledore inhales sharply. He lets it out in a rush, his shoulders slumping miserably. 

“That was foolish and cowardly of me, Miss Tonks. It’s part of why I came here this afternoon. The Hat-“

“You know, no one has ever asked me what it is that I’m so hungry for. You all assume it’s for power or something terrible. For all you know, my life’s ambition could be to start a farm in the middle of the French countryside.”

Sirius barks out a laugh. “I’d pay to see that. You won’t sit on the grass without conjuring a blanket.”

“Fuck off, Sirius. This isn’t the time.”

“No dear girl, I believe it is. You are a burgeoning dark witch who seems to possess more knowledge about Lord Voldemort than perhaps even myself. You’ve spent your years at my school studying the same old magics that Tom was partial to. Quite frankly, the only reason I haven’t intervened thus far is because you do not hold enough brute power to become a Lady in your own right. I can no longer allow this to continue, not after this latest revelation.”

Lucy chews on her lip. There’s a contingency plan for this. She thought it up years ago, she just hoped she never had to use it. She turns on her heel, arms crossed as she thinks it through. The Bloody Baron is there, watching her grimly. 

“What do you think, Baron?”

He only stares at her like he always does, a spectral projection of her own conscience. She’s never asked why he has kept her company throughout the years. Truthfully, she’s always been a little afraid of the answer. She’s always been afraid of everything this time around. 

Lucy turns on her heel quick enough for the others to startle. She throws her shoulders back and holds her spine straight, just as Andromeda taught her. She may not ever be a Dark Lady, but she can sure as hell act like one. 

She catches Regulus’s attention first. 

“You either leave or you swear an unbreakable vow.”

He grins that predatory, wolffish smile of his.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

He rolls up his sleeves and kneels on the floor, just as Dumbledore vanishes the chairs. Lucy mirrors him as gracefully as she can manage. His hand is warm and smooth when she grasps it. 

Dumbledore steps forward, wand raised, but Regulus shakes his head. 

“I’d rather my brother cast it, if you don’t mind.”

The headmaster lowers his chin in acquiescence. Sirius replaces him, an almost suspicious expression on his face. He places the tip of his ebony wand on their linked hands. There, kneeling beside a crate of roosters, the scion of House Black swears to withhold knowledge from the most powerful Dark Lord of the century. Dumbledore looks like he might cry when Regulus helps her to her feet. 

“Alright then,” she says, taking a deep breath. She looks up at three men nervously. “I’m a Seer. And I know how to kill Voldemort.”

A frightening mad gleam alights in Regulus’s eyes. Yaxley was right. They really are all crazy as loons. She'd thought it was just Sirius.

“Well then,” he says, “let’s go kill a basilisk.”

Chapter Text

As wary as Lucy is of Dumbledore, she can’t keep from feeling awed and almost giddy as she works alongside him. After their tiresome meeting, he put the school on lockdown and called for Professor Flitwick as backup. Lucy took the opportunity to change out of her pinafore and tights and into something more appropriate for climbing through ancient plumbing, a prospect that nearly had her crying at the thought alone. Between Lucy, Dumbledore, Flitwick, and the Black brothers, they manage to break into the Chamber of Secrets in just under three hours. 

“Oh, parselmagic is everywhere. Any snake you see, whether it’s a window latch or in the background of a portrait. It’s fascinating,” Lucy tells Regulus as the sink lowers into the bathroom floor.

Regulus hums thoughtfully. He’s stripped down to his shirtsleeves for the expedition. Sirius had merely thrown his school robes onto the floor and demanded a hair tie. 

“Slytherin must have been very well informed,” Regulus says. 

“I’ve always said he was a competent mix of Hagrid and Lucius. It was meant as a compliment, but Lucius never took it as such.”

“He’s always had a broom up his-“

“Sirius,” Dumbledore protests, but it’s half-hearted. He’s too busy peering down into the massive sewer pipe to care much. 

Lucy shudders. Five Hagrids could fit down that horrid thing.

“Do you think it’s a tight fit? Or it has to room to wiggle around?”

Flitwick presses his lips together. “I suppose we’ll find out. Albus, will you be going first?”

“If you could bring up the rear, I’ll take point, Filius.”

“Can’t you do something about it?” Lucy asks nervously. 

Dumbledore pauses, his right foot already resting on the ledge. She likes his boots. They’re charcoal grey with a slight silver pattern swirling in the dim light.  “Pardon?” 

“It’s just so...gross looking.”

“That’s what you’re worried about?!” Sirius demands. 

“It looks like snake goop!”

“Like that’s anything new for you. I bet you lot bathe in it down in your dungeons.”

“Like you aren’t wallowing around in fur up in your cat tower.”

Dumbledore suddenly vaults into the gaping pipe, his chortles echoing up long after his bright yellow wizard’s hat disappears from view. They wait in tense silence until a silvery phoenix flies up above them, silently chirping before vanishing through the ceiling. 

“Show off,” Lucy mutters. 

“Is your patronus corporeal?” Regulus asks curiously, raising his voice over Sirius’s echoing whoops and laughter. 

“Hardly ever and it takes a lot out of me. Is yours?”

“It depends on the day.”

Lucy nods in understanding. She’s much the same. Dark magic has consequences. Voldemort may be an extreme example, but he isn’t an exaggeration. It takes something out of a person, changes something deep in one’s soul. It’s addicting. Empowering. Thankfully, Lucy has Ted to bring her back down from the high, to remind her of why she shouldn’t give herself over. The first time she nearly lost herself, she couldn’t stop thinking about Severus Snape. He didn’t have anyone. He had no one and yet he still managed to pull himself out of the darkness. 

“Lucy?” a soft voice asks. 

She startles, glancing up to see that only her and Flitwick remain. It’s odd having him here instead of towering Professor Snape. Disheartening. Even as a teen, he’s more competent than half of the professors.

“Sorry, Professor.”

It’s too short of a walk to the sewer. She blanches at the unidentifiable liquids reflecting in her wandlight. Is there any point in killing a basilisk if she’ll die soon after from a bacterial infection? 

“Best to not think about it, Lucy.”

Lucy sucks in a breath, nods, and hurls herself down into the shadows before she can hesitate any longer. It’s the single worst experience of her life as Lucille Tonks. She’d rather face the magical python again. At this she could kill that. She can’t do anything about the dizzying speed, the nauseating smell, or the wetness soaking through her jeans. 

After eons of falling, she finally lands in a cradle of magic. She accepts Dumbledore’s offered hand, then hurries to cast cleansing charms over her body as soon as he lifts her to her feet. 

“Er, Professor?” She asks quietly. 

“Hmm?” 

“Would you mind getting my back? I’d ask Sirius, but...”

“Ah! Of course, of course. Turn around, my dear.”

Lucy tries not to think about her past life. She never saw the point in it. When it does happen, its hardly ever wistful. It’s more perplexing. Before, she’d been brunette and slender. Pretty, but not stunning like she is now. This time around, she’s a Tonks. It wasn’t just Ted’s kind heart that caught Andromeda’s eye. Beauty, Lucy has learned, is more of curse than anything else. It isn’t just the students that watch when she walks past, that peer down her shirt when they get a chance. It’s grown men, too. Wizards and muggles alike never seemed to care that she was only fourteen or fifteen or sixteen. She was there and that was enough. She’s learned to be careful in how she acts and what she wears and asking an seventeen year old Sirius Black to charm her ass clean is a sure way of getting ogled.

“Thank you, Professor.”

“Certainly. Ah, Filius, what a marvelous display.”

Lucy spins around, but she only manages to catch Sirius’s rowdy applause and Regulus’s polite praise. Professor Flitwick takes the time to bow before he swishes his wand in broad circle. Bright light fills the dreary chamber, illuminating the innumerable skeletons on the floor. Regulus picks up a skull in the shape of a house elf’s head.

“Oh dear,” Dumbledore murmurs. 

Sirius grunts noncommittally. “Shame it wasn’t Kreacher.

Regulus’s face darkens. “Brother-“

“A very brave man said something that’s stuck with me for a long time,” Lucy cuts in, shooting Sirius a stern look. “I don’t remember the exact words, but the gist of it was that you can tell a man’s character by how he treats his inferiors, not his equals. You, Sirius Black, are not very kind to those you consider beneath you.”

Dumbledore eyes her appraisingly as Sirius drops his gaze to the smooth stone walls. 

“Wise words, Miss Tonks,” the headmaster says. 

She nods almost absentmindedly, peering  down the darkness. “He had his moments.”

“Then I’m sorry for your loss, Lucy,” Flitwick says as passes her to traverse deeper into the passage. The witchlight follows him, casting strange shadows on the piles of bones. 

“He’s not dead yet. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Their trek seems to last an eternity. Lucy grips her wand tight, trying to ignore the fearful sloshing around in her stomach. She isn’t a Gryffindor. She isn’t made for these haphazard adventures. She’s a Slytherin. She wants plans for her plans and escape routes for her escape routes. The Chamber of Secrets only has one way in and one way out and a deadly creature at the heart of it all. 

Eventually, Flitwick pulls up short. Dumbledore casts another spell, this light smaller and brighter. It hovers above the two professors, zipping this way and that as they look up and up and up at the shedded snakeskin. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Lucy curses. She knew it was big, but, “Jeeeesus fucking Christ!”

Sirius shoves past her to join the others, his handsome features glowing with wonder and zeal. Lucy lingers against the wall with her lips pressed into a thin line. 

“You wanted to come kill that?”

Regulus stands close enough to press his arm against hers in a subtle show of comfort. 

“It’s asleep,” she reminds him weakly. 

“Let’s hope it can die in its sleep.”

Lucy sighs and forces herself to step forward. Regulus follows close on her heels, a warm presence at her back. The basilisk skin is dry and smooth against her palm and crumbles like thin parchment under her severing charm. 

“What the fuck?!”

She shrugs as she passes it to Regulus, who banishes it somewhere. Knowing him, straight into Severus’s lap. 

“You could always give some to Lily,” she reasons. “Or Potter. His father’s a potioneer, isn’t he?”

Sirius grumbles, but quickly cuts out his own large portions of molt. Dumbledore soon follows their example, casually chatting about Nicolas Flamel as though he were a friendly neighbor. 

(Miles above, James Potter shrieks as a slimy piece of green snakeskin plasters itself to his face. Remus Lupin sniffs it, shudders, and opens the door to call for Lily, only to find her bounding up the boy’s stairs, proclaiming her love for Sirius Black and sounding all too happy about a basilisk.)

(In the dungeons, a first year slowly backs away from a gleeful Severus Snape.) 

They continue on after Flitwick collects a sample for his goblin relatives. Lucy asks him about goblin alchemy and magic in an attempt to soothe her nerves. It doesn’t work. It only reminds her of Hufflepuff’s goblet waiting in the heart of Gringotts. She fears stealing from the goblins more than she does breaking into Malfoy Manor. 

One step at a time, Luce. One step at a time. 

The entrance to the Chamber is simple enough to break through. It’s compromised entirely of parselmagic wards. Her years of study have finally come to fruition, a fact not lost on Albus Dumbledore. He watches her with cold calculation, even as he helps untangle the weave of protective enchantments. Sirius, god bless him, does his best to defuse the tension by arguing with his little brother. Or at him, rather. Lucy always thought of Regulus’s equanimity as a part of his unbalanced psyche. Now she wonders if it’s only a result of growing up alongside Sirius Black. 

Flitwick gives a little cheer as one of the stone snakes slithers away, allowing the door to creak open. The headmaster pushes through first, casting several spells before waving the rest of them through. 

Her first thought is of the Lord of the Rings. The first movie, when they’re in the underground city and the the drums begin a sinister rhythm. It looks just like that, only damp and tinged with green. Magic is heavy in the air. Not necessarily dark, just powerful and thick, like a humid summer day in the Deep South. Thick columns line the walls, wooden serpents both magical and mundane coiled threateningly around the stone. At the very end, a statue of an ugly wizard scowls out at the room with austere disdain. 

Sirius is the first one to break the silence with a heartfelt, “What a git.”

“It is an acquired taste,” says Dumbledore, who is dressed in revolting yellow robes.

“Do your dungeons look like this?” Sirius asks incredulously. 

“No,” Regulus and Lucy answer as one. 

“It’s impressive magic for a wizard,” Flitwick reasons, though he too is eyeing the statue with incredulity. “There’s not a trace of goblin here.”

“But why?!”

“Well, I’m sure controlling a basilisk did wonders for his ego,” Lucy points out. 

“I don’t think I’d want to a basilisk,” Regulus says thoughtfully, as he wanders over to examine one of the carved snakes. 

“Bullshit.”

“No, they’re much too cumbersome. If I were a parselmouth, I’d bond with a black mamba. Quick, lethal, and on brand.”

Flitwick regards Regulus with raised brows. 

“Put some thought into it, have you?” Sirius spits.

“Silence, gentlemen,” Dumbledore intones. 

He waves his wand at the statue, revealing a nest of emerald wards blooming from Slytherin’s mouth. 

“If I conjure a broom, I may be able to fly up and transfigure his beard into a ledge of sorts. From there, Lucy can dismantle the wards while I retrieve the roosters. I suspect one crow will wake the basilisk from its slumber and the next will prove fatal.”

“No need to conjure a broom, Professor,” Lucy says, already digging in her bag. 

“Is that from Vivienne Westwood’s latest collection?”

“Yes, Regulus, it is.”

“How exceedingly lovely. I’ve always admired her designs.”

“Wait, didn’t you tell me she’s a muggle?” Sirius asks. 

“Sure is,” Lucy confirms. 

She taps the broom to unshrink it, a Nimbus bought secondhand for situations just like this one, then passes it over to Dumbledore, who accepts it with a nod before kicking off and soaring into the air. Its an odd sight, Dumbledore on a broom. Not the first thing that comes to mind when his name is mentioned. 

“How do you know who she is, then?!”

Regulus shoots Lucy a sly grin and a wink. “I’m a man of mystery.”

“Don’t you flirt with her.”

“Why not? She’s only our cousin.”

Lucy bites back a groan. She glances over at Professor Flitwick. He has his back turned to them, his head tilted back to watch Dumbledore at work, but his shoulders are shaking suspiciously. The pronouncement, embarrassing though it is, leaves Sirius confounded into blessed silence.

“The landing is secure for whoever would like to summon the broom first,” Dumbledore’s voice suddenly calls. 

Lucy goes first, seeing as it’s her broom and fake vision. Dumbledore has merged several strands of Slytherin’s hair to his bottom lip. Although fairly insulting and absolutely ridiculous, it’s sturdy and wide enough for them all. She sends the broom back down with a flick of her wand before settling in to work on Slytherin’s parselmagic. 

Her nerves worsen with each thread she snaps. There’s a basilisk, a real fucking basilisk, on the other side of the wall. So many things could go wrong. They could wake it up too soon, the roosters might not wake it up at all. Lucy could die. Sirius could die. Dumbledore could die, which would basically mean the end of Britain as she’s ever known it. 

“Lucille,” a soft voice says, “your hands are shaking.”

Lucy looks up to find Dumbledore peering over his spectacles with a grandfatherly gaze. 

“My father always said shaking hands make for shoddy spellwork,” he jests, his blue eyes twinkling. 

Lucy chokes out a sob. She lowers her wand to wipe at her forehead, loose wisps of hair catching on her watch. 

“Doesn’t work on me, old man,” she wheezes, struggling to breath past the pain in her chest. 

“Fucking bleeding heart Gryffindors,” a deep voice grumbles and then her vision is overtaken by a pristine white shirt. 

Regulus Black casts a stinging hex, the sound of her startled cry ringing throughout the chamber. He grips her chin tightly and forces her to meet his icy gaze. She blinks rapidly, trying to make sense of the world through the sudden pain. Distantly, she’s aware of Professor Flitwick struggling to ward off the others. 

“Get yourself together, Tonks.”

Indignant rage begins stir beneath all of the fear and despair, cocking it’s head to better hear. Regulus squeezes her jaw. All of her wild thoughts narrows on to him. 

“You’re better than this. Since when is the great Lucy Tonks a blubbering fool?”

“I’m not a-“

“Then prove it,” he hisses, shoving his face into hers. “You’re supposed be the nastiest Slytherin to come to Hogwarts since the fucking Dark Lord. Get your shit together and act like it. He would laugh at you if he could see you know. Have you heard him laugh, Lucy? So high and cruel?“

“Fuck off, Regulus!” She pushes him off with a surge of hateful energy. 

He staggers back with a wicked grin nearly splitting his face in two. Her heart speeds with every word he whispers until she’s afraid it’ll burst straight through her chest. She closes her eyes, taking deep breaths, trying to center herself around his deep voice.

“Hone it, Lucy. Think of him. Think of Violet. Think of Severus. Think of that sharp kind of his, that delicious power he works so hard to hide. Think of what he could do with. Think of all that he’s capable of and think of what he will never be. Think of what they’ll make him into, Lucy. Hone it. Sink it into your bones. Breathe it into your lungs. Hone it, Lucy, and we can make them bleed.”

She opens her eyes. The air is cleaner. Her visions is sharper, the colors stark and bright. The magic isn’t as suffocating and damp as it was before. Instead, it weighs down on her skin in the embrace a lover heavy with exhaustion and covered in sweat.  

“There you are,” he breathes. 

Lucy doesn’t pay him a bit of attention. He isn’t important. None of them are. All that matters is the green threads of magic glowing in the dim light. Her wand is steady as she plucks them methodically, severing them one by one viciously. Something substantial grows in her chest with each flick of her wrist, a blacksmith folding steel in on itself over and over until a blade is formed. 

Hone it. 

The gate slides down in an ominous silence. Lucy holds out her other hand expectantly. When nothing happens, she looks over her shoulder. 

“A rooster, gentlemen.”

“Miss Tonks,” Dumbledore says in the careful voice she’s so used to (There you are.). “I will be going first. You may accompany me-“

“Headmaster, I don’t think you understand. I am not a Gryffindor; I am a Slytherin. There are quite a few things I desperately want out of this life and I won’t be able to have any of it if I’m dead. Believe me when I say that I will run out of here with my tail between my legs at the first sign of trouble. This is my kill. I’ve earned it.”

Dumbledore holds her gaze with a frightening intensity. Soft tendrils brush against her mind. She grits her teeth, strengthening her shields against the oncoming attack. It never comes. Instead, Dumbledore waves his wand, conjuring of the roosters from the nearby crate into his empty arm. He offers it to her, a feathery, clucking olive branch. 

“Thank you.”

She cradles it to her chest and stalks off into the corridor. 

All in all, it’s rather anti-climatic. Nothing like the intense, heady rush she got from clearing the Gaunt shack. It’s a simple as hexing a rooster and tossing it into a gaping well. The walls and floor shudder as something massive begins to move, but she’s already thrown in the next bird Dumbledore spells through. It screeches indignantly, almost comically, before it’s rancorous crow echoes off the round enclosure. The shuddering comes to an abrupt halt. 

Flames appear from nowhere. At first, she assumes someone cast a spell, but then another bird materializes from the fire. Fawkes trills softly before plunging down in a scarlet blur. As though summoned, Dumbledore enters with the others quick on his heels. Everyone holds their breath until the phoenix flies back up to assure them that beast truly is dead.

She knows she shouldn’t do it. She knows it’s a stupid idea as soon as it comes to mind, but she’s always been too curious for her own good. 

Lucy sidles over to the lip and peers over the edge. A monolithic snake is curled in on itself, vivid green coils never-ending. It is impossibly, frighteningly, imperceptibly large.

A twelve year old fought that, she thinks. A twelve year old fought that and killed it.

After she’s hurled and charmed her vomit away, Lucy sits down and wraps her arms around her legs. She watches the others as they work what comes next. The goblins will be called in to harvest the corpse and work out the finances. All very discreetly, of course. 

“If the Dark Lord learns what has transpired here, all of our lives will be forfeit,” Regulus says. 

Sirius jolts to attention. “Right, then I’m flying down to get a fang.”

Oh, Sirius, you wonderful, clever man.

“What?!”

“There’s not much he can do against a basilisk fang, is there?”

“How do you plan on stabbing the Dark Lord with a basilisk fang?!”

“I don’t,” Sirius shrugs, “but it would still be....”

He trails off as Fawkes appears once more, this time clutching something in his talons. He drops the ratty brown bundle over Sirius’s head, who catches it on instinct alone. Lucy jumps to her feet.

“Reach inside,” she orders. 

Sirius gapes down at the worn fabric in his hands. “What?!”

“That’s the Sorting Hat. Reach inside!”

Dumbledore’s eyes widen behind his half-moon spectacles. “Yes, Sirius! Quickly!”

“What the blithering fuck is going on?!” He cries, even as he shakes the Hat out and reaches in. He makes an aborted, shocked noise when his hand brushes against something inside. Sure enough, a gleaming silver sword is pulled out of the Hat. 

Lucy hastily summons the broom and shoves it at Sirius. “Goblin-made silver absorbs whatever it touches. Stab the basilisk and it will imbibe itself-“

“With the venom! You’re a genius, Lucy!”

He throws his leg over the broom and dives without a second thought. 

Dumbledore turns to Lucy with a pensive expression. “Have you Seen that happen before?”

Lucy chews on her lip. “After, technically.”

“Ah....You mentioned a twelve year old. Could you possibly tell us what was meant to happen?“

She sighs and looks up at the ceiling for some sort of sign. She hadn’t meant to say that aloud. She’s too tired and amped up to think it all through. Surely just knowing this one part wouldn’t hurt. It might even make him trust her. He does love his Potters and his Gryffindors. 

“In around twenty years, Lord Voldemort possesses a first year named Ginny Weasley to open the Chamber of Secrets. Eventually, she’s taken down here and left to die. James Potters’ son, Harry, comes down here with a professor and Ginny’s brother to try and save her. They all get separated and twelve year old Harry Potter is forced to fight off a basilisk with only Fawkes and the Sorting Hat to help.”

“And he killed it with the sword?!” Regulus asks incredulously. 

“Stabbed it right through the roof of its mouth.”

Dumbledore seems to have stopped functioning. He stares at Lucy with his mouth hanging open the slightest bit. I’ve killed a basilisk and broken Dumbledore, she thinks. I’m on a fucking roll tonight. Someone call for Voldemort while I’m at it.

“Does he live?” Flitwick asks gently. 

“Fawkes cried for him,” she shrugs. 

Regulus shakes his head. “Cheeky little bugger, then.”

A tired smile curves at Lucy’s lips. 

“Wanna hear something funny? The Hat wanted to put him in Slytherin, but he met Malfoy’s son on the train and begged to go anywhere else.”

Slowly, all four of them dissolve into laughter. When Sirius reemerges with bulging pockets and a bloodied sword, his grin dies into a petulant frown. 

“What did I miss?”

Dumbledore makes them go to the Hospital Wing. In the dead of the night, Regulus sneaks past Lucy’s partitions and lowers himself into the bedside chair. 

“Do you think anyone will buy it?” He wonders. 

The official story is that a cluster of acromantulas wandered onto the castle grounds. Sirius and Lucy were dueling, as they can often be caught doing, when the creatures attacked. Sirius was gravely injured in the fighting and Regulus was called in for a blood transfusion to flush out the venom. The castle was on lockdown while Dumbledore and Flitwick scoured the grounds to ensure that no other creatures had escaped the Forest. 

“It’s just unbelievable enough to be true.”

“More believable than the truth.”

They sit in a companionable silence, listening to Sirius’s breathing two beds over.  

“Thank you for earlier,” she says softly. 

He waves his hand dismissively. “It’s my job as the King.”

“You’re good at it.”

“Not as good as you could be, I imagine. The mantle should have passed to you.”

“King Lucy,” she muses. The words don’t taste right. It’s never been about power for her. “I’d be terrible. I don’t have the patience to care for the children.”

“Neither do I. I send them to Slughorn.”

Lucy huffs a laugh. Regulus may be half mad, but he’s clever and capable and so strong....

“Regulus....”

She rolls around in the bed to peer up at him. The moonlight illuminates his pale skin and darkness his hair and the shadows in his face. He looks like a painting. 

“I don’t know if I like that tone,” he says, eyeing her just as baldly.  

“If you needed information about muggle London, how would go about getting it?”

He furrows his manicured brows. “I would probably ask Severus.”

“No, I mean something specific. Too specific for magic to find.”

“Then I would definitely ask Severus.”

“And if it was a secret? Something you didn’t trust Severus with?”

“Then I’d hire a muggle to do it for me and obliviate them after.”

“You’d....” Lucy trails off, her jaw dropping. “You’d just hire someone?!” 

“Why ever not?”

“You rich Tory bastard,” she whispers in awe. 

One side of his mouth pulls up in a smirk. “It’s a good thing you just came into a basilisk of a fortune, isn’t it?”

Lucy smirks back. “Do you think they can make basilisk boots?”

“I’ll arrange it if I get my own.”

“Done,” she says, holding out her hand.

“Done,” he agrees, shaking it. 

And because he’s a Slytherin, because he’s a Black, he pushes a little power through his skin to seal it in magic. 

Chapter Text

Summer fades to fall and fall turns to winter in a dizzying blur. The investigator’s bi-monthly reports seem to take eons to arrive. Lucy spends her time researching and dueling and planning, planning, planning. Finally, one rainy day in November, James Potter and Lily Evans approach Lucy’s cluttered table in the library. 

Lucy’s never liked Potter. She’s too loyal to Severus to feel otherwise. Lily, on the other hand, she cares nothing for either way. Except to admire her hair, of course. It’s a vibrant shade of deep red that most women spend paychecks to achieve and still never manage to get. 

“Can I help you?” Lucy asks. 

“We’re here to pass a letter along from Andromeda,” Potter says. 

She glares at him, waiting for him to lay it on the table. He never does. He only stares back with a contemplative expression. Lucy supposes he’s handsome enough, but he’s no Sirius Black or Tom Riddle. It’s more in the way he holds himself, the natural authority he commands, much in the way Severus does. Lily apparently has a type. 

“Well?” Lucy snaps. “Where is it?”

Potter’s gaze rakes over her body in a considering way. Although it’s obviously not sexual, Lucy glances at Lily uneasily. Teenage girls are petty creatures. She doesn’t seem upset, fortunately. Only amused. 

“I wanted to talk to you about Sirius.”

Lucy scoffs and returns to scribbling out notes in her journal. “I don’t have the time for this, Potter. Leave the letter and go.”

“He’s too good for you.”

Lucy stills. There is a moment where she cautions herself: he is just a child, they are children and she is an adult. Then, with a heady rush, she realizes it isn’t quite true anymore. At seventeen there is still room to grow and mature, but he’s old enough to know better. He’s old enough to learn. She doesn’t have to hold it back any longer. 

Lucy drops her pen, closes the journal, and laces her fingers together.  

“And how do you figure that, Potter?” She asks calmly. 

He furrows his brows. “Er...Pardon?”

“What makes you say that I’m not good enough for Sirius Black?”

“He’s a good person.”

“And I’m not?”

“Well, he-“

“I’ve never played an embarrassing prank on anyone. I’ve never bullied anyone, especially for things beyond their control. I’ve never endangered someone’s life and betrayed a friend’s trust for fun. Oh yes, Potter, I know all about last year. I know all about your friend’s furry little problem. And yet I haven’t said a single thing because I am a good person. I’ve kept my head down and minded my business. What’s the school motto, Potter?”

He rolls his eyes, ignoring his girlfriend’s almost desperate tug on his hand. “You can’t seriously be comparing yourself to a dragon, Tonks. I’ve seen you duel in class.”

“Not everything is solved with a duel, Potter, and I have never encouraged-“

“Well, well, well.”

Gawain Yaxley steps around the bookshelf and into Lucy’s alcove. In her opinion, he’s one of the Slytherins that would have been sorted in Gryffindor if it were not for his ambition. Brash, brutish, and completely ridiculous. Cannon fodder for the Dark Lord. 

“What have we here?” He sneers, tucking a lock of brown hair behind his ear. It makes Lucy want to vomit or laugh or maybe both. He’s trying so hard to be another Regulus and isn’t nearly good looking or suave enough to pull it of.  “Potter trying collect another mudblood?”

Both Evans and Potter flush with anger, but Lucy scoffs loudly before either of them can speak. 

“Come on, Yaxley. You know I’ve got better taste than James Potter.”

“I don’t know what goes through a mind like yours.”

“I know,” she says with faux sympathy, “but we’re all really proud of you for trying to keep up.”

“You little cunt,” he hisses. 

Potter forgotten, he prowls forward with his fist clenched around his wand and his teeth bared in a pale imitation of a threat. Lucy watches him approach with a thoroughly unimpressed expression. She’s heard it all since she stepped in the common room six years ago. At this point, their insults are predictable and boring. 

“I’m sick of you,” he snarls. “I’m sick of your kind. You think you’re so special. You think you’re so bright. You’re wrong. You’re all wrong. You disgust me.”

He stops just in front of her chair and braces one hand on the desk and the other behind her shoulder.  He leans down close enough to kiss, his sandalwood cologne nearly overpowering her senses. She studies the red bumps on his jaw from his morning shave. So strange to think of Death Eaters doing such mundane things. Does Voldemort shave? Does he brush and floss? 

“You’ll be how I earn my Mark,” he says, spittle landing on her nose. “I’ll have you writhing under my wand before I present your body to the Dark Lord. And after you, I’ll kill your fat brother, his slut wife, and their mudblood daughter.”

Lucy stills. Her heat stutters, then quickens to an alarming speed. It’s a terrible, horrible thing, but she’s dreamed of those words for three years. There are very few reasons Slytherin House would accept her acting against one of their own. Even then it wouldn’t be absolute. After all, an inferior does not deserve what its master holds. This, however, is something they can understand. Violence. Revenge. Family.

Hone it, Regulus had said. Settle it into your bones. Breathe it into your lungs. 

“Oh, Yaxley,” she whispers, raising one hand to caress his cheek. He jerks away, face suddenly bone white, but she twists the tip of her wand into his knee. She could turn it into sludge with one word. Just one lovely Latin word. But that would be too kind. “You beautiful boy.”

Expelliarmus, she thinks, and his wand clatters across the desk.

Lucy stands, pressing her chest against Yaxley’s as she does. His green eyes widen as their robes slide against each other. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasps. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I swear. I’m sorry.”

Lucy swipes her thumb across his smooth skin, peering up at him through her lashes. His throat bobs nervously. 

“You’ve fucked up, Yaxley. You just threatened to kill my three year old niece. You just threatened to kill a Black in front of witnesses. Your uncle Corban can’t get you out of this one.” 

A broken whimper escapes from his lips. He jerks his head to Potter. 

“I didn’t mean it, Potter,” he swears feverishly. “I didn’t mean it. It was just a joke.”

“Real funny joke, mate.”

Yaxley’s thin lips press into a flat line. “Regulus won’t allow this,” he tries. “He won’t-“

“Regulus is unstable, my love,” Lucy gently reminds him. “He won’t turn down a little bloodletting. Speaking of which...”

With one jab if her wand, he freezes in place. His clothes disappear in another swish. He stands frozen in nothing but silk boxer briefs, aristocratic pale skin on full display. 

“Er, mate-“ Potter begins, but Lucy shushes him as she reaches into her bag. She’s nearly up to her shoulder in books and potions and snacks before she feels the smooth glass of an empty vial. 

Muffled screams come from Yaxley when she holds it up to the light. Ravenclaw blue, perfect for preserving blood samples.

“Oh, silencio, you coward. How do you ever expect to serve Voldemort if you can’t handle a filthy little mudblood like me?” She aims her wand at his wrist and whispers, “Diffindo.”

“Tonks!” Potter cries. Strangely enough, Lily Evans holds him back.

A thin line appears across Yaxley’s wrist. Blood wells down onto his palm a heartbeat later. The vial is filled disappointingly fast. She’d have liked for him to writhe a bit more. Quick as whip, Lucy slashes his other wrist, then jabs her wand dangerously close to his eyes. He falls to his knees with a silent scream as the paralyzation dissipates, his wrists pressed together frantically.

Lucy bends down to cup his chin. 

“I’ll make sure your wand gets to Regulus, but you best run along now. Madam Pince will throw a fit if you make a mess in her library.”

She presses her lips against his softly. 

“Go, darling. I’ll catch up with you later.”

Yaxley scampers up, his bare feet slapping against the stones. Shrill screams echo through the stacks not a moment later. Lucy allows herself a triumphant smile before she begins packing the books up. 

“You’re fucking mental,” Potter accuses. 

Lucy glances over at them. She’d nearly forgotten her audience. 

“You said it yourself, Potter. I’m a shit duelist.” She conjures another vial and waves her wand so that the blood bottles itself away. “The best hope I have is making them so paranoid they slip up.”

She shoulders her bag and holds her hand out.

“I wasn’t lying. I really am going to give his wand to Regulus.”

Potter narrows his eyes. “I’ll take care of that.”

“The letter, then.” 

He jolts in surprise, having forgotten why he came to her in the first place. He passes it over after fumbling around in his robes for a while. 

“The littlest snakes will get the wand to him fastest. Eager to please and all that,” she advises. “I’ll see you in Defense tomorrow, yeah?”

Without another word, she spins around a bookshelf, make sure she’s alone, then shifts into a raccoon and scampers away. 

Back in her dorm, Lucy unfurls the sealed parchment. Stark white printer paper hides innocently in the folds. She reads the typed letter three times before she can let herself believe it. 

Detective Jenkins has found the cave. 

No one notices Lucy arrive in Defense the following morning. They’re too captivated by a group of Gryffindors clustered against the far wall. James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Lily Evans are crowded around Sirius Black, whispering and hissing and pleading to deaf ears.

With sudden clarity, Lucy realizes that Sirius is not the boy she has thought him to be. Standing in a calm rage and burning grey eyes, she realizes that he is dangerous. He is the man that survived thirteen years in Azkaban. He is the man that dueled Bellatrix Lestrange and laughed. And just like that, Lucy is newly determined to see him become all he can be. She’ll be damned if they put him away this time. She’ll set the damn veil on fire until it spits him back out.

“Miss Tonks,” Professor Diaz greets. “Would you mind closing the door?”

There is a sudden clutter from the Slytherin side of the room. Gawain Yaxley edges further into Severus Snape’s shadow as her gaze alights on his spot under the window. 

“Of course, Auror Diaz.”

Lucy closes the door and crosses the room to stand at her usual spot beside Severus. He arches a brow down at her. She responds with a cheeky smile before she bends around him to beam at Yaxley. 

“Hello, Gawain. I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.”

He stares back, his face warring between rage and fear until Sirius barks out a laugh from across the room. It immediately drops into an expression of bone-deep terror. 

Professor Diaz clears his throat in a call for attention.

 “I don’t know what it is that’s happened, but I’ve told you before to leave the war outside that door. Whatever happened last night, I want you to forget about it. Now, as you can see, we’ll continue with the dueling roster-“

Shafiq raises a trembling hand as she says, “Professor, with all due respect, I’m not sure that is appropriate for today.”

“I disagree, Miss Shafiq. I’d rather you vent your anger under adult supervision if you act upon it at all.”

The Slytherins immediately avert their eyes to the floor or the ceiling, all too aware that Lucy has something suitability dramatic brewing. The professor naively takes it for acceptance.

“Now,” he announces. “It looks like I’ll have to bump Black up on my list, given his attitude today.”

“Professor, I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” Potter cuts in. 

Auror Diaz rolls his eyes. “What did I just say, Potter? Better in here than out there. Come on, Black.”

Sirius discards his robe, pulls half of his hair back, and loosens his tie before he strides to the wide chalked circle. The professor sighs and looks back down at his list. 

“Shafiq, you’re up.”

Shafiq winces, but she doesn’t complain. It must have been why she spoke up. Lucy can’t blame her. She certainly wouldn’t want to have to face off against Sirius any day, let alone in a mood like that. Nonetheless, Shafiq casts a spell at her hijab and enters the circle with poise. 

They bow, and he has her tumbling into her housemates with two slashes of his wand. 

He smirks up at the Slytherins in a mocking taunt. 

“Next,” he demands.

Auror Diaz raises a brow. “Robinson.”

Robinson at least manages to get in a protego before he trips headfirst into the stone floor. 

“Next,” Sirius drawls. 

The professor sets his list aside and strides forward to the very edge of the circle, eyes roaming over his class in consideration. 

“Robinson and Tonks,” he finally says. 

Lucy startles. “What?”

“Robinson and Tonks.”

“Why?!” She blurts. 

“Because I want to see what he’s capable of.”

Lily Evans shoves her way to the front, her chin high and sleeves already rolled up to her elbows. 

“Let me at him. Pair him with me if you really want to see what he can do.” 

Auror Diaz frowns. His dark eyes dart from Lily to Sirius and back again. After a long moment, he nods slowly. 

Very well,” he concedes. 

Lily grins wickedly, causing several Gryffindors to blanch, and Severus to nearly faint with desire. The professor shakes his head in exasperation. 

Lily and Sirius manage to put on a riveting show, a true rarity for classroom duels. Both of their curses skirt the line of legality. Lily isn’t as quick or reactive as Sirius, but she’s creative. At one point, she overpowers an aquamenti then freezes the puddle under Sirius’s feet. He retaliates with a jet of green flames that make the runes glow in warning. Eventually, Sirius’s anger gets the best of him. He bombards her with rapid fire curses that barrel straight through the dueling wards. Auror Diaz watches chunks fall from the stone walls with a wide-eyed expression. Lily responds in kind, casting an old dark curse that melts through the round dome and puts a sludgy crater in the windowsill. Sirius is so taken aback that he doesn’t see the gentle tripping jinx coming. His wand is in her hand before he hits the floor. 

Lily steps over his prone body and takes three long strides until she is staring into Yaxley’s eyes. Auror Diaz rushes forward, his wand angled to rise, but comes to a sudden halt when she speaks in a clear, cold voice. 

“You ready to try and make me writhe under your wand, Yaxley? No? You sure? What about that baby you said you’d kill, then? You might be able to handle a baby, big, tough wizard that you are.”

She takes another step forward. Lucy isn’t sure if the end of her auburn ponytail is sparking or if it’s a trick of the light. 

“I hope she makes you scream, you slimy toerag.”

Lily abruptly spins on her heel, fiery ponytail whipping through the air. She tosses Sirius’s wand on his panting chest as she stomps out of the class. He raises a two figure salute in thanks. The professor is too busy glowing at Yaxley to reprimand either of them. 

“Class dismissed. I think I need to have a word with Mr. Yaxley.”

In the chaos, Lucy hurries over to drag Sirius to his feet. She leans and whispers something in that makes him throws back his head in a booming laugh. Everyone is too engaged with the fresh gossip to notice. By dinner, the entire school will know what Gryffindor Tower has always been painfully aware of: Lily Evans is terrifying. 

Lucy strolls into the Slytherin common room at exactly ten o clock. She’s on a tight schedule. Torture at ten and off to destroy a horcrux at half past eleven. The room, already crowded, goes silent as the grave when she enters. 

Regulus Black is reading a book by the massive hearth, completely ignoring the spectacle in the center of the room. There, Gawain Yaxley is curled in a ball on an expensive emerald carpet. A thin layer of sweat coats his skin and the veins in his temples and neck have darkened to a deep violet. The students foolish enough to attempt rescue are nursing blistered hands and scorched arms off to the side.

Regulus looks up at the sudden silence. His full lips quirk into the smallest smile when his gaze meets Lucy’s. The sapphire ring she covets so much glints in the green firelight as he snaps the book closed. 

“How long has he been stuck there?” She asks as he joins her. 

The Slytherins part as they make their way to the center of the room. Violet is nowhere to be seen. It’s probably for the best. She’s never been one for violence or confrontation. Severus, however, smirks up from his seat in a nearby armchair. He may as well have ordered a bag of popcorn from a house elf. 

“A little over two hours,” Regulus answers amicably. “He showered after dinner then came out here to complain about you and Lily Evans. A bit annoying, really.”

“I wanted to drag it out. Make him wonder what was waiting for him. I’m too busy though.”

Yaxley whimpers at their feet. 

“How terribly inconvenient.”

“Mm. Did anyone figure it out?”

“No, actually, I wanted to congratulate you. Even Severus and I were confounded.”

Lucy grins and tips her head back to look at the ceiling. Regulus follows her gaze, letting out a soft noise of enlightenment. A very old, very intricate set of runes and circles have been painstakingly drawn with blood, charcoal, and salt. Yaxley, great bore that he is, is a creature of habit. He sits in the same chair with the same people nearly every night. It was only a matter of time and blood.

“Nobody ever thinks to look up,” Lucy points out.

“Marvelous. How’d you manage it?“

"Disillusionment with sticking charms on the soles of my boots. Tricky part was getting down without waking anyone up.”

The gathering crowd shifts uneasily at the thought of the resident mudblood creeping around while they sleep. Lucy scowls at them all.  

“Oh, grow a spine! I’ve got better things to do than watch over you lot all night. You’re not even that interesting.”

“Tell me about it,” Regulus mutters under his breath. Louder, he asks, “Did you have anything in particular planned?”

She sighs. “No, nothing spectacular. Not with Dumbledore dogging my every move and the time constraints. I have a meeting outside London at half past eleven.”

“That’s a shame. I was wondering if those charms for curing cheese could be used for something else.”

Delight bubbles in Lucy’s chest, making her blue eyes shine bright with humor. That was, in fact, why she’d kept the book for so long. 

 “You know, I had that exact same thought.”

Regulus answers with his wolffish smile. “How charming. I’d like to say a few words before you begin.” 

“Of course. After you, Lord Black.”

Regulus smiles magnanimously, truly a king before his court. He’s much better for the role than Lucius, though Lucy could be biased. The other Slytherins are watching them all with apprehension. A few of the older ones don’t bother to hide their incredulity and exasperation, muttering about madness and ‘last year, just a few more months of these two’. 

“Good evening. By now, we’re all aware of what occurred last night. I want it to be abundantly clear that I am not here on behalf of my cousins, or whatever it is that I’m supposed to call them now. I am here for Slytherin House.”

He wrinkles his nose as he spares a glance for the student in the floor. 

“Lucille has the right to retaliate against the threats made to her person and family, but it is my duty to protect the reputation of our house. Yaxley threatened a three year old in front of witnesses. Gryffindor witnesses. Have you heard the things they’re saying about us? Have you seen what they’re doing to the younger students? I was late to History of Magic because I had to send a couple of third years to the Hospital Wing in defense of one of my charges and you know I do not like my naps interrupted.”

Severus doesn’t bother to hide his amused snort. 

“To make matters worse, he was publicly humiliated by two mudbloods on two separate occasions and later reprimanded by an auror. The Dark Lord will not be pleased.”

“Please,” Yaxley chokes out, stretching pitifully across the carpet. He peers up with red rimmed, bloodshot eyes. “Please don’t tell. Please.”

“You’re even more of an imbecile than I realized if you don’t think he already knows.” 

Regulus raises his wand and in a very bored tone, says, “Crucio.”

A high, tremulous scream it off the walls as Yaxley’s limbs convulse. It carries on and on, unwavering, until Regulus lowers his wand. His body is still drawn tight even after it relaxes against the floor. The temperature in the room drops dangerously. The younger ones probably haven’t dealt with an infraction as serious as this. As for the older ones, they’re abruptly reminded just exactly who Regulus Black is. His madness is not the charming ploy so many of the girls like to believe. He is a Black. His lineage is a millenia of dark magic and incest. There was never any hope for him. The worst of it all is that he will face no repercussions for whatever he decides to do. He has enough power, wealth, and influence to make even Lord Voldemort treat him with respect in public dealings. 

Lucy shakes herself out of her thoughts and steps forward, her head strategically tilted to the side. She would have liked to wear something more dramatic, but heels and a dress wouldn’t be practical for her dreadful sort of nightlife. Instead, she’s dressed in her combat robes with soft leggings tucked into her basilisk boots. She crouches down to run a finger down Yaxley’s nose. 

“I am of the opinion that a crucio is dreadfully uninspired but they’ll start spouting nonsense if I don’t prove myself capable.”

He whimpers pathetically. 

“Please,” he whines, his eyes wet with tears. “Please, Lucy.”

Part of her, the girl that Ted loves so much, the girl that Sirius thinks she is, hesitates. She doesn’t get off on the power like others do. She’s never been overly concerned with it. It’s always been about survival for her. Lucy wants to live. She wants a long life with Nymph and Ted and Andy and Sirius and Violet and Severus, exploring all thst magic has to offer, traveling the world and learning everything she can. She’s never got off on fear or pain. It’s just so happened that it’s easier to get what she wants if everyone thinks she does.

Lucy shoves that girl deep inside and occludes as if Voldemort himself were in the room. 

“Crucio.”

Neon red light flashes from the tip of her wand to Yaxley’s chest. This time, his back arches off the carpet and his face contorts into a silent scream. She holds it until the scream comes, higher and more terrible than it was under Regulus. It isn’t that she’s more powerful than Regulus. Quite the opposite, probably. It’s only that she means it more than he ever could. He’s never met Nymph. He hasn’t watched her grow or heard her laugh or woke up to her crawling into his bed.

“You lot always look down on muggles. You think they’re useless and pitiful, but you always forget there’s a reason we have to hide from them.” Lucy summons a silk pillow and transfigures it into a cotton towel, then charms it to Yaxley’s face. “Your arrogance has made you stagnant. Unimaginative. So bored that you resort to genocide because you can’t think of anything better to do. Aquamenti.

“Muggles call it waterboarding,” she explains over Yaxley’s choking. “It’s a popular torture technique used on prisoners of war. In fact, some elite soldiers and intelligence operatives undergo waterboarding and other tortures to sort of build a tolerance. It’s a fascinating study on psychology.”

After several minutes, she moves on to dry-boarding, eventually providing a  steady commentary on all the muggle torture she’s aware of. Most of it comes from movies or tv shows, but her audience doesn’t know what those are. Coincidentally, some of the demonstrations relieve Yaxley of personal effects that could be useful in spells and potions. Hair, fingernails, blood. It hardly escapes anyone’s notice when his bits and pieces mysteriously disappear. 

Finally, when she’s just about ran out of ideas, the watch on her wrist vibrates. It’s eleven o clock. She bites back a frown. She’d hoped to be done before now. 

“Well, I suppose that all for tonight’s lesson,” she announces. 

She flicks her wand at the ceiling in a complicated pattern. A wave of magic rushes through the room, leaving the iron taste of blood on everyone’s tongues. Yaxley doesn’t even move. He stays prone on the floor, his bruised and blooded chest rising in slow, shallow intervals. 

“Any questions?”

Her classmates stare back at her with queasy expressions. Some can’t even bring themselves raise their gaze from the floor.

Regulus sighs heavily, only partly for show. 

“I do wish you’d come around more often. You make things so interesting.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Please do.” 

He surprises her by pulling her in to kiss her cheek.

“Take care of my brother, Lucille,” he whispers. 

Lucy returns his kiss like Andromeda taught her and promises to keep Sirius from doing anything too reckless. As she leaves, she pauses only long enough to watch Regulus snap at someone to clean Yaxley up before disappearing into the prefect dormitory. Severus lets out a long-suffering sigh as he leaves to collect his potions. Lucy smiles fondly. This is why she does what she does. This is why she is who she is. 

Settle it into your bones. Breathe it into your lungs. 

It isn't enough. Sirius Black materializes in the Hospital Wing hours later with a sword in one hand and a half-dead witch thrown over his other shoulder. 

Chapter Text

There is no foreboding storm or dangerous tide, no ominous clouds on the horizon. There are only the stars, the moon, and the sea. Lucy procures a Ravenclaw blue vial to pay the blood toll, much to her own amusement. Passingly, she wonders if she’ll ever get to tell Regulus. He’s dramatic enough to appreciate such a good case of poetic justice.

She and Sirius squeeze through the cave door before it fully opens. As soon as they pass the threshold, it rolls closed with a soft thud. Lucy immediately raises her wand to cast a barrage of detection spells to ensure that they are alone. 

Except for the bewitched corpses waiting in the lake, of course. 

Sirius’s low whistle echoes through the cave. An eerie green tinge reflects off of an unending lake until it is consumed by an unnatural darkness. There is something inherently wrong about the cave. It raises the hair on the back of her neck and erects goosebumps on her arms. Dread blooms in Lucy’s chest, stealing her breath and setting her heart aflame. This isn’t just a defensive fortress to house Voldemort’s soul; it’s his playground.  

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he murmurs. 

Lucy nods. There’s something wrong and isn’t just the dark magic poisoning the air.

“You ever take divination?” She asks. 

“No. Mrs Potter wouldn’t let us. Why?”

She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Just wondering if there’s something we should know.”

Sirius raises his brows incredulously. 

“Aren’t you the seer?! Don’t you know what we should know?“

“I don’t know everything. I only know what would have happened in the future.”

“Luce, maybe we should talk to Dumbledore.”

“No.”

Sirius groans and runs a hand over his face. “I know you don’t like him, but he’s the greatest wizard-“

“And that’s exactly why I don’t like him! He thinks he knows everything!”

“He’s Albus Dumbledore. He does know everything.”

“No he doesn’t! It-....”

Lucy rolls her eyes to the heavens. Her frustration quickly fades into unease at what she finds. There’s no ceiling. Only a deep blackness tinged with a pale sickly, green. Sirius follows her gaze and swears under his breath. 

“Sirius, get me through tonight and I swear I’ll tell you everything.”

His handsome face goes as unreadable as his brother’s always is. Lucy tears her gaze away and watches the shadow of a sharp rock dance. A long moment passes before his boots scuff on the damp stone. 

“I’m holding you to it,” he warns. 

“I know.”

His eyes search her face before quickly darting back to the smooth water. She can’t discern if he was satisfied with whatever it was he was looking for. What would he have done with Yaxley? What would he have done if he saw her standing beside Regulus, Unforgivables flowing from their wands with the ease of a lumos? Would he have watched? Would have joined in? Would he have been disgusted? 

“Here’s your boat,” Sirius calls. 

Lucy shoves the thoughts away behind her mental shields. There’s no time for a philosophical crisis. Instead, she trails after him to the far bank, where a small boat floats easily on the water. 

“It’s supposed to be invisible,” she says flatly. 

“Do you want to turn back?”

“No, we can’t risk it.”

“Why not? We know where it is.”

“He could move it.”

“It’s not just that,” he barks. “You're hiding something from me.”

Lucy sucks in a sharp breath, the truth tumbling out of her in a rush. 

“Regulus dies here and I won’t risk that. I won’t risk him.”

“No,” Sirius spins on his heel, bringing them so close that their boots kiss. “No. Reggie wouldn’t-“

“Wouldn’t he? Regulus is unstable. He does whatever he wants whenev-“

Sirius waves his hands in her face, a wild gesture that is purely James Potter. “He wouldn’t! He’s-he’s....He’s Reggie.”

“And what would Reggie do if someone borrowed Kreacher and left him to die?”

He freezes as comprehension dawns. He turns on his heel and begins pacing, muttering nonsense under his breath. Lucy shivers a little at the sudden lapse of warmth. She means to give him seven seconds to digest this new information, but she only counts to three before she breaks. 

“Can you please be still?!” She snaps. “My nerves are shot. I came straight to you from dealing with Yaxley and Occluding can only do so much.”

He comes to abrupt halt, his gaze cutting into her once more. 

“What did you do?” 

"It doesn’t matter. That fucking locket is all that matters. Can we please get started?" 

He waves his hand absentmindedly and goes back to his pacing. Lucy heaves a great sigh and calls for Coco. The house elf appears a couple of minutes later, probably hampered by something to do with Nymph. Her big brown eyes take in the cavern until she wraps her skinny arms around herself and huddles against Lucy's legs. 

"I is not liking this place, Miss Lucy. I is not liking it here at all." 

The words claw into Lucy's heart, but she hardens herself against it. 

"I know, Coco. Me either.” She scratches the house elf’s fuzzy head gently, the same way she does to Nymph when they're cuddling in bed late at night. “It’s only for a couple of hours though and it’s all for Nymphadora, every bit of it. And look, Sirius is here.”

They both look over at an irate Sirius Black, who is muttering something under his breath about Slytherins and house elves. 

“Sirius is a fierce warrior,” Lucy says in a very pointed tone, “who will not let any harm come to us. Will you, Sirius?”

“Of course not,” he scoffs. He stomps heavily over and holds out his hand to Coco. “I’m taking you across in the boat and then you’ll come back and apparate Lucy over. Sound good?”

Coco nods tremulously, her bat-like ears twitching, and takes Sirius’s hand. Though none too pleased, he is as patient with her as he is capable of being in his agitated state. Lucy watches the darkness greedily swallow their mismatched shapes with dread twisting her stomach in on itself. After what feels like an eternity, a loud crack echoes across the cavern, causing Lucy to nearly jump out of her skin. Coco takes her hand with an apologetic smile and disapparates. 

They reappear on a small island. Sirius stands encircled by the tall, jagged rocks jutting out of the ground and water, his face lit by the emerald glow of the potion. Magic flows from his wand steadily as he casts spell after spell at a stone basin forged into the cavern floor. He doesn’t stop until she and Coco are at his side. 

He shoots Lucy a grim look. “It won’t budge. There’s no way to move it.”

“I figured. You ready?”

He nods, sharp and short. 

Lucy summons a water glass and a rune-engraved vial from her ever present bag. She scoops a sample of the draught and passes it to Sirius before filling the glass with and holding it up to his witchlight. The draught is a beautiful, deep green that is as tantalizing as it is frightening. 

“Bottoms up," she says, and downs it all in one go.  

Once, when Sirius and his brother were very young, Bellatrix dared them to sneak into the Grimmauld library. They didn't dare touch anything until Regulus caught sight of a silver unicorn printed on a book’s spine. Sirius, being the magnanimous older brother, climbed up to retrieve it. He knew something was wrong as soon as his fingers brushed the cover. The leather was oily and seemed to exhale an hiss against his cheek. He went to abandon the book and climb down, but the smooth sole of his dress shoes slipped on the polished wood shelf. 

The book followed him down. 

It pushed itself off the shelf, landed open on Regulus's arm, and closed down hard. Ink fangs ripped into his pale flesh, blood and shadow pouring from the wound. Sirius did everything he could to pry it off, but only their father’s quick spellwork could set Regulus to rights.

It’s one of the only times Sirius can ever remember being afraid: his panicked helplessness, the book’s odious hissing, Regulus’s screams.

This is infinitely worse. 

Lucy is slumped against the pedestal with her arms curled over her stomach. Her cherubic features are screwed up in pain as she peers up at him through wet lashes. There’s nothing he can do for her. There’s nothing he can do to stop this. 

“Please,” she whines. “Please, Siri. It hurts.”

Sirius grits his teeth. He’s never been a good liar. He’s just good at charming others until they find his fibs amusing. There’s no charming his way through his. There’s no hexing his way to the other side. No runes or wards to puzzle through.

“I know, Luce, but you’ve got to finish it. You finish this draught and I’ll take us to Andy’s and Ted can make you a nice cuppa.” 

Her blue eyes, the entrancing blue that had Remus blushing for months in fourth year, lose their dull shine at the mention of her brother. Sirius, his gut roiling in guilt, exploits her weakness. He shoves the glass down into her hands. 

“Drink it for Ted, yeah? For Ted and Andy and Nymph.”

She chokes it down, gagging and retching the whole while, then throws the glass to the side. Coco freezes it with a snap of her fingers. Initially, Sirius had thought brining a house elf along was absurd. He assumed Coco would be a liability, another body to protect with his ‘fierce warrior’ skills. Instead, she’s proved herself to be an invaluable asset. This is the second time she’s kept something from crashing into the nefarious water. 

Lucy falls to her side with a low wail. Sirius curses as she begins weeping hard enough for her shoulders to shake. So far, there have just been sniffles and pleas. 

Coco holds out another dose of glowing potion to Sirius. He takes it and kneels in front of Lucy. She doesn’t seem to be aware of him. She only stares out into the cave as tears roll down her cheeks. 

“Regulus died here,” she suddenly rasps. 

Sirius very nearly chucks the potion across the island. Only Coco’s stern glance manages to still him. He takes a deep breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. He can do this. He’s Sirius fucking Black. He can do anything.  

“So you said,” he grits out.

“I keep seeing it.” Her voice is dull and lifeless. “I keep seeing them pull him down into the water. Kreacher is crying. Regulus is trying not to scream.”

She turns her dead eyes up to Sirius.

“Make it stop. I don’t want hear it anymore. Make it stop, Sirius. Make it stop.”

The potion is seems to weigh at his very soul as he hands hold its out to her. 

“Drink this. It’ll make it stop.”

The more she drinks, the longer it take for her to consume. Finally, after long bout of gentle encouragement, she drops the empty glass and covers her ears with her hands.

“Make it stop. Make it stop. Make them shut up! Just shut up! Make them shut up! SHUT UP AND DIE ALREADY!”

Coco tumbles off her boulder at her sudden scream. Despite his inner protests, Sirius can’t resist peering over his shoulder. There’s nothing. Only the lake and the thick darkness.

“Is that what you hear? Is this what you hear in your cell?”

Sirius swivels around to Lucy. She moans pitifully as another stomach cramp overtakes her. She rides it out with quiet groans and curses. She squeezes herself and presses her cheek against the cold stone. 

“They won’t stop. I tried. I tried, I tried. I tried so hard. Forgive me. Please, forgive me. I tried to save them. Forgive me. Please forgive me. I’m so sorry.”

Sirius takes the glass again, meeting Coco’s eyes with desperation. The elf’s ears droop down pitifully, but she pushes him back all the same. 

“Here, Luce,” Sirius says as scrambles down to her level. He raises her shoulders so that she is propped up against his thigh, just high enough for her to swallow. “Drink this and they’ll go away. I promise they’ll go away. 

She manages to spit some of it out on her jeans. Some of it comes back up through her nose. He cleans her face off with his sleeve, his thumb brushing against her soft cheek. She shudders under pain and despair even as Coco floats the next dose down.

“Lucy,” he says. “Lucy, look at me.”

Her brows pull together and her lips press tight, but she manages to focus on his eyes. 

“Lucy, you have to drink this.”

“No. No, no, no. Sirius, please, no.”

Sirius curses and pulls her struggling form further into his lap. “Lucy-“

“No, don’t. Please. I’m sorry. I tried. I’m sorry.”

“Shhh. Shhh, it’s okay,” he soothes, his free hand reaching up to pet at her hair. “Shh. Don’t cry. Just drink this and it’ll be okay.”

“Parched. So thirsty.”

“I know. Drink this and it’ll be alright. Just like Ted’s tea, I promise.”

“Snatchers. Snatchers got him.”

“I know, drink this.”

She only manages a mouthful before she slams the cup down and sits half upright, her head bashing into his elbow. He winces and scoots away.

“Snatchers got him. And Ny-nyyy-“ 

She scrunches her face up against another wave of agony. Her mouth opens in a silent scream. Sirius, cursing himself all the while, takes advantage and forces the rest of the potion down her throat. He shoves the cup at Coco while Lucy gags and wretches against his knee. 

“Only two more, Master Sirius,” the elf squeaks solemnly. 

Sirius lets out a deep exhale. “Thank Merlin. Luce, no. Lucy, look at me.”

Her eyes meet his. They’re clouded over with a madness Sirius has only seen on his mother during her worst bouts. 

“Come on, Lucy. Just two more and we can go home. Two-“

“I watched you fall,” she whispers. A glob of phlegm hangs from her swollen lips. Sirius reaches up to wipe it away. “I watched you fall.”

“I didn’t fall. I’m right here. I didn’t fall.”

“Is this hell?”

“‘Course not. You wouldn’t get to spend time with a handsome bugger like me in eternal damnation, would you?”

“I saw you fall. Both of you. One for the veil and one for the water.”

“Tell me about it. What happened? How did I fall?” He waves his hand at Coco, who magics the cup over to him. “Focus, Lucy. Tell me how I fell.”

“Bel-la.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right. Hey there, open up.”

“Thirsty.”

“I’ve got some water here for you. Drink it.”

She swallows it around her thick tears, chest heaving as she struggles to breathe. It reminds him think of Regulus’s relentless wails, of his scarlet cheeks, and red, red blood. Sirius pushes the thought away and shoves the glass back at Coco. 

Lucy lets out an almost inhuman moan, her eyes rolling back in her head. 

“Lucy!” He smacks her on the cheek hard enough for her eyes to pop open. “Lucy, stay with me. We’re almost there. One more dose. Stay with me. Coco, hurry up.”

Coco, however, is staring down into the basin with wide, fearful eyes. Big tears begin to well in the corners. 

“Coco....”

“Is evil, Master Sirius,” she whispers. “Is very evil.”

“I know, Coco, but we can’t destroy it-“

“The veil. The veil,” Lucy sobs. “Take me to the veil. Let me die.”

Coco squeals out a horrified cry, finally tearing her gaze away. “Miss Lucy! Miss Lucy, no!”

“Let me die again. Let me die. Please, just let me go back. Let me die so they’ll go away. I tried. I tried so hard. Please just let me die.”

“COCO!” Sirius roars, pushing his magic into the words. “COCO GIVE ME THE DAMN POTION!”

The house elf hastens to obey. Her little hands shake bad enough for it to take three tries to scoop up the last of the draught. All the while, Sirius forces Lucy into a sitting position. She falls over almost immediately, but he can at least move his legs. 

“Here, Coco. Give that to me and take the necklace.”

“I’s cannot. I’s cannot touch it. It is being very evil, Master. Very, very evil.”

“Coco—Fucking hell! Lucy!” 

Lucy doesn’t seem to hear. She is staring off into the lake with that terrible expression of hers. 

“Lucy, drink this! I need you to drink this for me.”

She doesn’t move. Sirius’s heart stops. He throws himself beside her, shoving his hand against her nose until feels a warm exhale against his palm. 

“Fucking hell,” he cries. “Bleeding fucking hell, you crazy witch.”

Sirius props her up the slightest bit and forces her mouth open with his free hand. The potion floods down her throat in a rush. She convulses, her entire body trying to fight against the odious liquid. He lets her drop to the floor with a heavy thud. His wand slips out and rolls under her, but he can’t do anything about that now. She planned for this and he has to follow the plan. 

Coco is staring into the dim basin again, swaying slightly on her skinny legs. Sirius can feel it now. It is calling to him, a smooth dark presence. He shoves his Occlumency shields flat. Everything dulls. His fear, his panic, his guilt. The horcrux’s soothing whispers.

Sirius pulls the sleeves of his jumper down to lift the necklace’s silver chain. The locket is just as ugly and gaudy as the bloke’s statue.

“Coco, summon the box,” Sirius orders.

She snaps her little fingers and an iron box engraved with runes appears in her hands. Sirius drops the horcrux in, the lid snaps shut, and blessed silence flows onto the island. They take a moment to breathe it in, relishing in the clean air, when a splash sounds. It’s a quiet thing to be so damning. 

Sirius spins in time to see the empty glass disappear under the lake. Nothing happens. Nothing happens for an eternity, until foul silence is broken by another splash, just as dainty as the first, as a pale hand claws up from the water. 

“Regulus,” Lucy breathes. And then she speaks the two words Sirius hoped to never hear. Two simple, silly words that tear his world down. 

“Open sesame,” she whispers. 

Later, he will say he heard it. He will say he heard her false tooth crack. He will say he heard the poison trickle out of the fissures.

Seventy-two seconds, his mind supplies. She said she had seventy-two seconds to swallow the antidote if she ever had to drink the poison.

Sirius scampers across the stone floor in two long strides. He paws at her chest, ripping the neckline of her jumper to reach the necklace. It breaks off with a high snap. He pries her mouth open and shoves the waxy purple stone down her throat. He shifts to get a better angle, to make absolutely sure she swallows, and there is a loud, damning crack. 

He knows what it is before he looks. 

His wand. He forgot his fucking wand. 

Sirius isn’t a small man. He’s just over six feet and as broad as a beater. Lucy, though short, isn’t petite. She has curves that have made the boys and girls of Hogwarts drool since fourth year. His wand never stood a chance under the both of them. 

How could forget his fucking wand?!

“MASTER!” Coco yelps. 

Sirius looks up in time to see her rush forward on her skinny ginger legs, the box tight in one hand and her other raised high. With a fierce little grunt, a wave of magic pulsates from her tiny frame. Several corpses are blown back into the water, taking a handful of their brethren with them. He hadn’t even heard them get so close. 

“FUCK! Fuck, fuck, fuck. Where’s your wand, Luce? Where’s- there it-....” 

Sirius trails off, dumbstruck. A long silver sword is laying beside them, glinting green under the strange ceiling. 

Maybe it’s his fear and rage. Maybe it’s because of Yaxley’s threat. Maybe it’s thinking so much of Regulus and the library. For whatever reason, Sirius remembers his father telling them a story. He liked it before he knew what it meant. Before he realized how sick it really was. 

Centuries ago, a Black ancestor named Pavo had just created a new spell and wanted to test its mettle. Naturally, he strolled into the nearest Muggle village and slaughtered dozens of men with a flaming sword before the spell sputtered to a stop. Sirius, mouth agape with wonder, asked his Father how to do it. And being the bastard that he was, Orion Black used that spell to teach his sons blood magic.

“Bleeding hell, where’s Reggie when you need him?!” Sirius whimpers. 

He’d remember it perfectly. He was always the smarter brother.

Still, Sirius is no fool. He became an animagus at fifteen without a mentor. He’d be top in his classes if he cared to do his schoolwork. He’s Sirius Black and he has a Slytherin’s plan and the sword of Godric fucking Gryffindor. He can do this. He can do anything.

“Hold them off, Coco!” He yells. “I just need a minute.”

Sirius raises Lucy’s ebony wand to the heel of his hand and casts a gentle slicing hex. Blood wells as scarlet as the ruby glittering on the pommel of the sword. He smears it on the very bottom of the blade and calls up his magic. Calls on the darkness in him, the fiery rage, the cold fear, on the sinister ambiance of the room. He calls on it all, chanting and humming an old spell, until black tendrils creep out of his wrist and curl up the sword, just as they do his heart. He chants and sings until it is coated to the tip, and snarls, “Flamma.”

His heart clenches and white and blue flames burst from the sword’s hilt.

Sirius barks out a triumphant laugh, clamoring to his feet in a heady rush. His tiny little house elf is there, both hands outstretched and waves splashing at her ugly feet. Blood is dripping pouring from a patch of missing skin on her shoulder and a chunk has been ripped from her left ear.

”Go, Coco! Hide it and come back!”

She disappears in a loud crack. The inferi pause, just for a moment, before turning to Sirius as one. Sirius grins. He wasn’t made for cautiously waiting in the shadows. He isn’t a Slytherin. He’s a lion. He was made for this. 

With one swing of the sword, Sirius falls into blissful oblivion. 

Chapter Text

Ted Tonk’s day begins with a rough start. His wife is in a snit because of something she read in her morning tea. His daughter is a snit because her all of her yellow shirts are dirty. By the time he manages to sneak out of the house, Ted is twelve minutes late to work. It all goes downhill from there. St. Mungo’s has been swamped with the war brewing and wizard-flu season around the corner. 

Ted arrives home exhausted to an irate wife, a fussy toddler, and a skittish house elf. 

“Something’s wrong, Ted,” Andy hisses, her curls sparking with anger. “I can feel it in my bones. Nymph can feel it. The damn elf can feel it. Your sister’s gone and gotten herself killed and mark my words, I’m going to kill her for it.”

“Love, you can’t kill someone who’s went and got themselves killed already,” he points out. 

Suffice to say, his evening does not improve after that. 

At half past eight, Nymphadora tucks herself into bed. Ted and Andy collapse into their own soon after. They stare up at the white ceiling and bask in the serene darkness. 

“I’m sorry for what I said about Lucy,” Andy says after a while. “I worry about her is all.”

Ted sighs. He worries about his sister too, but there’s nothing to be done for it. Lucy will do whatever she wants whenever she wants and-

“Maybe it’s Sirius this time,” Andy frets. 

Ted sighs again and flips over so he can nestle closer to his wife. She smells like vanilla and brown sugar and home. They are a ragtag bunch, his family, but they are his, down to the displaced heir and the bold house elf. 

“Whatever it is, whoever it is, we’ll weather it together. It’ll all work out in the end. We did, didn’t we?”

Ted manages four hours of sleep before Nymphadora wakes up screaming. They stumble into her bedroom to find Coco already stroking Nymph’s ever-changing hair. It takes nearly a quarter of an hour to calm her down. Just as Coco is about to fetch a glass of warm milk, her tiny frame freezes. Her chocolate eyes swivel to Ted and Andy. 

“It is happening,” she whispers, her grey-brown skin paling to sickly ashen hue.

“What?!” Andy snaps. “What’s happening?!”

“The Plan. The Plan is happening. I is...ooooo, I is not knowing what to do, Mistress Andy.”

“What’s the matter, Coco?” Ted asks kindly, struggling to fight back his own unease.

She tugs at her long ears and looks down at her bony feet. “I is...I is being bought by Miss Lucy, but we is all bonded as family and Master Sirius...”

Andy hums in understanding, her head tilted to the side thoughtfully. 

“Sirius gave you orders that contradict Lucy’s, didn’t he?”

Coco nods. 

“I see. Do you prefer Sirius’s orders over Lucy’s? Is that why you’re so conflicted?” 

Tears well in her big brown eyes as she nods again. Oh hell, Ted thinks, how could anyone be cruel to someone so sweet?

“Coco,” he says, “I want you to do what you think is right. Do what your heart tells you to do. It’s what Lucy would want. She wouldn’t want you to be upset.”

“Besides, she’s very good at admitting she’s wrong when it benefits her.”

“Andromeda.”

“Well, it’s true.”

“Then I has decided, Master Teddy,” Coco announces. 

“Brilliant! What have you decided, my dear?” 

Coco draws herself up to her full height, which is hardly level with the doorknob at her back. 

“Master Teddy must go to Hogwarts Hospital Wing. It is where we is going when we is finished with The Plan.”

Ted surges to his feet. “The hospital wing?!”

“Yes, Master Teddy. Hogwarts Hospital Wing.”

“Merlin, Morgana, and Mordred!” Andromeda exclaims. “What the hell are they up to now?!”

“They is up to something very brave. I is very proud to be bonded to Miss Lucy and Master Sirius. You’s will be too if you go to Hogwarts Hospital Wing.”

With those dramatic words, Coco disappears with a soft crack. Ted, Andy, and Nymphadora all gape at where she had been standing in her pale pink uniform.

It takes them half an hour to get to Hogwarts. Andy refuses to stay behind, something ridiculous about Ted being as useless as a flobberworm in politics. He doesn’t understand what politics have to do with anything, but he’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Instead, he floos his best mate, who takes Nymphadora back to his place in Cambridge. Next, he helps Andromeda gather their healing kits and then they’re finally, finally apparating to Hogwarts. 

They arrive just outside the castle gates. Ted takes a moment to relish in the sight of his old school. Hogwarts stands just as proud and welcoming as it did nearly ten years ago, as it would for tens of years to come. The magic a steady beacon of warmth in the cold night. It puts Ted in mind of something Dumbledore once said about finding the light in dark places, which puts Ted in mind of Lucy, because she would slap him upside the head for being such a sentimental Hufflepuff. 

Ted summons his patronus, a shaggy guinea pig, and sends a quick message to Dumbledore. Some time later, they are shocked to see the Headmaster himself appear dressed in a nightshirt and heavy bath robe. 

“Has there been an attack?” He demands as he taps the the gates with his wand. They open just wide enough for the two of them to enter. A weight lifts from Ted’s shoulders as soon as they pass through the wards. If only Nymphadora were old enough to be in Hogwarts, where she would be safe nine months out of the year.

“Should there have been?!” Andy asks, her brows raised dangerously high. 

Dumbledore frowns. Despite his age, Ted and Andy struggle to keep up with his pace as they hurry across the castle grounds. Hogwarts is beautiful at night. The sky is clear, revealing a nearly full moon and sparkling stars. The worst things always happen on the most beautiful days. Mother lost her fight against cancer on a sunny spring afternoon. 

Ted sighs. “No, Professor, there wasn’t an attack. It’s a different sort of emergency. It all started with our house elf...”

Dumbledore quickly casts a privacy charm. He listens carefully as Ted explains everything that happened, beginning with his wife’s morning tea. The two men are so deep in conversation they hardly notice Andy come to an abrupt halt at the top of the grand staircase. 

“Dear?”

“The hospital wing is this way.”

“I thought we might go to my office.”

Andromeda takes one step forward, her eyes gleaming and her wand tight in her fist. Ted fights back a smile; she’s so beautiful when she gets like this. 

“If my sister is going to arrive in the hospital wing, then we are going to be in the hospital wing. I will not take no for an answer.”

“....Very well, Mrs. Tonks. Lead the way.”

The Hospital Wing is just as he remembered it. There are four bed curtains drawn throughout the long room and bright moonlight filters through the windows. The new healer, Madam Pomfrey, greets them before quickly disappearing to get some rest while she still can. Dumbledore takes the opportunity to cast silencing charms on the slumbering students and summon Professors McGonnagal and Slughorn. The heads of houses floo up quickly, both of them as orderly and put-together as they always were in class. 

After the situation is explained, Professor McGonagall sighs and sinks down into one of Dumbledore’s conjured chairs. The floral upholstery clashes terribly with her tartan robes. 

“Could they not have waited until the weekend, Albus?”

“Is this related to the incident in the library?” Slughorn asks. 

“What incident?” Ted wonders. 

Slughorn glances from Ted to Dumbledore nervously. Distantly, Ted realizes that despite being a father and a much older brother, he is very, very young compared to these men.

After several long moments, the Headmaster clears his throat. “One of my students confronted Miss Tonks in the library. I do not know what happened, but eventually the student threatened Lucy and you, her family.”

“Her family?!” Ted shouts, rising from his chair. “Family as in who? Me? Andy? Surely not Nymphadora!”

But their grave expressions reveal the truth.

“She’s just a baby,” Ted whispers in horror. 

“Don’t worry, love,” Andromeda says, reaching over to tug him back into his seat. “I’m sure Lucy is taking care of it.”

“Andromeda-“ Dumbledore begins, but Andy sneers down at him over her aristocratic nose. 

“Lucy is a grown witch. It is her right to protect her goddaughter in anyway that she sees fit.”

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about.”

Andy sniffs haughtily, a remnant of her austere upbringing. “And that’s exactly why I chose her.”

“Then you chose well, Andromeda,” Slughorn says. 

Dumbledore sighs. “Horace, do I dare ask if you know something?”

“Of course not!” He cries, not fooling even ever-oblivious Ted in the slightest. “Only of her retaliation in the library and Ms. Evans’s display in Defense class.”

“Retaliation?” Ted ask warily, just as his clever wife needles, “Evans? Lily Evans? There were witnesses?”

Slughorn bows his head in a model display of solemnity. “Yes, my girl. Lily Evans and James Potter were visiting Lucille to pass on a letter from home. A shame that she cannot entrust us to protect something so trivial as her post, but I have nearly seven hundred students to look after and Lucille has always been so-“

“What did she do?” Ted cuts in. He is all too aware of what Lucy’s months away from home are like. She returns every holiday with new scars and heavy bags under her eyes. 

Surprisingly, McGonnagal is the one to answer. “Allegedly, she took his wand, slit his wrists, and vanished his clothes. With Lily and James unwilling to say anything, however, there is naught we can do.”

“Or should do,” Andromeda snaps. “What did this Lily Evans do in her class?” 

All three professors look anywhere but each other. 

“She cast a perfect autosarcophagy curse in a duel and then challenged the perpetrator in front of the class,” Dumbledore finally reveals. 

Horror blooms in Ted’s chest. Self-cannibalism is an inconceivable concept and to curse someone to such a fate is abhorrent. Just to have the hate inside oneself to damn another living being so...

“Just what exactly did he threaten us with?!” Ted cries. 

Andy, however, is caught on something else. “Where did a muggleborn Gryffindor learn that?!”

Andy’s question brings them all up short until Ted remembers a conversation with Lucy summers ago. It was the first time he’d ever seen her exchange owls with schoolmates. She described Severus Snape as a very reserved and intelligent boy in Slytherin with a muggleborn best friend. They were apparently sharing their ideas on spell creation and magical theory over the summer. Ted almost blurts out the name, but he catches himself at the last moment. He’s been around too many Slytherins to know when to keep names to himself. He’ll tell Andy when they’re back at home. 

Their contemplations are disrupted by a sudden, deafening crack. Ted clambers up, expecting to see his sister and cousin, but is instead met with the sight of a severely injured house elf. 

Coco is covered in blood. A chunk of her ear is missing, a patch of skin has been torn out of her arm, and there are innumerable cuts and bruises besides. The warm brown shade of her skin has paled into a ghastly grey, but it is her eyes that are the worst. He’s only seen eyes like that on soldiers in his muggle history books. 

“Coco! Coco, what’s happened?!” Andy demands, crossing over to their elf. 

Ted is quick to follow. He drops to his knees and begins categorizing her wounds. A house elf’s ears have more nerve endings than a human does in their entire body. It’ll have to be the ear first. Coco pays him no attention as he begins waving his wand at her head. She stares deep into Andy’s eyes and thrusts out a metal box.

“You must take it. You must hide it-“ 

Coco’s frail voice cuts off as she wavers on her feet. She blinks her bulbous eyes several times and sets her mouth into a determined frown, but her knees give out once more. Ted lunges forward to keep her upright. 

Professor Dumbledore strives over with his wand raised, his head inclined to Ted. “May I?”

“That’s for her to decide.”

The headmaster blinks once, twice, and then his beard spreads into an inappropriately bright smile. 

“If only there were more men in the world like you, Ted Tonks,” he says as he lowers himself to one knee. Andy immediately tucks the small box into her robes. 

“Coco, will you allow me to heal you?” Dumbledore asks kindly. 

“No,” she rasps pitifully, tears beginning to streak through the blood and grime on her face. “No, Coco must return! Coco must save her masters!”

“Sirius can take care of himself, Coco. Let Prof-“

“Master Sirius has no wand!” She wails. “His wand is cracking into halves and the dead men-“

Behind them, someone gasps loudly. Dumbledore rises to his feet, his magic unfurling with his long limbs. It is both comforting and frightening. Ted would be helpless against someone like that. Even Sirius would be destroyed with half a thought. But that mighty power is emanating from Dumbledore, a man would only ever use it for good. He defeated Grindelwald. He is the only one You-Know-Who fears.

“Take me and I will save them.”

“You’s cannot. There is wards, wards against wizards-“

“Can you take another house elf?!” Andromeda demands. 

Slowly, Coco moves her head up and down in affirmation. 

“Dumbledore, please,” Andy begins, but he is already calling out for his own house elf. 

“Oddment!”

A very pale, very fuzzy house elf appears in the hospital wing. His blue eyes grow wide when he notices Coco bloodied and shaking. 

“I must ask you to do something very brave for two students of Hogwarts. They are trapped where only a house elf may come and go. Will you allow Coco to lead you and return them all here?”

Oddment puffs out his little chest in pride, but hesitates a little when Coco staggers over to clutch at his arm. 

“Miss, is you well enough-“ He squeaks out. 

“Oh, he’s done it now,” Ted murmurs to himself.

Sure enough, Coco holds her chin up high and nearly rips the poor elf’s limb off with her fierce grip. They disappear with a near violent crack. It echoes again almost instantly.

Sirius Black materializes with a sword in one hand and a half-dead witch thrown over his other shoulder. His jeans are soaked, his eyes are alight with a mad fervor, and he reeks of the heady metallic scent of dark magic. They are all frozen in shock, incapable of doing anything other than gaping at him, until another crack rings through the room. 

A young house elf winces under their combined stares before he squeaks out, “Miss Coco is being healed in the kitchens, Professors.”

He disappears with a snap of his fingers. As if on cue, Sirius launches into action. He props the sword against the nearest footboard and lowers Lucy onto the bed. Madam Pomfrey rushes over and begins casting a barrage of diagnostic charms. Ted longs to join her, but he knows better than to interrupt. He wouldn’t be able to keep a clear head with his sister looking like that. Like his mother had—

All of his despondent, panicked thoughts burn away at the sight of his cousin’s torso. 

“Fucking hell, Sirius, sit down!” Ted cries out. 

Half of his jumper is ripped off. Long claw marks trail along his left arm and a bleeding bite mark mars his chest. Like Coco, his eyes are the worst. Unlike Coco, they are not haunted. They are alive with an fervent insanity that twists at Ted’s guts. 

“Get me Regulus,” Sirius rasps. 

“Sirius, sit down! If that’s what I think it is-“

“I need Regulus.”

Dumbledore eyes the blade with a disturbed expression. Sirius doesn’t seem to notice. An ebony wand- Lucy’s wand, Ted realizes- appears in his hand. He uses it to sever the strap of that blasted bag she carries around everywhere. 

“My boy, I don’t think that’s wise,” Slughorn cautions. 

“I’m keyed into the wards,” he mutters. He sticks his arm into the bag and says, “Accio journal. Have been since the Shack.”

Ted recognizes the thick, leather-bound book that flies from the purse. She bought it back in first year and has been writing in it ever since. He’d discouraged her from buying something so expensive at the time. What could a first year need with a journal charmed to hold a thousand pages? As always, she’d defied his expectations. He wouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised to learn that she’s added her own expansions over the years. 

Sirius scowls down at whatever he reads before frantically flipping through the pages. 

“Shouldn’t one of you be going after my brother?!”

“Horace, if you would-“

“No, wait! We need you!” He digs in his front pocket until he procures a scarlet vial, then tosses is at the potions master. “She called it the Draught of Despair. Created by old Tommy-Boy himself. Nasty piece of work.”

Slughorn’s eyes widen under his bushy brows. “And she-“

“What were you-“

“Inferi and-“

“SHUT UP!” Sirius suddenly bellows. Everyone except for Madam Pomfrey edges away. “SHUT UP! Just go find Regulus and please, for the love of Merlin, shut up and let me fucking think! I can hardly keep it together as it is!”

McGonnagal clears her throat in the resounding silence. 

“I’ll go get Mr. Black. Horace, do you need anything else?”

Slughorn uncorks the vial and sniffs. When that reveals nothing, he conjures another vial and transfers the potion over. It’s unlike anything Ted has ever seen, alive with the most entrancing emerald glow.

“I think I’ll need Severus Snape,” he croaks out. 

McGonnagal strides back to the fireplace with a curt nod. The headmaster is much more doubtful. 

“Horace, is that wise? Why not Lily? Young Mr. Snape is-“

“Lucy likes him,” Ted cuts in, almost desperately. He doesn’t care who helps so long as she is healed. “She talks about him sometimes and she never talks about anyone from school.”

The other men ignore him completely. Andy, however, squeezes his hand tight. 

“I haven’t delved into what he has, Albus. I never trusted myself.” Slughorn wipes at his glistening forehead with a handkerchief. “He’s more knowledgeable than I will ever be with combining dark magics with potions, but he hasn’t quite achieved mastery over the art yet. We might be able to save her together.”

“Very well, old friend. Very well. Do what you must.”

A wooden door appears near Lucy’s bed with a wave of his wand. It is in that moment that Ted realizes just how sick Lucy is. Unbridled fear rushes over him in tidal wave. Adjacent potions labs are only necessary for the most severe cases, even at St. Mungo’s. Here, at a school, it must be three times as expensive and difficult to manage. It seems to click for Andromeda at the same time. She lets out a strangled sob and clutches his hand even tighter. 

“Sirius, what happened?” She whispers.

“That’s what I’m trying to find,” he snaps, still thumbing through the book. 

“Mr. Black, its time for me to know now,” Madam Pomfrey interrupts gently. “I’ve managed to stabilize her, but I don’t know how long it will last. We need to know how to neutralize the potions in her system.”

Sirius huffs but he never looks up from the journal as he speaks. 

“We had an idea of what the draught did. Two people sort of died from it before, or after or whatever, but we didn’t...I completely forgot about it and I don’t think-...Here it is!”

He tries to copy the page, but it only glows yellow before rapidly returning to normal. Sirius lets out a long string of curses that has the Matron scowling and Dumbledore’s beard twitching. 

“Her wand’s never liked me,” he grumbles.

“Here, use mine,” Andy says, passing it over quickly. 

This time, the page copies itself without a complaint. Sirius practically shoves it at Madam Pomfrey. Her mouth drops in shock and horror. Dumbledore glides over to make a copy for himself, skimming over it with a grim expression.

“Sirius, why did she activate this? Was someone there?”

“It was the draught. She kept saying she wanted to die. The draught made her want to die, but I forgot about that damn tooth of hers so I didn’t think anything of it. She said the password and I was so worried about getting the antidote down her throat that I forgot my wand fell. It cracked and the sword was there and there were so many of them. There were children. He killed children and turned them into those things and they were-...I-I had to do. I had to do it. There were so many.”

Distorted speech, shaking hands, blueing lips. Shock is finally beginning to set in.

Madam Pomfrey swishes her wand, bringing the next bed closer to Lucy’s. Ted waves her off. He may not be able to help Lucy, but he can manage patching Sirius up.

Ted has just shoved a calming draught down his throat when the floo turns green again. McGonnagal steps through with two more students. They are both tall and slender and dark haired yet look nothing alike. The one who must be Severus Snape has glittering black eyes that immediately lock onto Lucy’s prone figure. The other could be Andromeda’s twin. They have the same deep-set eyes, aristocratic nose, and arched brows. He can be none other than Regulus Black. 

As Ted casts his healing spells, Regulus Black floats over to their beds with an air of polite curiosity. If he is troubled or disgusted by Ted and his family, he does not let it show. His nonchalance does not waver when his eyes catch on Sirius’s bloody wounds or Lucy’s chalky complexion or Dumbledore’s warning expression. The facade only falters when his gaze catches on the sword leaning against the iron bed frame. 

Utter delight shines in his eyes. He lifts the sword in both hands, the ruby pommel winking just as mockingly as he smiles. 

“The Sword of Gryffindor has once again made its way back to Sirius,” Dumbledore explains. “It appears your brother is a very brave young man.”

“Oh, he’s more than that,” Regulus Black declares. He lifts the sword in one hand as if to charge at an enemy, and says, “Flamma.”

White and blue flames erupt along the blade. Thick shadows seem to coat the flames in a dark embrace. The scent of blood drifts strongly across the aisle, sending Madam Pomfrey’s conjured lights into a hysterical flicker. 

“Finite.”

The fire is gouged out by a silent gust of wind. The shadows, however, seem to linger along with the scent of fire and blood. Madam Pomfrey shivers across Lucy. Neither of them are familiar with such dark magic. He can’t imagine what it must have been like for Andromeda and her cousins to grow up with it, to have fought against its corruption as a child. 

“I’m surprised you remembered, big brother,” Regulus says, placing the sword back against the bed. Dumbledore immediately banishes it back to wherever it belongs.

“Ah, Severus!” Slughorn says, his heavy frame appearing around the lab door. “Come here, my boy. And bring that recipe Albus has.”

Severus Snape hesitates, his beady gaze darting from Lucy to Regulus. He doesn’t budge until Regulus nods the slightest bit. Only then does he jolt into action with surprisingly graceful movements. 

“What did you need my help with?” Regulus asks curiously. 

“Sirius needed to see you.”

Regulus turns on his heel and studies Andromeda with a blank expression. After a terrible moment, the two of them reach some silent accord. Ted lets out a breath of relief and turns his attention back to Sirius, vanishing the top layers of his clothing with a flick of his wand. Regulus eyes his brother’s wounds with an idle curiosity. 

“What is it you need from me?”

“Do you remember that time with Bella and the library?”

In response, Regulus rolls up his left sleeve. Ted’s heart stutters, half expecting him to reveal a Dark Mark. Instead, there are only thin red curse scars marring his pale skin. He smirks up at Ted in amusement, fully aware of what he had anticipated. Ted dips his head back to Sirius’s mottled flesh. 

“I kept hearing you scream,” Sirius says, oblivious to their exchange. “That magic, whatever it was, I didn’t realize how heavy the air was until I got back here.” 

“Surely that isn’t what happened to her,” Regulus says. Ted glances up in time to see his nose scrunch in distaste. “I’ll be ever so disappointed if all it took was a little ambiance to take down the legendary Lucille Tonks.”

“No. No, it wasn’t.”

“I’m assuming you want to keep the scars?” Ted interrupts. 

“Fuck yes I do. Girls dig scars.”

Everyone except Regulus rolls their eyes. He settles for arrogant disdain. 

“Must you be so plebeian?”

“Ferula iuventa.” Ted intones. Bright turquoise bandages spotted with dancing house elves wrap around most of Sirius’s arm. His face brightens a little with humor. “No point in wasting dittany then. It’ll be the chest next.”

“Ah, the enigmatic Edward Tonks,” Regulus drawls. He sprawls across Sirius’s feet, his head propped up on his fist and silver eyes alight with something Ted would rather not puzzle out. “I wondered if fate would ever bring us together.”

Ted purposefully ignores his wife’s piercing gaze as he replies, ”I’m not nearly interesting enough to be called enigmatic, but I am pleased to meet you. Sirius, don’t touch that.” He slaps Sirius’s hand away from the wound on his chest and kneels down to get a better look. “There’ll be no avoiding dittany on this one, I’m afraid. Andy, if you would.”

Ted casts the required charms, all too aware of the scrutiny as he works. 

“I disagree. Most of my esteemed peers would disagree. You were brave enough to steal the sanest Black sister out from under their noses and act like you did nothing wrong.”

“You say that like I ever had a choice in the matter. Andromeda always gets what she wants. I just happened to be lucky enough for her to want me.”

Regulus hums, his head tilted to the side in an eerie litany of Andromeda. He watches as she joins him with the dittany and helps apply it to Sirius’s chest. There is no doubt that he is analyzing every breath, every tick, every word. When they’re done, Sirius stretches out along the mattress until his little brother is forced to rearrange himself. Regulus looks just as artful as he did before. Andromeda is also blessed with the same inherent elegance. Lucy says it’s a pureblood thing, but Ted has to disagree. He’s met many a graceless pureblood in his line of work.  

“Fate is a strange mistress. Funny that we’ve met at such a fortuitous time, is it not?” Regulus ponders. 

Andromeda crosses her arms and narrows her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I expect you’ll go home to find a school owl from yours truly.”

“Why would you bother to write to us?” 

“Dear cousin, I’m wounded! Can a man not-“

“No, men like you can not and do not.”

“My, my. I see it isn’t just that you look like dear Bella. You’re just as crass as she is too. I saw her not too long ago, you know.”

Professor Dumbledore doesn't bother to mask his intrigue. He ignores McGonnagal’s silent protests and edges closer to the hospital beds. 

“What do you want, Regulus?” Andromeda snarls. “My sister is dying this very second. I do not-“

Regulus scoffs. “Don’t be dramatic. It’s uncouth. Lucy isn’t going to die just yet. Dumbledore wants too much out of her for him to let her expire so easily.”

“Mr. Black! Lucille is-“

“We’re all very aware of what Lucille is, Headmaster. Tell me, brother. Who did she take the curse for tonight?”

Sirius is quiet for so long, Ted has to check to see if he’s fallen asleep. He’s only staring up at the ceiling, his handsome face uncharacteristically grim. 

“What would you do if someone used Kreacher to test a potion- a potion so terrible it made you try and off yourself- and left him to die while he was rolling around and crying on the floor?”

Regulus stares at his brother for a long moment. Ted glances at Andromeda, hoping she has some insight to what he’s thinking, but she’s just as leery and circumspect as everyone else. 

In the end, he only says, “I suppose I didn’t have a magical sword or a buxom blonde to come to my aid.”

“She thought you were an inferi. That’s when she poisoned herself.”

“Interesting,” he murmurs, rubbing his chin. “Why would I be the metaphor for her failures?”

“Couldn’t she just like you and not want to see you to die?”

“Pah! They’ve given you too strong a calming drought. Nothing in life is ever so simple. Besides, how did she manage to poison herself in the middle of an inferi attack?”

Dumbledore is the one to answer when no one else is able to. Ted can hardly bring himself to think it, let alone give it voice. 

“Muggle spies carry suicide pills in the event of their capture by enemy forces. Lucille has modified this practice so that she only need speak a key phrase and poison leaks from a false tooth.”

“She’s quite good at that,” Regulus says, his voice frighteningly proud. “Why, you should have seen the muggle torture she’s shown us! All hypothetical, I assure you, but informative nonetheless. Ingenious, really. I’m afraid you’ll have to replace that tooth, though. She might have need it of it very soon. It’s why I sent you a letter, you see. It would be for the best if you went into hiding. I have it on good authority the Dark Lord will be recruiting her over Yuletide and he’ll come for you all when she denies him.”

“No,” Ted whispers. “No. It can’t be.”

He collapses onto Sirius’s bed, his chest constricting painfully. Ted likes to think he’s a good father, but he can’t protect them from this. Not from You-Know-Who. He won’t be able to support them. There’s a nice little nest egg in Gringotts but there will be bills to pay and food and necessities to buy and God only knows how long the war will drag on. He should have saved more. He should have prepared better.

“I’ll take care of everything, of course,” Regulus is saying. It sounds as though he’s talking from very far away. “Sirius was meant to inherit a small fortune from poor Uncle Alphie- the dragon pox is about to do him in, poor man- but a few Yaxleys for the Gringotts dragons will take care of that easily enough. I would also caution you against using Lucy as secret keeper. It’s too obvious and if you replace that tooth-“

“Regulus,” Andromeda chokes out, “please shut up.”

Over the ringing in his ears, Ted can barely hear Sirius say, “Why? Why help them? What’s in it for you?”

“They have something I want.” Ted’s head snaps up to meet Regulus’s smirk. “And us Blacks always get what we want, don’t we Andromeda?”

The ringing fades to a buzz. Colors brighten, edges sharpen. Ted hasn’t felt like this since he last came face to face with Bellatrix Lestrange. It takes a lot to rile up a badger, but they’re deadly things when the need arises. 

“OH HO HO!” Slughorn’s voice booms from the lab. The door slams open and he waddles through with a steaming goblet in his hands and a disgruntled teen at his back. “OH HO HO! We’ve figured it out! It’ll be a long two weeks before she’s up and about but she'll-“

Slughorn pulls up short at the tense atmosphere, his eyes flitting from Ted's murderous scowl to Regulus's fierce grin.

“Did we miss something?”

Chapter Text

Lucy wakes to an uncomfortable Severus Snape blinking down at a miniature version of himself. It’s too bizarre to be anything other than a dream, so she succumbs to the heavy exhaustion weighing on her limbs. 

The next time she comes around, the room is bathed in warm candlelight and the rim of a glass is at her lips. Instantly, there is Sirius’s leg warm and hard against her cheek, his hand cupped around the back of her neck, thick sludge crawling down her throat. She jolts upright. A rush of cold power explodes from her skin. A woman clad in a crisp apron braces herself the wave of magic. 

“Miss Tonks! Lucille, it's only me, Madame Pomfrey.” Slowly, though not fearfully, she returns to hover at Lucy’s side. “It's been five days since Sirius Black brought you to Hogwarts. You’ll be glad to hear that both he and your house elf are perfectly well, but if you wish to join them anytime soon, you’ll have to drink this potion.”

Lucy suddenly realizes the goblet in her hands is steaming. Only the most effective potions have such visceral qualities and Madam Pomfrey is a sworn healer. They have their own strict set of magical vows to abide by. Lucy nods, relaxing so that it is easier to swallow. The steaming goblet tastes like grass and vomit. The next potion seems to swirl down her throat. The last could be water if didn’t prickle her tongue so terribly.

“I do so love Slytherins,” Someone says as her eyes droop closed. “You always make the easiest patients.”

Lucy spends the next two days in and out of consciousness. On the third morning, Madam Pomfrey makes her walk around the room. It goes well enough for Lucy ti be permitted a hot shower. Bathing is slow going and nauseating, but it works better than any magic could. They return to find Severus Snape waiting in the bedside chair. Madam Pomfrey helps her back into bed and leaves with a curt warning about noise and exhaustion levels.  

Lucy and Severus do nothing except stare at one another for several moments, his beady black eyes cutting into Lucy's skin as he surveys her pallid cheeks and cracked lips.

"Congratulations," he finally says. "You're not dead."  

"All thanks to you, according to Madam Pomfrey." 

He casts an absentminded muffliato. 

"The Dark Lord would have been most displeased." 

"Still, thank you. Really." 

As he relaxes back into his seat, she thinks back on their earlier years. Neither of them were very affectionate or verbose, but they were the outcasts, the sort of strange people that Regulus or Voldemort would eventually collect. They would never truly find a home at Hogwarts, so they tried to find some semblance of amity in each other. It helped that Severus, even at thirteen, was more clever than most grown adults. He drifted from her when he joined the Death Eaters of course, ever eager to please and belong. She never begrudged him that. She knows who he really is. 

"When you commissioned that poison, I did not realize you intended to use it on yourself,” he says. 

Lucy summons a glass of water and sips it as she chooses which direction to steer the conversation. 

"Would you have made it for me if you knew?" 

"No. There are gentler poisons." 

"But they don't have antidotes." 

"No, they do not. Did you brew the antivenin yourself?" 

"Yes." 

His bland expression finally drops into a scowl. "Why?! Using the same specimen when brewing inverses makes for a much more effective result! I know you know this!"

"It would have made you too curious and if you were going to brew either, I'd rather it be the more important one." 

Severus sighs and reaches into his robes. A delicate gold chain with a pale crystal pendant dangles from his spidery hand. "Here, you foolish witch. I replaced the fake molar and the poison. This is the antidote, made from the same frog. Be more careful with your life. I can't save it every time you run into a dementor." 

Lucy meets his eyes, a slow smile pulling at her lips. So that’s the story they’re going with then. This has Andromeda written all over it.

"Nasty little buggers, those dementors,” she says. 

"Yes, well, I didn't just stop by to give you the means to try and kill yourself again. Brown's brother tipped her off this morning. Aurors are on their way to question you and Regulus is-"

"Dear God, no. Please, no. I can't deal with him dealing with them right now."

"I was going to say he's unavailable," he says, lips twitching as he looks down at his watch. "We've got ten minutes. I can step outside if you want to get dressed." 

Lucy sighs heavily. There truly is no rest for the wicked. 

"No, but would you mind transfiguring a mirror?" 

He vanishes three empty potion vials from a metal tray before tapping it with his wand. It smooths out into a mirror that he levitates so that it hovers just in front of her face. Lucy blanches at her reflection. Her eyes are sunken and ringed with purple bags, her lips are cracked and tinted blue, and her wet hair hangs limp around her shoulders. 

"I look like an inferi." 

"Use it."

Lucy beams up at him. There are times when she is genuinely saddened that she is not around more of her housemates. No one can understand a Slytherin like a Slytherin. No one else has the instinct to twist the smallest things to one's advantage. No one else can understand the visceral pleasure of a successful manipulation. 

She begins with a purposefully half-assed drying charm that leaves her hair frizzy and lank. Next, she pulls her hospital gown down over one shoulder, exposing the graceful curve of her neck and her sharp collarbone. To finish it off, she charms the dreadful garment the most unflattering shade of pale yellow that washes out her already pallid complexion. Severus watches it all with fond amusement. 

“How do I...” she trails off at the sudden voices. 

“Lie back,” Snape hisses, already reverting the mirror back into a tray. 

At least three men and one woman. Heavy boots scuffing against the stone. Aurors, then. She can’t decide if that’s better or worse. On one hand, she might get lucky with a bunch of James Potters. On the other, she might be interrogated by a bunch of Mad-Eye Moodys. 

“This is an infirmary!” Madame Pomfrey cries. “My patient is very unwell! As her careg-“

“This can’t wait, Matron,” the woman says, frighteningly close. 

Severus scrambles to cancel the eavesdropping charm. 

“It very well can!” 

Madam Pomfrey’s protests are all for naught. The bed curtain flies back violently. Lucy takes several beats to pretend to acclimate to the bright sunlight, imagining  them as large silhouettes slowly turning into red-robed people. At the foot of her bed, there is a grey haired witch, a tall black wizard, a man with a mop of blonde curls, and none other than Alastor Moody, mad eye and all. 

Lucy bites back a curse. She is so fucked. 

“Merlin’s beard,” the witch breathes. She pushes her glasses up her thin nose. “You look like an inferi.”

Lucy stares back coldly. 

“Auror Norah Byrne,” the witch says with inappropriate cheer. “This is-“

“Kingsley Shacklebolt, Michael Brown, and Alastor Moody,” Lucy finishes. “What do you want.”

Moody stomps forward to glower at her with both eyes. He still has all of his nose and both legs, but he’s already scarred to the high heavens and has the damn eye. He won’t have the patience to deal with an obstinate teenage witch. She might be able to bait him into storming off or more likely, giving her a few scars of her own.  

“We’re here to question you about the night of November eighteenth,” he snarls.

“Shouldn’t a professor be present?” She asks, gaze darting from auror to auror. 

“You’re of age,” Moody tells her without an ounce of sympathy. 

“Well can’t it wait until I’m feeling better? Today is the first day I-“

“I’m afraid not, Miss Tonks,” Byrne cuts in with a kind smile. 

”Why are there so many of you?” She demands. “Surely I don’t merit four aurors.”

Moody grumbles something under his breath, but Kingsley Shacklebolt steps forward. He’s very tall, broad shouldered, and has a deep voice that adds to his allure. 

“How versed are you in Ministry politics?” He asks. 

“Well enough to know there’s about to be an election in the middle of a civil war. Which one are you here for?”

The aurors-  bar Moody, who keeps scowling at the two students suspiciously- share a silent conversation. Michael Brown is the one who answers. He’s recognizable from some of the photos Violet has shared and their unmistakeable blond curls. Like Lucy, Violet was half raised by her older brother. After their father died of a bad case of wizard flu, Michael took her in just as she was starting Hogwarts. He was a Gryffindor, like most Browns, but never judged his sister for her sorting. 

Brown shakes Lucy’s hand with a firm, warm grip. 

“Hello, Lucy. It’s so nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard all about you from Violet.”

Before she can reply, he leans over her lap to offer his hand to Severus. Severus is hesitant to return the unexpected gesture, but plays along as expected. 

“And you, Severus Snape. Vi talks about you often as well.”

“I doubt that.” 

Moody makes an odd sort of snort-scoff sound. 

“No, really!” Brown protests excitedly. “She says she’s never met a mind as sharp as yours. Says you’re the brightest wizard of your age.”

“That title is usually reserved for Lucy.”

“Ah, but Lucille’s skills are not as holistic as your own, Mr. Snape.”

Everyone, even Moody, startles at Dumbledore’s sudden presence. The headmaster stands behind their esteemed guests, radiating pride in his chicanery and ridiculous robes. Today he’s chosen to dress in black silk with pinstripes that flash every color imaginable and some that aren’t. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small piece of candy. 

“Strawberry Bon-Bon, anyone?” He asks. 

“What?” 

“Pardon?”

“What are you going on about now, Albus?”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“ALBUS!” Moody roars. He whirls on the headmaster, his eye spinning madly in its socket. “I’ve better things to do with my day and I won’t let you hold me up with any of your rubbish!”

Dumbledore pulls himself up to his impressive height and presses his lips into a firm line. “Forgive me, old friend, if I do not consider a ministry interrogation of one of my students rubbish.”

“It’s only standard protocol, Professor,” Kingsley Shacklebolt assuages. 

“Under which minister, I wonder?”

Comprehension dawns on Lucy. “Ah, I see now. Two of you are here for Minister Minchum and the other pair is here for his opponent. Based on Auror Moody’s...forwardness, I can deduce that he supports Bagnold, which leaves Miss Byrne in favor of the current minister.”

“‘In favor’ is strong choice of words,” Byrne says drily. 

Moody grunts. 

“So now you’re both scurrying around, trying to score a win before the other party, and I’m the latest lead you’ve got to go on,” Lucy surmises.

“Very clever, Miss Tonks,” Dumbledore applauds. “Five points to Slytherin.”

“Well, I hate to break it you, but I don’t have anything to tell you. There were dementors, they made me sad, and I tried to kill myself. There’s really nothing else for me to say.”

“Mr. Black exhibited signs of an inferi attack,” Shacklebolt points out. 

Severus snorts. “And I’m sure he boasted of charging into them with a flaming Sword of Gryffindor,” he drawls. 

Moody and Byrne both shrug, to Brown’s bewilderment. Neither of them are spring chickens; they’ve probably encountered far more fantastical things during their tenure. 

“I’d like to focus on what happened with the dementors if that’s alright with you,” Byrne suggests. Her cheerful demeanor softens into a motherly mien. It’s masterfully done: relaxed shoulders, close-lipped smile, crinkled eyes. “It’s awfully rare for dementors to affect someone to such an extent.”

“No, they just suck out-“

Moody stomps closer and crosses his arms. His electric blue eye catches on the new necklace under her hospital gown as he shoves his weathered face in front of her pale one. 

“Cut the shit,” he growls. “You poisoned yourself with an illegal potion brewed with a rare frog from South America that you shouldn’t be able to afford. How the bloody hell did you have it on your person?”

Lucy narrows her eyes. “They’re going to kill me slow and I’d rather die quickly.”

“Then why carry the antidote?”

“In case my escape plans work.”

Moody straightens abruptly with his arms still crossed. 

“Escape plans?”

“I have escape plans for my escape plans.”

“Seems awfully paranoid.”

“Constant vigilance,” she coos. 

The magical eye whirls to a stop, pinning her into the bed. 

“Merlin’s beard,” Brown whispers in awe. “There’s two of them.”

“You never answered the question. I asked how, now why.”

Lucy scrunches her nose. “Does that really matter?”

“Yes,” he says bluntly. “We’re not going to get anything useful out of you and I don’t want this to be a wasted trip.”

“Alastor,” Byrne groans. 

“It’s the truth. I reckon Black killed whoever really attacked them that night and they’re covering it up.” He spits on the floor. “Good riddance.”

Lucy, for whatever reason, is affronted that Sirius is the killer in this scenario. She’s not stupid enough to let it show, however. Slytherins are opportunists and Lucy is supposedly the most Slytherin of them all. She fixes Moody with a black glower. It isn’t difficult to feed into the lie. If Sirius really had killed someone, she would most certainly have covered it up. There are three pages in her journal dedicated to eradicating bodies. 

“Jesus Christ, Alastor,” Auror Byrne sighs. “You can’t spit in a hospital wing. It’s unsanitary.”

The scolding sets off a quarrel amongst the aurors. Lucy settles back into her pillows with weariness. She really does feel like shit and a cacophony of petty insults isn’t helping matters. Severus shoots her a dark look that says, ‘You owe me more for suffering through this than for saving your life’. 

“Any good reading, Miss Tonks?” Dumbledore inquires amicably. 

Lucy nods at the nightstand to her left. She’d looked them over last night while waiting for her sleeping draught to kick in. 

“Severus brought me the academic journals, mostly potions. I think Lupin or Evans told Sirius to give me that book on runes. Those fashion magazines are definitely from Violet and I think those novels are too. Or they might be from Regulus. It seems like something he would do.”

Severus furrows his brows as he reads the glimmering text on the spines. His face contorts into a deeper horror with each title he reads. 

“The Amorous Acromantula. Liaison with a Lethifold. Naked with a Nundu?!”

Lucy’s heart soars with affection. She’s missed reveling in his scandalized terror. Her favorite instance was the time she tried to incorporate a beauty charm into his curse during fourth year. She was quite pleased with the results but he had cursed her with a cursing curse that lasted three days. 

“Oh!” Dumbledore exclaims. “I’ve read most of this series. There was one about a Horned Serpent that reminded me of a time in Paris with-“

They are rescued by none other then Kingsley Shacklebolt, who is shaping up to be man of many merits. He leans in just as Moody’s yells triple in volume. 

“She’ll be storming off any second, Professor,” he murmurs, sparing Lucy and Severus a wink.

Dumbledore nods almost imperceptibly. How the old bat wasn’t sorted into Slytherin is beyond her sometimes. His talent for deception and manipulation is remarkable. It’s no wonder Voldemort fears and despises him in equal terror. He is a shade of what Tom Riddle could have become. Powerful, intelligent, ambitious. Voldemort’s madness and lust for violence prevented his ascension as the next Merlin. He could have been beyond great.

Sure enough, Auror Byrne loses her temper moments later. She turns on her heel and leaves in a swirl of red robes. Michael Brown lingers long enough to shake their hands again and give them heartfelt goodbyes. As soon as he disappears around the corner, Madam Pomfrey pops up out of nowhere. 

“Out!” She orders, herding the men through the curtains. “Everyone out! You too, Mr. Snape. Lucille needs rest, not conversation. You may visit her later tonight.”

Lucy strikes before her friend can obey. She catches his wrist in a tight grip, imploring him to meet her eyes. When the gentle probes of Legilimency brush at her mind, she brings the crippling gratitude to the foreground of her mindscape. He may be here on behalf of Regulus, and perhaps the Dark Lord, but she is infinitely grateful for his companionship nonetheless. 

Severus has never been one for sentiment, yet when he jerks his arm away his fingers brush against the tips of her own. It’s enough for Lucy. She falls asleep daydreaming of the two of them old and grey and sharing snarky comments over a hot cup of tea.

Lucy wakes to Ted nicking a box of Bertie’s Beans from her pile of gifted sweets. She doesn’t realize she’s crying until her shoulders begin to shake and he turns around to clutch her to his chest. He rocks with her, brushing her hair back and whispering nonsense. It all comes flooding out: Dumbledore’s mercurialness, her reunion with Severus, Violet’s unexpected assistance, Sirius in the cave, Coco, the draught, the horcruxes. 

Dying. 

She never allows herself to think about her death. It’s too tempting. After the initial horrible, maddening pain, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. No light, no dark, no fear, no happiness. There was only the sweet bliss of nothing. 

It would be so easy to give it all all up, to say goodbye and slip back into that nirvana. 

The thought brings about another violent sob. 

“There, there, Lu. There, there. Let it all out.”

When she’s finally cried herself sick, Ted wipes her tears off with an embroidered handkerchief. She tugs it from his hand, marveling at the silk vines charmed to twine around his initials in perpetuity. 

“Your wife is so posh,” she accuses.  

“She’s pretty enough to make up for it.”

Lucy snorts, then curses as it sends her into a coughing fit. 

“Nice.”

“Shut up,” she snaps, reaching up wipe the dirty handkerchief on his face. He curses and shoves her out of his lap so he can retreat back to his chair. 

“Where is Andy, anyway?”

Ted scowls as he wipes at his cheek. “She thought she’d give us some bonding time.”

“Lame. I was hoping she’d bring by some of her minestrone.”

“You’ve got a castle full of house elves to make you all the soup you could need.”

“Yeah but it’s not the same.”

Ted huffs and collapses back into the cushioned seat. He eyes her critically, evidently going into healer mode. Lucy is well acquainted with this version of her brother. He slips into it every time he picks her up from the Express. 

“You’re looking better.”

“I feel better, physically. It’s just....”

“Just what?”

“I’m just so tired,” she sighs, slamming back against the raised bed and staring at the tall, arched ceiling. It’s been seven years and she’s still not used to living in a castle.

“Tell me something. Maybe I can help you think it out.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“Even the aurors? Everyone knows they came here.”

“No, but...” She turns to face her brother again. Really, they could be mistaken for twins if it weren’t for the age difference. “Dumbledore was behind it all.”

Ted manages to fight back an exasperated sigh and she loves him all the more for it.

“How do you figure that?” He asks. 

“It happened right in front of us. Ask Severus if you don’t believe me. Shacklebolt didn’t even bother to hide it. Dumbledore put him and Moody up to manipulating the others into leaving me alone.”

Ted frowns, his thick blond brows furrowing together. “What’s so bad about that?”

“Dumbledore hates me! He said it himself not a month ago!”

“Well....you’re still his student and he takes his role as headmaster very seriously. There are plenty of people I don’t like that I’ve had to treat, but it’s the right thing to do so I take a deep breath and carry on. I imagine it’s something similar with him.”

Lucy chews on her lip. It might be true, but she doubts he would have defended Tom Riddle from anyone and the two of them have always been synonymous in Dumbledore’s eyes. 

“I think he said something about choosing between what is right and what is easy once,” she allows. 

They are quiet for some time. Lucy turns her thoughts over like a tarot reading, each one revealed in concordance with the last. Secrets and revelations are etched into the face of each card, holding a thousand answers and none. 

“There’s Violet, too,” she muses. “Why would her brother tip her off? Why would she tell Regulus?”

“Maybe she just likes you,” Ted asks, an unreadable tenor to his voice. 

“Don’t be daft,” she scoffs. “The world doesn’t work like that. Life is never so simple.”

Ted makes an odd sort of laughing noise. She looks at him questioningly, but he ignores her. She makes a mental note to ask Andy about it later. 

“Well, I’m always hearing about how opportunist Slytherins are. Accept the kindness and face the consequences when they come. One thing at a time, Lucy. One thing at a time. But Lucy?”

“Hmm?”

“Why would Regulus help you? Don’t you think he might want something in return eventually?”

Lucy hesitates before admitting ,“With most people, yes.”

“But not with you?”

They’ve never brought up what he assumes she is. He can pretend his baby sister is safe and happy as long as the words are never spoken aloud. She’s let him have that small ignorance. It’s not as if she’s really a seer, after all.

“He knows what I am,” she tells him. 

Ted stiffens. His cheeks pale above his honey-colored stubble and his bright blue eyes go wide. 

“You told him?” He whispers hoarsely. “You told Regulus Black?”

“Sirius let it slip, not me. Regulus and Dumbledore were in the room when something happened and Sirius threw a fit like he always does.”

“Christ, Lucy.”

“It wasn’t my fault! And he took an unbreakable vow, so he can’t tell anyone.”

“It’s bad enough that he knows it!”

“Why are you-...” Lucy tilts her head to the side. “Did you meet him?”

“Sirius wanted to see him that night. I think he needed to see that he was safe.”

She nods almost absentmindedly. She might have done the same in Sirius’s situation. “What did you think of him?”

“I hate the little shit.”

Lucy’s lips twitch but she presses them together in a firm line. He catches her mirth anyway and scowls. It fades into exhaustion quick enough. 

“He’s a pompous, cocky, handsome little shit, but I owe him.”

“Why?”

“Well, that Snape boy didn’t so much as move a muscle to help you until Regulus nodded at him. And then he warned us about something.”

“About what?” 

Ted meets her curious gaze with sad eyes. “He’s coming for you, Luce.”

Lucy thought her heart might stop or her stomach might flip inside out. She thought she would be terrified or enraged, but she doesn’t feel any of that. Instead, it’s almost a relief to have it over and done with, a relief to know her family will soon be safe.

“We’re going under the Fidelus. We were going to tell you together, but...”

“It’s okay,” Lucy says. 

Ted nods miserably. “Andy’s found a flat for you in London. She and Coco are working on the furnishings. We figured you’d want to add your own protections so they’ve just got the basics on it now.”

It’s not worth mentioning that she already has hideouts in London and Glasgow. Besides, anything Andy picks out will be exponentially more welcoming than a safe house. 

“But really, Lucy, watch yourself around Regulus. I don’t like him one bit. The things he said. Can you believe he threatened to feed that Yaxley boy to a Gringotts dragon?”

Lucy’s brain comes to a screeching halt. She turns to her brother like a wolf on a scent. 

“What do you mean?” She demands. 

“I dunno. Said something about giving the goblins dragon food in return for a favor.”

“Was he serious?”

“I dunno. I couldn’t tell with him.”

“Did Andy think he was serious?”

“Well we didn’t talk about it, did we? We’ve been too busy worrying over you and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

If Regulus has that sort of clout with Gringotts, he could be instrumental in retrieving Hufflepuff’s Cup. Truthfully, even if he doesn’t, he’s closer to the Lestranges than Lucy has any hope of ever being. He’d only need to pocket a couple strands of hair. Blood would be better really, but that’s asking too much. Well. In most cases it would be. The Lestranges are so insane they probably spill each other’s blood on a daily basis. 

“Luce, I don’t that face.”

Lucy flashes a blinding smile that makes his lip curl. 

“I don’t like that one either, but I suppose I’d better look at it while I can.”

She reaches over to hold his hand, squeezing it tight. 

“Will I even get to see you for the holidays?” She wonders. 

“Not Nymph,” he says apologetically, “but Andy and I will be at the Longbottom’s Yule Party on the twenty-fourth. We’ll be safe enough with Dumbledore in attendance.”

“Eugh. Will you really make me spend Christmas with a bunch of Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors?”

“Better than with the Malfoy’s, I suspect. Their party is only a couple of days before.”

Lucy’s hand falls from his. She raises herself up and peers at her brother intently. “They’re having a party? At their manor?”

“Yes. Lucy...I really, really don’t like that face.”

Lucy doesn’t pay him a bit of attention. She summons her leather bag  and extracts her journal, flipping through to the section she needs. Ted takes one look at it and pales. ‘Malfoy Manor’ is scrawled at the top in a messy feminine hand. 

“You best leave, big brother. The less you know, the better.”

Ted opens his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it. He kisses his sister on the crown of her head, making sure not to look at the diary in her lap. She hardly notices him leave. 

Occasionally, Lucy finds herself wondering if she’s being a little too paranoid. There’s constant vigilance and then there’s renting a flat in the worst part of Manchester, warding it to the high heavens, only ever leaving in it disguise, and confunding every person and animal that makes eye contact. Normal people don’t go to such lengths. Sirius would have just used his own place and damn the consequences. Inversely, Mad-Eye Moody would probably take even more precautions than Lucy has, but she can’t think of what they might have been. Dumbledore and Regulus wouldn’t have to worry about it. Grimmauld Place is almost impenetrable to anyone that isn’t a Black and Dumbledore is Dumbledore. Lucy isn’t either of those things, so she has to work with what she has: paranoia and cunning. 

Gawain Yaxley, the poor fool, isn’t nearly paranoid enough. He’s never had reason to be. There are very few spells that require more than a couple of drops of blood and Lucy still has three vials of his. She also has his fingernail trimmings, his hair, his saliva, and his tears. A bit overboard maybe, but she likes to be prepared. Besides, it’s always better to experiment with old magic on someone inconsequential. 

She keeps track of him with blood, a map, and a house elf. The Yaxley estate appears to be just north of Exeter. Lucy figures he must have been somewhat punished for the chaos he caused in November, because he never leaves his ancestral home except for Diagon Alley. Coco reports that he takes lessons at an apothecary on Wednesday mornings and visits a posh gentlemen’s club on Friday evenings. The Malfoy’s party is on Saturday the twenty-second so Lucy strikes that Friday night. She waits until he stumbles out of the wizarding parlor, casts her very first imperio, and side-alongs him directly into the shabby living room.   

From there it’s quick work. Still under the Inperius, Yaxley calls for his house elf in the hall. He gives a message to pass on to his parents and demands that his dress robes are brought to him. As soon as they’re delivered, he comes inside and drinks a foul potion that has him crumbling to the peeling linoleum floor in a tangled heap.

Lucy wrinkles her nose and glances at Coco. “I kinda want to leave him there.”

“He’s a be escaping easily this way, Miss Lucy.”

“I know. He just looks so uncomfortable.”

“I’s can make him the same in the circle.”

Lucy sighs. “No, best to get it over with.”

She and Coco work together to levitate him into the tiny bedroom. In lieu of a bed, there’s the same old intricate ritual circle she used in the Slytherin common room. This time it’s on the floor and she charms him to stay on his back. It’s unlikely he did any research into escaping it, but she can’t take any chances. This is too important. 

Lucy showers after- the Imperio left her feeling grimy- and downs a light sleeping potion. There’s no way she could sleep without it and she needs her wits about her. Sirius can’t help her with this one. She’s going into enemy territory alone. 

Gawain Yaxley arrives at Malfoy Manor at six o’clock sharp. His brown hair is carefully combed behind his ears and his embroidered robes are immaculately pressed, but his shoulders are slumped and his green eyes flick around the crowded grounds nervously. He was never the most confident of wizards. Here in the presence of Death Eaters and ministry officials, he knows better than to draw attention to himself after his disastrous semester. His uncle seems to agree. Corban Yaxley grips his nephew by the bicep and shoves him up the gravel walkway. 

“I’ll kill you myself if you embarrass this family tonight,” he hisses. “You seem to forget that my own children are just as capable as carrying on the family line as you.”

Lucy makes herself gulp. It isn’t difficult; she’s terrified. So many things could go wrong. As clever as she is, it’s difficult to stay in character. The walk alone is torture. It’s tricky to walk like she has a broom shoved up her ass while trying to acclimate to new organs dangling between her legs. That’s to say nothing of her long limbs and flat chest. 

“Yes, Uncle,” she intones. 

“This never would have happened if your father had put your mother in her place and sent you to Durmstrang with your cousins.”

”Now, now, Yaxley,” a smooth voice drawls. 

They turn to see Lucius Malfoy striding towards them. His silver robes manage to complement both his looks and the glittering Yule decorations perfectly. Unbidden pleasure takes over Lucy. It would have been glorious to rile him up in his own home looking like that. He’s always despised her so vehemently. 

“It is essential to uphold tradition,” Malfoy says, “and despite its recent decline, Hogwarts is a British tradition. We must be patient. It will only a matter of time before we are returned to our former glory.”

Lucy and Yaxley bow their heads in greeting. No matter how far back they can trace their ancestry, no matter how many muggles they maim and torture, a Yaxley will never be equal to a Malfoy. It would take generations of diligence and prudence to accrue that sort of wealth. 

“A wise sentiment, Lucius,” Yaxley allows. 

Lucius cuts his grey eyes over Lucy’s tall, slender frame. “Yes. Wisdom. Something your family could do with more of.”

He leaves in a swish of glimmering robes. She watches him stalk off with hidden admiration. No one can do pompous sass quite like Lucius Malfoy. He does the most pretentious things and somehow still remains the most threatening man in the room.

“Get out of my sight,” Yaxley mutters. 

Lucy tears her gaze away from their host’s retreating frame to find her new uncle baring his teeth. She stares at him for a moment, wondering if she should be afraid or if Gawain would be too proud to admit it. She settles on turning on her heel and stomping up the marble stairs into Malfoy Manor. 

Light and music and laughter assault her senses as she crosses the threshold. Hundreds of witches and wizards are mingling in ostentatious robes and gowns, the bright golden light reflecting off their colorful attire. Lucy allows herself a moment of pure delight as she winds through the packed rooms. There are hairstyles that defy gravity, dresses that change color, and decorations that give Yuletide greetings. It’s all so magical. She’s grown so accustomed to combat spells and explosive runes that simple things like dancing tinsel and caroling mistletoe have her captivated. 

“Narcissa has outdone herself this year.”

Khadijah Shafiq appears at Lucy’s side dressed in a golden hijab and a flowing gown with tight beaded sleeves. She slips her right arm around Lucy’s left and peers up through her thick eyelashes. 

“Be my first dance?” She coos. 

Lucy carefully disentangles herself with as much grace as she can muster, trying to ignore the foul taste on her tongue. If she were Shafiq, she’d be begging her father for a marriage contract with one of his Egyptian business partners far away from the war. Instead, she seems content to stay in England and marry a sycophantic terrorist. At least Bellatrix has the gall to join her husband in his sick predilections. 

“Uncle Corban’s forbidden me from partaking in any sort of pleasure, I’m afraid,” Lucy grimaces. 

Shafiq’s round lips pull into a pout. “Is this about the mudbloods?”

“It’s more about getting caught.”

“Very well,” she sighs, “just don’t give my kisses away to other witches, Gawain.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Lucy says with complete sincerity. 

The next hour passes excruciatingly slow. Pretending to be Yaxley is difficult. The devil is in the details and the only thing she truly knows about Gawain Yaxley is that he’s a moronic prick. She strolls around with a glass of wine, offering polite salutations to anyone she thinks he might consider worth acknowledging. As the hour drags on, it becomes more and more difficult to stay in character. The bigotry is even more pronounced when the elite are amongst themselves. There are no condescending grins or haughty sniffs when she speaks. None of the bastards are sincere of course, but they aren’t disdainful or disgusted by her presence. 

Eventually, there is a call for the dancing to begin. As the bulk of the crowd drifts to the ballroom, Lucy slips further down a brightly lit hall. She can’t help but admire the architecture and design. It’s a tasteful amalgamation of French influence and British tradition. Distantly, she wonders if their family magic is similar. The Blacks were the first wizarding family in London, founded by a Roman wizard and a female druid. It’s why their magic is so dark. They call on the old forgotten things that were used before wands and latin were brought by the Romans. 

Lucy casts her thoughts aside with a shake of her head. This is not the time to ruminate on magical theory and history. 

The Malfoy library is massive. Pale wooden bookshelves fill a room slightly larger than the Great Hall of Hogwarts. Tables and sofas and glass cases are littered throughout. A quick spell reveals that it is empty other than the cluster of old men drinking near the entrance. Lucy nods in greeting before she disappears into the stacks. 

She goes deeper and deeper, striding through the aisles until magic begins to brush at her skin. Books dance on their shelves and whisper secrets into her ear. Further on, the whispers turn to hisses, the gentle touches turn into passionate caresses. The shelves become darker and more worn, chips and scratches and burns contrasting with the polished wood. 

Finally, she reaches the outermost corner of the room. Dark magic dances in the air, calling on her fear, her anger, her loneliness, her greed. Lucy hones in on the last one. That is what the Diadem used to lure her in. After that calamity, she made sure to immediately place the horcruxes in the boxes. It isn’t a longing for wealth or power that calls to her. It’s knowledge, something that Voldemort has an abundance of. He has explored the world and unearthed magics that Lucy could never dream of existing. He could teach her everything she could ever need to keep her family safe. He taught Bellatrix. Who’s to say he wouldn’t take Lucy under his wing? He would never hold her birth against her, he tried to recruit Lily after all. He would only hone her mind into-...

“Right,” Lucy snaps. “That’s enough of that, thank you.”

She steps around the heavy oak desk and pulls a small black book off the shelf. It takes a moment to retrieve the replica from her expanded pocket, but she manages to place it just as a familiar voice drawls, “Blonde suits you better.”

Her first thought is that he looks infuriatingly handsome. Regulus is dressed in deep indigo robes that bring out the blue in his eyes. Unlike the others, the only accessory he’s bothered with is the massive sapphire ring he always wears on his left hand. His dark hair falls in waves to chin, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and his full lips. 

Lucy forces herself to stop ogling and turns her back to him, hastily rummaging around for the runed box in her trouser pocket. 

“Fuck off, Black,” she snarls in Yaxley’s haughty tones. 

But Regulus is already standing beside her, leaning against the bookcase as if nothing is amiss. She halts in her ministrations to glare at him. It’s disconcerting to not have to bend her neck to manage it. 

”I much prefer it when you call me Regulus. You’re the only one with the balls to do it. Pun intended.”

Lucy scrunches up her face in a very not-Gawain way. There’s no point in denying it, not with him. He's just as obstinate as she is. 

“Was that necessary?” She asks. 

“Yes,” he says, unrepentant. His gaze sweeps over her borrowed body. “How is it changing genders?”

She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Strange. I didn’t realize how much power I have over men until now. I mean, I knew but I didn’t know.” 

“Merlin save the fool you test that out on.”

She searches for a sign of sarcasm or mockery, but she can only make out amusement and sincerity in his features. His emotions have always been nearly impossible to discern. They are limited to a quirk of a brow, the twitch of a lip, the twist of a ring. Sirius is the complete opposite. He is ruled by his emotions and doesn’t bother to hide them.  

Lucy narrows her eyes and turns to rest her shoulder against the shelf. “And what if I tested it out on you?”

“You won’t.”

“How can you be so sure?”

He leans in, his breath ghosting against her lips. “Because you aren’t ready for me.”

Lucy opens her mouth to respond, but her own breath is stolen from her lungs. Power crests through the stacks, slamming into her with the force of a tidal wave. It is the most glorious thing she has ever felt. It is the wind on a winter’s night, sharp and cold and unrelenting and wild. 

“Shit,” Regulus hisses, the color rapidly fading from his cheeks. “Shit!”

Lucy shoves the diary deep in his robe pocket just as several people round the corner. The three old men from earlier congregate on one side. Lucius Malfoy, Severus Snape, and a woman who can only be Bellatrix Lestrange mirror them on the right. In the center, Corban Yaxley stands beside the most attractive man Lucy has ever laid eyes on. It isn’t just his thick hair or square jaw. It’s the intelligent gleam in his eyes and the magic billowing around him.

Voldemort waves his wand to vanish the furniture, his scarlet gaze never leaving Lucy. She slams the shields of her mind down with a force strong enough for her ears to ring. They move almost as one, crossing the space to study one another. This close, she can feel his cold magic prickling in the air. She wants nothing more than to vomit. Her stomach is in a perpetual state of nausea, but this is like seeing the basilisk again. The sheer vastness of his power is almost too much for her to comprehend.  

The infamous yew wand raises and she flinches despite the slow, unthreatening speed. A spell wraps itself around her shoulders, poking and prodding for a way in, but it recedes before it finds purchase. His plush lips pull back in a savage grin. 

“You do not disappoint, Lucille Tonks.”

“Nor do you, Lord Voldemort.”

He turns his attention to Regulus, who is still lingering beside the shelf. She realizes, with a start, that they almost look similar. Both of them are dressed in plain, dark clothes and a single ring. They’re the sort of men that do not need ornamentation to catch attention. Yet despite Regulus's easy confidence and proud stature, he bows easily. Unashamedly. 

“It is an honor to meet you once more, my lord,” he says. 

“And you, Regulus,” Voldemort returns. He glances between them curiously. “You were not surprised to learn of Miss Tonk’s identity.”

“I was not, my lord. I knew it wasn’t Yaxley as soon as she stepped into the Manor.”

“How?!” Corban Yaxley bites out. His graying hair has escaped its velvet ribbon and his neck is red with fury. 

Regulus tries to shoot Lucy a taunting smirk but it comes across as a cringe in his anxious state. 

“Gawain Yaxley‘s wouldn’t be ogling the beading on Shafiq’s gown, if you catch my meaning," he explains.

“It’s a nice gown,” she says. 

One of the older men chuckles. She chances a peek to find them amused and more intrigued than any of their ilk should ever be by a muggleborn. Lucy shifts away from them the slightest bit. The Dark Lord, of course, does not miss the exchange. In fact, he seems delighted by it. 

“Can you guess who these men are, Lucille Tonks?”

"I'm assuming they're your OG Death Eaters, my lord." Everyone turns to stare at her in bewilderment. She curses herself for her stupidity. Even if that term exists in this decade, its probably only in America. "Muggle saying. Means 'original gangster'."

Bellatrix starts screeching something ridiculous, but Voldemort raises his hand to silence her. 

"Is that how you perceive us, Lucille Tonks?" He asks. 

"Uh, no. Definitely not. I only meant- it's an anaphora of sorts. And it can actually be meant as a sign of respect."  

An elderly wizard with dead eyes and gold embroidery on his robes steps forward. 

"And do you mean it as a sign of respect?" 

Lucy furrows her brows in confusion. She glances from him to Voldemort to Severus to Regulus and back again. They’re only here because she respects and fears the Dark Lord. He would have just killed her outright if he didn't think he could manipulate her into joining his ranks.

"I thought that would be obvious," she says slowly. "I'm a Slytherin. We respect power above all things, no matter what form it takes."

Voldemort chuckles. The warm sound runs a shiver down her spine, makes her breath come even shorter. 

Softly, he says, "They do not understand you as I do, Lucy. No one can. No one will ever know the insatiable desire pulsating through your veins as I do." 

He turns to his followers in a swish of black silk and loudly pronounces, "Lucille has not used something as common as polyjuice or transfiguration. No, my friends. She has used the same forbidden magic that your lord has used this night." 

Lucy glances at the ring on his hand, a thick silver band inset with uncut rubies. Her own is much more modest, but then she only expected to use it for a few hours. If she'd wanted to slip into Yaxley for years to come, she would need more than runes and silver to anchor his blood. 

"Show them, Lucille," the Dark Lord commands.

The ring is off before he finishes speaking. Her body immediately shrinks and widens until she is swimming in her tailored suit and polished oxfords. The waistband of her trousers tightens with a flick of Yaxley's wand, but she hastily replaces his with her own. She breathes out a sigh of relief when the ebony wood thrums against her palm. Though conquered into coercion, Yaxley’s was never content to do her bidding. At least it hasn’t been unicorn. Everything would have been fucked if it had been. 

Lucy quickly vanishes her outer robe and then shrinks her pants and shoes. There's nothing to be done for the loose vest and billowing shirt, but she'll at least be able to run away without falling on her face. 

"Your ring," Voldemort commands. 

She banishes it in his direction to avoid direct contact. He smirks knowingly down at her. He's tall. Taller even than Severus, who surpasses six feet by an inch or two.

"A blood glamour," he explains, holding the ring close to his crimson eyes. "Expertly done. Flawlessss." 

"My lord," Yaxley inquires hesitantly. Voldemort waves him on impatiently, his attention still caught on the ring. The painful pressure in her chest loosens the slightest bit. 

Dearest Uncle Corban rounds on Lucy with barely constrained rage. He seethes at her for several beats before he manages to bite out, “Does my nephew live." 

"For now," she answers, relieved to have escaped the Dark Lord’s scrutiny. It doesn’t hurt to breathe as much. She’ll have a panic attack before the night’s out. "I figure he has another day or so in the circle." 

"What circle?" The old wizard asks. 

"The Sanguis Vinculum." 

Bellatrix Lestrange finally loses control. Her haughty features contort into a furious scowl that betrays the madness brimming under her porcelain skin. She looks so much like Andromeda it hurts, but Lucy can't afford to think of that now. She shoves it down, down, down until the twisting in her gut disappears into an unnatural calm. 

 "And where did a filthy little mudblood learn of such sacred-“ 

"Bellatrix," Voldemort snaps. The act of a benevolent lord is abandoned for that of his true facade. An almost hysterical fury pulsates from him, causing even his oldest followers to cower in on themselves. ”The girl has more brains than you could ever hope to and more drive than any of the rest of you will ever be capable of. You have all grown complacent in your prosperity. Girl!”

Lucy’s heart lurches painfully. “Yes, my lord?” She squeaks out. 

The wand raises again and Lucy knows, deep in her bones, what is about to happen. She has prepared for this since she was eight years old, when her new sister-in-law agreed to teach her. 

“Legilimens!” 

Lucy’s knees buckle from the force of his strike. He is a snake on the hunt, scales writhing through the forest after his prey. 

Yaxley‘s prone body surrounded by a sinister arrangement of circles and runes in the dingy bedroom; blood rushing to her head as she meticulously draws shapes onto the common room ceiling; blue flames licking at Yaxley’s long bare feet, his screams echoing off the dungeon walls; Regulus casting a lazy cruciatus; Regulus inviting her back to the common room, Dumbledore's rapt with attention between them. 

An alien fit of anger clouds Lucy's mind. She breathes it in, settles it into her bones, letting it steer him away from everything else that happened that night. 

Dumbledore saying, "You’ve spent your years at my school studying the same old magics that Tom was partial to. Quite frankly, the only reason I haven’t intervened thus far is because you do not hold enough brute power to become a Lady in your own right."; Lucy dismantling the wards around the Headmaster's office and sneering at his disapproving expression as she crosses the threshold; Dumbledore's eyes darkening as the Hat tells her to go be great and terrible. 

Green light illuminating the Common Room; flobberworms exploding in a ritual circle; skin sliding off of a squeaking rat’s body under an orange spell; Severus grinning triumphantly as their poison bubbles the blood of a pine marten. 

Awe as Severus disarms her in two jabs of his wand; amused affection as he shoves her away from a bubbling cauldron; fondness as he snorts at Regulus’s dramatic tirade; love- pure, unadulterated, fierce love- as his face contorts into horror over Violet’s book. 

The Dark Lord rips himself out of her mind with an almighty lurch. Lucy comes to on sore knees. The soft light blinds her vision and Bellatrix’s mad cackling grates on her ears. She blinks several times to orient herself to the stinging rawness of the world. Voldemort stares down at her with a mixture of antipathy and calculation as she rubs her eyes. 

"That...love you feel...” he muses. "You would join me if I swore no harm would come to those you love." 

"Probably," she admits, pushing herself to her feet. The best lies stem from the truth, after all.

He tilts his head to the side as if she were an interesting test rat. Just as she's sure he's going to call her out or perhaps kill her outright, he says, "Retrieve Gawain Yaxley." 

Most of Lucy's plans hinge on how laughably undervalued house elves are. Coco can't just drop him in the middle of Malfoy Manor. She definitely isn’t about to send Voldemort and his cronies into the middle of Manchester. Especially that part. It’s a rough area with hardened people that have been battling their whole lives to just survive. It would start a war the likes of which has never been seen. 

"Malfoy will have to make a portkey," she finally says.

After a short nod from the Dark Lord, Malfoy scrambles around until another older wizard produces a crumbled quill. Lucy doesn't dare call for Coco until it glows blue. When the house elf arrives, her little body is a taut as her starched pink uniform, but she meets Lucy's gaze with a brutal focus. 

“Coco, I need you to please smear the left triangles on the circle we made and place the portkey in Yaxley’s hand. Can you do that?”

“Yes, Miss Lucy,” she agrees, her ears flopping as she nods. 

“Thank you.”

The others gape at her with disgust and horror. Only the OG Death Eater and Voldemort seem interested. Regulus, of course, has always appreciated house elves and settles for smugness. 

“You let it help with a circle?!” Malfoy cries aghast. 

“She’s magic isn’t she?” Lucy asks.

“Will it be a wand next?” The third wizard drawls. 

“Of course not. They don’t want wands; that’d be much too boring. Now, a goblin, that would be interesting.”

Even Voldemort glances at her strangely. More worryingly, Regulus looks contemplative. Lucy is reminded of his crass consideration to offer a Yaxley up as dragon dinner. She hastens to bury the thought deep down before they catch anyone’s attention. Only Severus- and perhaps Regulus- are capable of fooling the Dark Lord. 

A loud crack echoes and Gawain Yaxley appears midair. He falls to the floor with a thud. Thankfully, the room is too occupied with him to notice Coco’s bout of sass. The defeated boy, and Merlin does he look like such a young boy, breaks into relieved sobs at the sight of his uncle. Guilt pricks at Lucy. She doesn’t want to be like these people. She doesn’t want to be cruel and cold and-

Regulus stomps on the top of her foot, his eyes glacial when she peers up at him.

Get yourself together, he seems to say. 

“You are a disgrace.”

Lucy jumps, ridiculously assuming that the insult was directed to her. Instead, Corban Yaxley is looming over his pitiful nephew. One corner of his lips are pulled back in derision and a red flush is creeping up his neck  

“You humiliate us with your asininity and impotence.”

“Please,” Gawain wheezes. “Sev, please.”

Severus is unmoved. He merely continues to watch with his customary apathy. 

Gawain contorts his body painfully to beseech Regulus. “Black. Black, don’t let him. Please. I don’t- I’m only sevent-“

“Avada kedavra!” Yaxley cries.  

The library glows green and Gawain Yaxley slumps to the carpet with unseeing eyes. Something cracks underneath the thick walls of her Occlumency shields. A shallow fissure bisecting a cliff, loud and vulgar as it cleaves up and up to the snowy precipice, a prelude to the disastrous avalanche to come. 

Voldemort’s face splits into a wide grin, a smile made all the worse by Bellatrix’s insane cackling. He spins on his heel to turn his unholy joy onto Lucy. 

“You will join us, Lucille, and you will be worth ten of what he would have been.”

“Th-that’s a big decision to make.”

“Of course,” he preens, sidling closer. Lucy uses every bit of strength she has to remain still. “It is a momentous decision to make. You will come to learn that Lord Voldemort is charitable. I will allow you to finish your year at Hogwarts.”

“Thank you, my lord. That is indeed very gracious.”

“Indeed. Until then, however, a demonstration of what awaits you should you refuse my invitation. Crucio.”

Lucy’s world dissolves into pain. It begins in her chest and storms out to the ends of her hair. Her body arches into the torment, rolling with it as crests. 

Don’t scream, she thinks. Don’t scream, don’t scream don’t scream don’t scream. 

“Good. Very good, Lucille. Crucio!”

If the first was a storm, this is a blizzard. It cuts through her bones, searing through her blood until her joints are exploding and her skull is ringing and everything is gone. There is only her and her body and the agony. She screams. It unfurls from her lungs, tearing through her throat, and yet the pain still comes. It comes and comes and comes until her throat is raw and her arms are twitching and darkness swallows her up. 

Finally, she thinks, and she assumes it’s her last thought in the world until she wakes up in a new world with a new body and a new name. 

It is not to be. Fate is never so kind. She wakes up in a soft bed with James Potter’s face a hands-breath above her own. 

Chapter Text

Potter shrieks.

Lucy shrieks. 

He jerks back as if he’d been slapped. She jolts upright, pulls out her wand, and begins to shout out the first curse that comes to mind, but her incantation is disrupted by a spell. Her ebony wand flies into James Potter’s hand with a soft thwack. Most people, Lucy included, underestimate Potter. Everything about Sirius is intimidating: his name, his looks, his demeanor. Potter, on the other hand, struts around the castle with a goofy smile and shouts love poetry at Evans across the library. Nothing about him seems dangerous until you catch him dueling furiously with Severus or witness him transfigure one of his mates into a parrot with a lazy wave of his wand. 

“It’s almost eight in the morning on Sunday, December twenty-third,” an aged voice says. Potter points his wand to the ground in a show of peace. ”You are in a guest room at Potter Hall.”

A tall, slender man with wild white hair appears next to her bed wearing a bathrobe and a lopsided grin. The room is small and the furniture is old and worn, but it has the same warm aura as Ted's house. 

“H-how did I get here?” She rasps. Her throat is raw. Every word she speaks cuts and burns from her tongue to her lungs. 

“Regulus Black appeared at the gate just before midnight carrying you in his arms.”

James Potter stands beside his father with the most sincere expression he’s probably ever worn. The two of them look almost eerily alike, except for Mr. Potter’s aged features and blue eyes. They’re the same icy shade of blue as Narcissa's. It really is worrying how inbred they all are.

“I’ve never seen...I thought you were dead,” Potter says. 

Lucy nods dejectedly. That's been happening too often lately. She lies back against the chestnut headboard, surprised to see that the bed has a canopy. She hadn’t noticed the flowing blue curtains in her panicked state. 

Mr. Potter clears his throat. "Sirius is out with a female friend and I understand that your family just went into hiding, so I thought it best if I treat you here. Potions can replace just about any healing charm if you’re good enough at them."

“Thank you,” Lucy murmurs. 

The small part of her that doesn’t feel like she’s just been run over by the Hogwarts Express is impressed. He must be very good indeed to possess the ability to substitute healing magic with potions. Granted, her case wasn’t very complicated. No enchanted corpses or evil elixirs this time, just plain and simple torture. 

Lucy takes a deep breath to bolster herself against the pain of speaking as much as she’s about to. 

“If you’ll just give me a list of the potions, I’ll summon my house elf to take me home.”

“Nonsense!” Mr. Potter cries. “You’ll stay here until you’re better.”

Lucy sighs. Blasted bleeding heart Gryffindors. “Really, Mr. Potter-“

“Fleamont,” he interrupts. 

“Fleamont, then,” she huffs. “I’ve got-“

“Don’t be rude, girl,” a woman cuts in. 

An elderly witch with a long nose and a sleek, silver bob appears in the doorway. Past her, Lucy can just make out cozy cream walls and an antiquated map of India. There is a pile of fabric tossed over her right arm and a pale wand in her left hand. Lucy’s heart races at the sight of it. She can smell the old parchment in the library, feel the dark magic scratching her arms, see Voldemort standing above her, handsome and proud with his own pale wand raised, neon red light gathering-

“Lucy!”

James Potter lunges forward to squeeze her arm. She cringes back against the mattress, suddenly desperate for one of Regulus’s vicious stinging hexes. Potter cringes too, but doesn’t move away. He plops down on the downy bed and stares at her with his mouth half open. 

“Merlin, Tonks! What the hell happened to you?!” 

“The Dark Lord,” She chokes out, struggling to raise her Occlumency shields. 

Shielding the mind is a convoluted process. Andromeda began teaching Lucy Occlumency before Hogwarts. The lessons mainly centered around erecting shields and fighting against invaders. Forcing an unskilled witch or wizard out is simple enough. Lying will suffice for those of slightly more talent. There isn't much protection against the likes of Severus, Dumbledore, or Voldemort, so the most one can do is to try to manipulate them and pray to god it works. Life is not so simple, however, and people are even more complex. In the realm of mind arts, there are those more dangerous than the likes of James Potter and weaker than Severus Snape and Tom Riddle. For those threats, a more intricate response is required: a prison.

The prison also doubles as a visual aid in creating shields. Lucy constructed hers to resemble the Room of Requirement. More competent occlumens have mindscapes that aren't limited to such mundane concepts as rooms, but she's nonetheless proud of her creation. It is a labyrinth of rubbish and treasure, tempting the wanderer with memories linked to the sapphire tiaras and worn books that they encounter within. Compartmentalizing is as easy slamming pesky emotions or thoughts into a wardrobe somewhere along the maze. It isn’t the healthiest way to go about life, but concessions are allowed when saving the world. 

“He isn’t after me,” Lucy explains calmly. “Last night was a parting gift. A prelude to what I can expect after Hogwarts, one might say.”

“Bloody hell,” Fleamont whispers. 

“Like I said, if you just give me-“

“And like I said,” Mrs. Potter snaps, “you shouldn’t be rude.”

Lucy is suddenly reminded of the time she asked Sirius if he took divination. ‘Mrs. Potter wouldn’t let us,’ he’d said. Now that she’s met the woman, Lucy can believe it. Euphemia Potter isn’t a witch to cross. 

"You'll shower and you'll sit down and eat breakfast with us," she orders, "and then Sirius will take you home and watch over you. If he doesn't arrive before you lose your patience, I'll send my son with you until he does." 

"Mum-"

"Mrs. P-"

The witch's eyes flash dangerously. "It's either that or contacting your head of house, Ms. Tonks."

Lucy sighs. She has a feeling she'll be doing a lot of that today. "I’ll settle for Potter." 

Potter grimaces, but gives her a commiserating nod. No one talks to Slughorn unless they need something. Besides, he would probably bring Dumbledore and she is not capable of holding him at bay in her current state. 

"Good. Then James will help you around. These are some old muggle clothes of Sirius's. I'll place them in the guest bath for you." 

Lucy nods. "Thank you. Really, thank you."

"This is war," Fleamont shrugs. "Those of us on the same side have to look out for one another."

"Come along, darling. Best leave them to it," His wife orders. 

Fleamont takes her arm and leads her out of the room with a jaunty wink. He returns almost immediately, waving his wand at a tray of potions. A blue vial zooms from atop the heavy dresser to Lucy's lap. 

"For your throat, dear."

He disappears in a flash of white hair. Lucy doesn't hesitate to guzzle the potion down greedily. It tastes like cool peppermint and leaves her throat tingling. 

"You ready?" Potter asks. 

"I guess." 

Lucy curses Sirius to the deepest pit of hell with every slow step she takes. Its mortifying to rely on James fucking Potter to simply go down the hall. To make things worse, the fool forgets that he has her wand when she demands it back. After she emerges from a difficult shower, he helps her down a narrow spiral staircase and into a sunny kitchen. Potter Hall is large ancestral seat, maybe four of Ted's two-story cottage, but it’s no Malfoy Manor. The decor and furniture is welcoming and worn, obviously collected over several generations, and the portraits are as jovial as the ones lining Hogwart’s walls.

"We may be purebloods but we didn't come into wealth until my father," James explains as he helps her into a seat. The kitchen table is round with mismatched chairs and threadbare cushions. Across the room, Lucy can see the very top of a house elf's head bob over the countertops as he cleans up his mess. "Since its just us, we never really saw the point of buying some chateau in the countryside." 

"I like it loads better than Malfoy Manor," she assures him, "though they did have the most magnificent library." 

"Is that where you were attacked?" Fleamont asks.

"Oh, I wouldn't call it an attack," She says breezily. "It wasn't really unexpected." 

"What do you mean?" Potter asks as he shovels heaps of eggs onto his plate.

"Well, I was technically burglarizing, so I suppose I should count myself lucky that the Dark Lord was the one who caught me. Narcissa and I have never had the most amicable relationship." 

The table goes silent. Lucy glances up to find all three of the Potters gaping again. Before anyone can question her further, the massive brick hearth on the left wall flares green. The house elf cheerily trots over and sticks his head in the flames. When he emerges a moment later, the happy grin is gone from his face. 

"Regulus Black is asking to visit, sirs," he squeaks.

The three Potters share a silent conversation. Potter seems to be vehemently against the idea, while his parents keep casting pointed looks at Lucy, who has just recalled her panicked actions from the night before. Regulus was not the target of Voldemort’s attention and had stolen the locket in other timeline, so in her desperation she had shoved the diary into his robe pocket. 

Regulus Black is in possession of a horcrux.

“I can talk to him outside, but I've got to talk to him. Like, now." 

Mrs. Potter looks her over with lips pressed into a thin line. "Very well. Pokey, let him through." 

Regulus arrives dressed in the same indigo robes from the night before. His hair is almost worse than either Potter's and there is a manic gleam to his gray eyes. Lucy swallows thickly. Surely he hasn't had time to write in it. It can't have affected him already, can it? He's got a will as strong as anyone. It would take more than a few hours to get its claws in a mind like that. Wouldn't it?

“I see my brother still isn't here,” he says in a smooth voice. 

“He's out with a friend, I’m afraid,” Fleamont says, rising to shake his hand. “We’ve just sat down to eat if you’d like to join us.”

The two wizards release the other's grip quickly. Lucy curses under her breath. They were supposed to go outside for this, not suffer through an hour of breakfast and awkward small talk. 

“Thank you, Fleamont. I’m afraid I’ll have to take you up on your offer. It’s imperative that I speak with Sirius and it may take him hours yet to stumble out of whatever cesspit he’ll find himself in when he wakes. Your owl hasn't returned from Cokeworth, has it?"

James Potter and Lucy both tense as he passes behind them to take the seat on her right. She glances surreptitiously at his robes, but of course she can't see anything. It is nothing more than a foolish, telling endeavor.  

“Still with Lily, I’m afraid,” Fleamont answers. 

“There are other means of communication,” Regulus drawls.

Mrs. Potter’s thin lips pull back in a snarl. “Is that your way of asking us to produce a patronus, Black? You're hardly seventeen and already so deep into-“

Lucy’s Occlumency shields shatter. Her emotions crash through like a river flooding a cardboard dam. The lingering fear from the manor, the guilt from Yaxley’s death, relying on a family she’s never met, being suffocated in a house that reminds her so much of the home that she'll probably never see again; it’s all too much. It has nowhere to go, no concrete form to take. It morphs into a restless ball of fury that pricks at her bones, eager to be unleashed.

“You’ll have to forgive us if witnessing a classmate’s murder does nothing to encourage happy thoughts,” she hisses.

The tense air turns frigid at her words. 

"Murdered?!" Potter cries. "Who was murdered?!"

“It was only one Yaxley killing another,” Regulus explains as he loads up his plate. “Quite crass, really.”

“Crass?!" Lucy chokes out. "You call that crass?!”

Regulus turns in his chair, his lips pulled down in a frown. They don’t have the same mesmerizing angles that his brother’s do, but they’re no less full.

“Don’t tell me you’re feeling sorry for him?” 

“He was only a boy!” 

His disbelieving expression contorts into shocked horror. “You feel guilty, don’t you?!”

“Of course I do! I was him!”

Regulus turns back to his breakfast. He’s quite for several movements. When he does speak, his movements never stutter, nor does his voice change from it’s politely bored inflection.

“That boy would have raped you half to death while you watched the rest of your family be torn apart limb by limb. If Corban Yaxley hadn’t killed him last night, I would ritually murdered him under a new moon. Gawain Yaxley ensured that he would not reach his eighteenth birthday when he threatened Andromeda’s daughter.”

Silence reigns, unbroken except for the scrape of Regulus's fork against his plate. He pauses once he notices the reaction to his words and rolls his eyes. 

"That’s awfully specific of you, mate,” Potter says with a nervous laugh. 

“I’ve recently come across a jasper crystal that’s begging to be filled.”

Any other day, Lucy might have been been insatiably curious about his plans for such a crystal. Crystals are powerful components of wards, rituals, and runic circles. Gifted enchanters can turn them into amulets, both protective and sinister. Regulus Black isn’t an altruist. Any purpose he has for such a crystal is bound to be interesting. As it is, Lucy can’t bring herself to care either way. All she can think about is the diary....

“It’s here,” she breathes. 

“Where is it?” She demands. “Where-“

Regulus reaches into his robes and tosses a ruined black book onto the kitchen table. The edges are singed and curled in on themselves and the pages have smoldered to half their size. Lucy stares. She stares and stares, trying her best to ignore the buzzing in her ear. So much planning. Years and years of planning and hard work and it’s gone. 

“I almost died,” she whispers, her forgotten rage rearing it’s head to to strike. “I was tortured nearly to death for this and you destroyed it?”

He rounds on her incredulously. “Do you know-“

“OF COURSE I FUCKING KNOW!” She explodes. Her chair clatters to the ground as she stands to glare down at him. “DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT WAS LIKE TO FACE HIM KNOWING WHAT ALL I’VE STOLEN? TO HAVE HIM IN MY MIND? TO HAVE HIS MAGIC CLAWING AND CUTTING AT ME FROM THE INSIDE? AND YOU JUST STROLL IN HERE, PRETTY AS YOU PLEASE, AND JUST THROW IT ON THE TABLE, ALREADY DESTROYED?! YOU’RE A SPOILED, SELFISH, FOUL LITTLE-“

A door slams against the wall and Sirius Black barges into the kitchen with a smile as bright as the sun framing his tall figure. 

“Gooooood morn...what the fuck.”

His wide eyes dart from every face gathered at the table, his gaze lingering on his brother the longest. He’s just as disheveled as Lucy and Regulus, though in a way that speaks of a pleasant evening rather than one of torture and espionage.

“Yeah, I’ll just-“

Lucy hands curve into claws. “Sirius Black, if you walk out that door I won’t bother to intervene when they come for you.”

Sirius scoffs. “As if Death Eaters-“

“I’m not talking about Death Eaters,” she snarls. 

He furrows his brows as he thinks something through. After a moment, his mouth drops open as he comes to some horrific realization. He begins to say something, but then glances around the table again and thinks better of it. 

“I hate to be so rude Mr. and Mrs. Potter, but we will have to commandeer your kitchen for the next hour or so,” Regulus cuts in smoothly  

“I see you don’t hate it enough to ask,” Mrs. Potter snaps. 

“Oh, he does,” Lucy assures her. “Such social gaffes are below a wizard of his station. It’s why he finds Corban Yaxley’s actions so crass.”

“What’s Yaxley got to do with anything?” Sirius asks. 

“Murdered Gawain,” Regulus explains. 

Sirius furrows his brow, then shrugs elegantly. “Good on him.”

Lucy buries her head in her hands. She presses her heels hard enough into her eyes for white fireworks to burst across her vision. She tries to focus on them, to center herself around their soft explosions, to forget the dead green eyes peering at her spot beside Regulus, Bellatrix’s insane cackling and the smell of old leather and dark magic-

“Lucille.”

Hands press on her shoulders, guide her to twist to the right, then wrap around her wrists and gently tug until her hands pull away. Regulus leans in with an unreadable expression. 

“This isn’t you,” he murmurs. 

Lucy tries to jerk free from his grip, but he holds tight, going so far as to pull her closer. She glances around nervously. The kitchen is empty except for the two of them. Even Sirius has disappeared with the Potters. 

“What’s bothering you?”

Her attention flicks back to Regulus. His gray eyes flit across her face while his thumbs rub circles into her wrists. The bright winter sun casts a halo of blue tint to his hair, the same way Sirius’s changes under the sunlight. Some ancestor of theirs had to do something awful to ensure their line would remain beautiful. There’s no way it’s a natural occurrence for literally every family member to be so attractive. 

“Do you think one of your ancestors did something to make you all so pretty?” She asks. “Some kind of ritual or whatever and it worked, but it made you all crazy too?”

Regulus huffs in amusement. “No.”

Lucy hesitates. He said it too definitively. Like he knows why they’re all half mad. It’s really none of her business, it doesn’t really matter in the long run, but she’s always been too curious for her own good. 

“No?” She hedges. 

“One of our ancestors was a bit overenthusiastic in his research.” He releases her hands and lounges back in his seat. She’s surprised by the sudden cold. “He went too far. Summoned someone he shouldn’t have.”

“Who was it?”

”He only meant to summon something relatively harmless, but someone very powerful noticed the bridge and decided to traverse across.”

Lucy wrinkles her nose. “Surely you’re not talking about demons?”

“You don’t believe?” he asks challengingly. “Not even in other dimensions?”

“Of course not. I-“

I died. I know. 

Regulus’s gaze sharpens. She looks out the window, watching one garden gnome shove another off the hedge. Death was not a torturous inferno or a golden city. There were no angels or demons. There was nothing, a soothing darkness, until she woke up in a new world. A magical, fantastical world she read in a book. Who is she to deny that there are other worlds out there? Worlds in different books, holy books, or not in any kinds of books at all? She shivers as she contemplates just what sort of hellish world she could have been dropped into. 

“Anyway,” Regulus continues, granting her a rare instance of mercy, “his journal has been preserved and shared with every Black throughout the centuries, cautioning us against the darkest of magics.”

Both of them look at the ruined diary. 

“Sirius never told me that.”

“Yes, well, Sirius can’t work out if he’s ashamed of his heritage, can he?”

“He’s just scared.” She picks up the diary and begins flipping through the pages. Some of them crinkle and others crumble to ash between her fingers. “He’s afraid of crossing a line.”

Regulus hums thoughtfully. She tries and spectacularly fails to ignore his gaze burning into her skin. 

“And when did you adopt that fear? You’ve never been shied away from the worst parts of yourself.”

Lucy chews on her lip anxiously. “I wasn’t always like this. I wouldn’t have hurt a fly before I was sorted into Slytherin. And now I’m..." She lets out a sharp exhale, forcing the smell of burning flesh in the common room away. "Where is the line, Regulus? At what point do I become one of them?”

“Do you plan to murder a child anytime soon?”

“No-“

“What about committing genocide?”

“No,” she huffs, “but-“

“Stop doubting yourself. You’re better than this. If it were anyone else you would tell them to stop being such a sentimental fool." 

Her protest dies on her tongue. He's right, of course. If it were Sirius or Potter she would tell them to grow up and face reality. Hesitating in war only results in death. There is no time to stop and debate ethics. Lucy sighs and leans back in her chair, staring at her apple as if it holds the answers to the universe. 

"I don't know what's wrong with me," she mutters bitterly. 

"You faced the Dark Lord. You're allowed a moment of asininity."

"Wow, thanks. You're so benevolent, Regulus." 

He shoots her a blinding smile. "Anything for you, love."

Lucy scoffs and crosses her arms, doing her best to fight against the fluttering sensation in her chest. 

"How did you destroy it anyway?" she grumbles.

Regulus grins his wolffish grin, the one she's beginning to realize as his true one, and raises his wand.

"Fiendfyre," he whispers.

Lucy barely has enough time to scamper to her feet before a tiny white and orange wolf tears its claws into her half-eaten toast. With another flick of his wand, a small flaming dragon flies to eviscerate her apple. The two creatures rip and bite and shred the food until there is nothing but ashes and a blackened core of fruit.

"Endefyre."

The fiendfyre vanishes without a trace, only the scent of burnt food lingering the air. Lucy goggles down at Regulus, her eyes almost painfully wide. He smirks back. Summoning the cursed flames is simple enough. Controlling them, canceling them, is nearly impossible. She never had the courage to try. For all of her occlumency, she is under an unbelievable amount of stress that is always begging to be released. Regulus, though...

Regulus must always be in control. He must always be fighting against something inside of himself if he can accomplish that. It isn't about power of skill. It's about discipline. Restraint. 

"Your Occlumency shields must be a work of art," she mutters. 

He raises a brow. "I can show you if you'd like." 

"What." 

"I can show you," he repeats with a smirk. 

"Why? Isn’t that a bit, I dunno, personal?"

"Why not? I took care of that for you,” he says, grimacing at the horcrux. “There’s no reason we can’t be a little more, I dunno, personal.”

Lucy’s brows raise to the top of her head. “There is so much to unpack in that statement, but I think the most important part is that you are under the impression that there’s only one of those.”

In the years that she’s known Regulus, he’s always been perfectly composed. Always graceful and stoic. Never angry shouting or belly-aching laughs or shocked gasps. Regulus is always nonchalant, a smirk or a sneer always waiting below the surface. Now, however, he is deathly pale. His mouth is half gaping, half twisted in disgust and horror. 

“We’re down to the last one,” she says. “I’ve got the other three hidden. If he doesn’t know that you’ve burnt that one to a crisp, I might as well go pick them up when I get a chance.”

She lowers herself back down, wincing at the pain in every joint from her hips to her toes. 

Regulus licks his lips anxiously. “This is what you and Siri have been up to. This is why you went after the basilisk.”

“Yep,” she affirms, popping the p.

“Fuck.”

“Fuck,” she agrees. “I was trying to figure out how to ask your for help on the last one, but you’ve gone and made it easy for me, thank god.”

He frowns deeply. “What do you need me for? Sirius was taught everything I was and that sword proves that he isn’t above using it.”

“You can say no,” she tells him. 

Regulus draws himself up with an almost comical expression of affront on his handsome features.

“I wasn’t saying no. What do you take me for? I’m a Black.”

“It’s just dangerous, is all I’m saying. And this one might be the worst.”

“Worse?” He cries incredulously. “Worse than inferi? Worse than the Dark Lord himself?”

“Yes. It’s in Gringotts, you see. In the Lestrange vault.” At his tense shoulders, she hurries to explain, “I can go to Dumbledore. I need to go to him soon anyway now that Vol...“

Her voice wavers when his lips pull back into a dangerous smile that puts a mad glint in his eyes.

“I don’t like that face,” she tells him. 

Regulus stands abruptly, straightening his robes and pocketing an orange. “Tell me love, will your brother be attending the Longbottom’s party tomorrow?”

“Er. Yeah, but what’s that got to do with all of this? What are you planning?”

Regulus bends down to press his lips to the crown of her head, nearly startling her out of her seat. By the time she’s come out of her shocked state, he’s already tossing powder into the fire. 

“Give Sirius my love, won’t you?”

“Regulus!” She calls, rising to her feet, but he’s already swirling away in green fire. 

The kitchen door opens and Sirius stalks through with his wand not-so-casually pointed at the floor. 

“Where’d he go? What happened?”

Lucy stares at the fireplace, her thoughts whirling faster than the flames had. 

 “I have no idea.”

Chapter Text

Lucy Tonks prides herself on being a pragmatist. Lying to oneself only creates more work down the road and Lucy’s already got enough work to do as it is. In that way, part of being a pragmatist is being a realist. She embraced her strengths and flaws and twisted them to her advantage. It wasn’t just her ambition that got her sorted into Slythern. She may be intelligent, ruthless, and loving, but she is also selfish and violent and prideful. So very prideful. 

When Ted told her that they would be going to the Longbottom’s party, she immediately consulted Violet. She figured that if she had to spend hours with a bunch of elite Gryffindors, she was going to look damn good suffering through it. Violet, with her dreams of conquering the wizarding runways of Paris and Milan, nearly convulsed with excitement at the prospect. 

She outdid herself. The sleek gold gown shifts to green and black with the light. Because of the bold fabric, the cut of the gown is simple: thin straps and almost too tight to walk in. Lucy might have complained if it weren’t for the lack of corset. Some of the sketches involved painful combinations of ribbons, boning, and sticking charms. She’d put her foot down on that and the lack of wand holster. No way was she going out in a middle of the war without her bloody wand. Not after last time. 

In the shadow of the mansion, Lucy checks her wand- Violet made a matching holster comprised of a thousand gold straps- and smooths down her hair one last time. She can only hope that this party goes better than the last one. 

Walking into Longbottom Hall is like stepping onto the set of a period drama. She half expects Keira Knightley or Colin Firth to come around the corner in a full get-up. Even the ceiling is magnificent: a gold trimmed monstrosity complete with a wizarding fresco. Unlike Malfoy Manor, however, the gold detailing of the ceiling, chandeliers, and picture frames are used to enhance the paneled walls and contrast the black and white flooring. It’s all very British. No boastful hints of French ancestry will be found in Augusta Longbottom’s home. It’s certainly much louder too. Even the orchestra is playing a ribald tune instead of a polite holiday carol. 

Yet for all their differences, it is a wartime social gathering. An underlying sense of anxiousness haunts the joyful atmosphere. The witches and wizards have come dressed to the nines, eager to showcase their wealth and power to the Ministry. She recognizes a few from her rounds as Yaxley. 

Lucy accepts a glass of elf wine and begins to make her way through the crowd. A sparkling sequin hat has caught her attention. It takes nearly three minutes and two good stinging hexes, but she eventually slips through the sea of partygoers to the furthest wall. There, under a forest landscape nearly as large as her little dormitory, Albus Dumbledore stands in a near blinding set of holiday robes. He senses her presence almost immediately and beckons for her to join him. 

Lucy sips on her wine and makes a show of eyeing Dumbledore’s outfit. “I do so hope Voldemort decides to attack. I would give nothing more than to see you fight to death in that sequin monstrosity.”

Most of the audience takes that as their cue to mingle elsewhere. Only Mad-Eye Moody remains, clad in plain black robes. His hair, at least, might have been brushed for once. 

"I met him, you know," she drawls, moving to stand beside the wizards. "Voldemort."

Moody's blue eye snaps to her face. Dumbledore tenses, but he never drops his jovial expression. "Where?" He asks quietly. "When?" 

"The Malfoy library, two nights ago."

Dumbledore relaxes the slightest bit. "And what did you think?"

"He made me feel like I was being baptized in magic."

Moody snorts. "And how long did that last until he started torturing you?"

"An hour. A year. It felt like ages and no time at all. I’ve never been more terrified."

“I assume he recruited you,” Dumbledore says.

Lucy takes a long drink of wine. A cold voice echoes in her ears.

“Lord Voldemort is charitable,” she quotes, downing her drink. It refills itself automatically. “You could weaponize this, you know. Most poisons negate refilling charms, but perhaps if you only used a little bit at a time or even a non-magical poison. It would be perfect for something that needs to be delivered in small doses to disguise the taste.”

Moody produces a flask from a hidden pocket and gives her a sarcastic toast. “And that’s why I only drink from this.”

“Which works splendidly until someone impersonates you via Polyjuice and no one questions Mad-Eye Moody drinking out of his own flask all day.”

Moody stares. Dumbledore sighs almost imperceptibly. “Please do not encourage him, Miss Tonks.”

“Constant vigilance,” she counters. 

They lapse into a comfortable silence. Eventually, an old man with twinkling stars for cuff links ventures over to greet the headmaster. It opens a floodgate. Lucy stands beside Dumbledore as he shakes hands and gives odd compliments. Almost every person seems lighter as they step back into the crowd. Whatever else he is, Dumbledore is a manipulator. It isn’t necessarily a bad thing. He takes their worried thoughts and shifts them to fond memories or teases them with his bottomless well of knowledge. Lucy can’t help wondering what it would be like to stand beside Voldemort at his most charming. 

Eventually, Ted and Andy push their way through. They’ve always made a striking couple; Ted all round edges and warm colors and Andy with her sharp angles and stormy eyes. They are exceptionally stunning tonight in matching green robes. Lucy relishes in the sight of them for a heartbeat before her heart explodes. She shoves her wineglass at Dumbledore and barrels into their arms. They smell like vanilla and brown sugar and baby powder and home. 

The night passes much quicker with her family close. She even forgets to scowl at Pettigrew when the Marauders arrive. Dumbledore has just distracted Andy long enough for James and Pettigrew to make their escape when a man sporting black robes, a thin mustache, and a severe parting clears his throat imperiously. His fair-haired, freckled son broods in his shadow. Lucy watches Mad-Eye Moody shake Barty Jr.’s hand with the same sort of morbid curiosity she reserves for Lucius Malfoy.   

She hurries to leave before she says something stupid. 

Lucy wanders aimlessly through the ballroom for a while, taking in all the magic and people. One old man catches her eye and raises his glass in a toast. All of the blood rushes from her face. It’s the OG Death Eater, the one who stood beside Voldemort. She rallies up her fear and welds it to her spine, bolstering herself against the nerves dancing in her stomach. She raises her glass, inclines her head, and calmly, carefully, walks in the other direction. 

The other direction, unfortunately, leads right to the library. This one is nothing like the Malfoy’s. It is much smaller and heavier, the shelves squat and thick and overflowing. Nonetheless, she can’t quite bring herself to step over the threshold. A half hour later, it’s where Sirius finds her leaning against a polished archway while others peruse the shelves. 

“I need to talk to you,” he says. 

He looks very Gryffindor in red dress robes, down to the gold trim and restless energy. His boots tap an uneven rhythm on the marble floor and his fingers twitch against his thigh. 

After answering one another’s security questions (‘What’s the name of the pool we went to this summer?’ and ‘How does Nymph like her sandwiches?’), he leads her in to a comfortable, overstuffed loveseat that Narcissa Malfoy would probably burn before allowing inside her house. Sirius casts the standard set of privacy charms, then turns to her with his jaw set in determination. 

“Regulus just asked Ted for permission to court you.”

Lucy’s mind comes to a screeching halt. 

“What?!”

She tries to picture it: Regulus in dark velvet robes, smirking at a red-faced Ted. 

“Dear God, tell me Dumbledore was there to stop Andromeda. She’ll go to prison.”

“Everyone was there.”

“What...” she trails off thoughtfully.

Regulus, for all of his melodrama, is a secretive person. He isn’t the type to declare undying love in the middle of a party unless he gains something from it. 

“What exactly did he say?” She asks. 

Sirius scowls. “He said it wouldn’t be binding unless you asked and that Ted wouldn’t have to worry about a dowry. Then he pulled out one of mum’s awful rings and said it would do until he takes you to the family vaults to pick out a real courting gift.”

Gringotts!, she realizes, but why would he need to go through so much trouble?

Sirius goes on, oblivious to her whirling thoughts. “Dromeda piped in at that point and said that he’d have a better time seducing you with books, but he pointed out that most of the Black jewelry are historical artifacts, which was when Ted finally lost his temper. I’ve never seen him that angry before. Kinda scary. Anyway, when-...Are you even listening to me?!”

“No. I’m trying to figure it out.”

“Figure what out?!” Sirius cries, waving his hands around. 

“Well, he’s getting me into Gringotts of course. I just don’t get why he’s going at this way.”

Sirius gapes. “What do you mean you don’t get it?! He’s a possessive arsehole who wants an excuse to keep you to himself!”

“He can’t keep me to himself if I don’t want him to,” Lucy says, rolling her eyes. “Besides, what do you care? You’re the one stumbling home at dawn.”

“And since when do you care? You’ve made it perfectly clear that you’re only using me for the hor-“

“Sirius!” She hisses.

He blanches at his slip, but quickly draws himself up combatively. 

“Don’t be dramatic,” she chastises. “You know I’m not using you. I’ve never encouraged your flirting, not even when Ted and Andy wanted me to. You made the decision to help me and you didn’t make it just because I’m a pretty girl. You made it because you’re brave and clever and wanted to do the right thing.”

Sirius huffs and glares at the bookshelves. 

“It would never work out between us. You know it’s true, even if you don’t want to admit it, or you would’ve never left me alone this term, especially after the cave. You’re too bloody persistent to give up on something you really want. And you certainly wouldn’t be having one night stands. You’re far too loyal for that. Something else about this has you upset.”

Several moments pass before he sighs and drags his hand over his face. 

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I just...it’s a brother thing, I think.”

Lucy smirks. “I know it is. I just needed you to admit it to yourself.”

Sirius snorts and leans back to peer up at the ceiling. She lets him stew for a little while longer before saying something she probably shouldn’t. 

“He loves you, you know. I think he’d love you a thousand times more than Kreacher if you’d let him.”

In rebuttal, he cuts his gaze to her and asks something that he probably shouldn’t. 

“Will you let him?”  

Lucy traces the elaborate wand holster with her index finger. “I don’t know yet.”

“You’d better figure it out. He’s here.”

Lucy stiffens. Sure enough, Regulus is leaning against the archway, his longs legs crossed at the ankles. Sirius stands and sighs dramatically. 

“That bank of yours opens on the twenty-seventh, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I’ll pick you up that morning. We can grab a greasy breakfast.”

He cancels the privacy charms and stalks off, pausing long enough to incline his head in Regulus’s direction. It’s better than flipping him the bird, at least. 

Lucy replaces the spells with her own as Regulus sits down. He reaches into his pocket before sprawling in the loveseat’s corner, one arm draped over the back and an ankle resting on the opposite knee. Like Sirius, he chose dark red robes, though his are unadorned. Even the suit underneath is plain black.

“Here,” he says, tossing something in her lap. It’s a heavy gold ring adorned with gaudy pearls and rubies. 

“This is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen,” she tells him. 

“It’s eighteenth century, charmed to detect malicious intentions.”

“This is the ugliest useful thing I’ve ever seen,” she amends. 

“We’re set to pick something else out the day after tomorrow. There’s plenty of pretty, useless things lying around in the vault.”

Lucy eyes his ever-present sapphire ring. “And pretty, useful things too, I’d wager. I’ve always wondered what that does.”

“Allows me to see through glamours and charms,” he says, his lips pulling up in a smirk. “And hear through them too.”

“Oh God.” She can feel the heat rising to her face, almost definitely turning her cheeks a humiliating shade crimson. “How much did you hear?”

“All of it.”

She turns to glower at the bookshelves behind them, much like Sirius had done. She likes to think her annoyance is much more effective. It’s highly improbable that Regulus heard everything and he’s hoping to embarrass her into revealing more of it. The bastard. 

“I most certainly would not love you more than Kreacher.”

Fabric rustles, the couch dips, and a warm hand cups her chin. Regulus turns her face to his. He’s close enough for her to smell his cologne, something that reminds her of green apples and mint. 

“You didn’t say no,” he murmurs. 

Lucy glances away, trying to avoid looking into his eyes or at his lips, but he squeezes her chin until she drags her attention back. 

“I won’t push you,” he promises softly, dropping his hand trace the curve of her jaw. “I’ll wait until this is all settled.”

She really, really shouldn’t ask, but there’s that fire in her chest, that nagging voice in the back of her mind, that ever insatiable curiosity that determined her animagus.  

“And then what?” She dares to ask. 

Her breath hitches when Regulus’s thumb swipes at her bottom lip.

“You’ll just have to wait to find out.” 

Immediately, that awful breakfast at the Potter’s comes to mind. The terrifying control he held over the cursed flames, how they seemed as simple an incendio for him. What would it be like to have that unbridled intensity focused on her? Her skin tingles at just the thought of it. 

Regulus stands abruptly and holds out his hand. She takes it almost reflexively. 

“Come, darling,” he says, pulling her up. “Put on that awful ring. We have a part to play.”

The ring shrinks to easily fit her finger. It really is hideous. Whoever designed must have been blind as a bat. Regulus tugs on her other hand gently to pull her along.

“Wait!” She cries. “Shouldn’t we like talk or something?”

He raises a brow. “About what?”

“This,” she says, lifting the hand still intertwined with his.

“What’s there to say?”

“We need a plan! What if someone asks us questions?”

He shrugs. “We tell them the truth, I suppose.”

“What’s the truth?”

“We’re both ridiculously attractive and intelligent people that finally found someone who isn’t discomfited by our amorality.” His stormy eyes sweep over her from head to toe. “You do look particularly stunning tonight, by the way. A work of Violet’s, I presume?” 

Lucy, still reeling from his truth, can only gape. He pulls her out into the party, chattering on about Violet and her business plans. 

At first, people pretend not to stare. As the night goes on, they gawk unabashedly at the new couple. Several men rush forward to wish ‘Mr. Black’ congratulations on his recent courtship. They ignore Lucy for the most part, but she doesn’t really mind. It’s too fun watching Regulus toy with them. Each person retreats quickly with a puzzled expression, not able to work out if they had just been insulted or complimented. Lucy purposefully steers him away from Dumbledore. She’d rather not see what they can get up to together. 

After a tearful goodbye to Ted and Andy, Lucy apparates Regulus into the entryway of her flat. He looks around curiously while she kicks off her heels. It’s probably too big for a girl and her house elf, but it’s what she needed after seven years in a tiny dorm. As wonderful as the place is, not much can be said for late seventies interior design. Most of the furniture was charmed from nauseating greens and depressing oranges to grays and pale purples.

“I’ll pick you up at one on Wednesday,” he finally says. “The crowds don’t start pouring in until lunch and we’ll need an audience.”

She desperately wants to know his plans, but there’ll be no needling it out of him. Growing up with Sirius Black has made him more obstinate than any Gryffindor. 

“Alright,” she concedes. 

He nods. “What are you doing tomorrow?” 

“Sleeping in with Coco, I guess.”

“You should invite Severus over,” he says, sidling closer. “There’s no reason why the two of you should be alone on Christmas Day.”

Lucy staggers back, resolutely ignoring his pleased smirk as he follows her. “I thought about it, but I didn’t think he would come.”

“There’s no harm in asking.”

Her back bumps into the cold wall. The twisting in her stomach worsens and her heart begins fluttering loud enough to echo through the apartment. 

“Alright, I’ll owl him tonight. I finally had to buy one of my own, you know. He’s a fussy little thing. Apparently, his breed is only native to North America so you’ll only find them in a shop.”

Fuck, she’s rambling. It must be all the wine. Yes, that’s a good excuse. She’ll deny, deny, deny until her lips are blue. 

“Really?” He asks, the very picture of smugness. “What did you name him?”

“Oh, that’s not important,” she says, smiling weakly. 

“Oh, I rather think...” His head cocks to the side, then suddenly crouches down at her feet. “Hello there.”

To his left, a pair of large nutmeg-colored ears, one missing a large chunk, peeks out around the gray sofa. Coco tiptoes around after a moment’s hesitation. Today, she’s worn an icy blue tea cozy embroidered with snowflakes. She straightens her skirt before looking Regulus in the eye. 

“Hello, Master Black.”

Regulus’s gaze flicks to the scars on her arms before darting back to her brown eyes. 

“Are you worried for your mistress?” He asks. 

Coco balls her little hands into fists and raises her chin in determination. Lucy swallows down a sob building in her throat. Damn elf-wine. 

“You needn’t be,” he promises.

“Of course not, Coco,” Lucy says, dropping down to her knees. “I would never bring anyone around you that I didn’t trust. Do you...of course you remember, what am I saying? Coco, the potion in the cave-“

“Oh please, Mistress Lucy. Please do not speak of it.”

“I- very well. I’ll only say that it was meant for him and he did it for his house elf.”

“What?” She gasps. 

“Are you sure? Alright. Well, the Dark Lord tested it out on a house-elf named Kreacher. He left Kreacher to die, but he didn’t realize that elves could get through the wards. So Kreacher went home and told Regulus about everything that happened and Regulus....I think it was the last straw for Regulus. He ordered his house elf to take him to the cave, but only Kreacher made it back. So you see, even if I ever made Regulus angry, he would never take it out on you.”

Coco stills. “The dead men got him?”

“I think so,” Lucy says softly. 

Her bulbous eyes swivel to Regulus. Lucy can’t work up the nerve to even peek his way. 

“The dead men got me too,” she whispers, and pulls back the sleeve of her uniform over the shoulder. It’s a perfect smear of human teeth that trails down to her armpit. “Master Sirius was doing bad magic on the Sword of Gryffindor and the dead men was going for him and...” Her long ears fold in on themselves as her voice trails off. 

Regulus slowly reaches over and pulls her sleeve back in place. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you,” he says. 

He flicks his wrist and dagger appears out of nowhere. Lucy nearly falls over in surprise. With a quick swipe, blood pools from a long line on his palm. He extends it to Coco. 

“If you or your bonded are ever in need of help, you may come to me if you wish. “

Tentatively, Coco reaches out and smears his blood onto her own hands. She sniffs it, her thin lips contorting into a frown. 

“You is a dark wizard, Master Regulus. You is doing bad magic like my mistress.”

Suddenly, quick as a viper, she swipes her tongue over the blood. Her round face darkens into something Lucy never thought her capable of. 

“I can always find you now, Master Regulus. There is no hiding place for you.”

With those ominous words, she disappears with a loud crack. 

“That was actually kind of terrifying,” Lucy says. 

In her shock, she’s forgotten all that she’s revealed. It is a mistake. Regulus is studying her intently with an expression that wars between a breathtaking, gentle fondness and an almost feral hunger. The air is knocked out of her lungs. No one has ever looked at her that way. She never thought they would. Potter looks at Evans like that. Andy looks at Ted like that. She never dreamed of having anyone regard her in the same way, to want and cherish her to such a degree. 

“Oh,” she whispers. “I’ve been a fool, haven’t I?”

Regulus surges forward, one hand on her waits and the other tangled in her hair, and crashes his lips to hers. Lucy’s heart jolts to a stop. Fire roars through her veins instead. It floods out from her chest to her fingers and toes. He pulls back and she gasps in a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. She reaches out to pull him back. He is so warm and tall and his scent is so intoxicating and all she can think is there you are, finally. 

He kisses her harder, bruising her lips and soliciting a stifled moan from deep in her chest. She falls back and he follows, bracing his weight on one hand on the floor. She opens her mouth greedily and drags her nails down the nape of his neck, but his tongue swipes teasingly soft at hers before his teeth latch onto her bottom lip. She gasps. Her nails dig in deeper and she presses her chest against his, desperate for more, more, more-

There’s a gust of cold air and then he’s staring down at her with awe. She falls back on her elbows, hair pooling onto the floor, and eyes him without shame. His lips are more red, his black hair is tousled, and his collar is pulled back, drawing attention to the curve of his neck. She suddenly wants to kiss him there. Taste his skin and drag moans from him. See how long it would take him to lose control. 

“Lucy,” he groans.

She licks her lips, memorizing the feel of him on her. His eyes trace the movement then quickly drop to the swell of her breasts from where her dress has slipped down. She thrusts her chest out without even thinking of it, peering up at him through blonde lashes. 

“Fuck,” Regulus curses, slamming his eyes shut. “I have to go.”

“What?! Where?!”

“Anywhere.”

He clambers up and takes a long step back. Lucy jolts upright to a sitting position. 

“You can’t leave now!” She exclaims. “We just got started!”

Regulus throws his head back and stares at the ceiling, exposing the long line neck. What she wouldn’t give to kiss him from-

“Stop it,” he hisses. 

“But-“

“Lucy, I indulged in too much wine so that I could deal with those cretins tonight. My self-control is obliterated right now.”

At first, she starts to protest, then she remembers something important.

“Right, the ritual,” she murmurs to herself. 

“Ritual?” He asks, brows furrowed. 

“The one with obsidian and the new moon. I haven’t held out for it this long to waste my virginity in a mom-”

“Fucking Merlin!” He snarls, and then disapparates with a loud crack. 

Lucy blinks in surprise, then falls back onto the hard floor. It’s a shame wizards don’t use phones. She’d like nothing more than to call Severus and squeal and tell him she finally kissed Regulus, just to hear how creative his curses would be. Then again, if she tells him in person tomorrow, she might get to learn a new magical curse. 

It’s with a broad, shit eating grin that Lucy sends Lucius off into the night. 

Chapter Text

Andromeda always said that Blacks get what they want. She’d turn a soft glare onto Ted and her eyes would alight with something that Lucy always mistook for mischief. Now, looking up at Regulus, she recognizes it for what it was: triumph.

Regulus wanted a scene and so he got a scene. Diagon Alley is packed full to the cauldron’s brim, as it apparently is every Christmas. Bright, dazzling advertisements boast of post-Christmas sales, cafes and tea shops have their outdoor seating areas charmed to the legal limit, and the sounds of merriment and tipsy carolers are almost deafening. Witches and wizards and hags alike chat about their Christmases or Yules, their upcoming New Years’ celebrations, and all the gossip in the holiday society pages. Somehow, in a bizarre turn of events, Lucy Tonks has made the headlines.

It’s obvious in retrospect. It was bound to happen with the handsome, mysterious heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black shacking up with a mudblood in the middle of a blood war. Still, it’s disconcerting to be scrutinized by half the street and whispered about by the other. When the first flashbulb went off, Regulus had to distract her with a discussion about bottled fiendfyre. (Lucy claimed that if anyone were to make it, it would be Severus; Regulus believes it would be an accidental discovery made by a second or third year.)

“Do you think we could sneak off to Knockturn after we’re done?” Lucy asks as they pass the apothecary. “I’m out of....candle wax.”

Regulus gives her a look. “I’d rather not. It’s only fun if I go to Knockturn in disguise. They’re all too terrified and groveling if they know who I am. You’ll have to wait and find your candle wax some other day.”

“Will they do that with me now?”

“Grovel, yes. Wring their hands and avoid direct eye contact, no.”

“Good. If they’re going to be scared of me, I don’t want it to be because of you.”

Regulus slides his hand down to intertwine their fingers and lifts her arm to kiss her wrist. Across the street, another flashbulb goes off. It’s almost enough to distract her from the embarrassing skip of her heart.

“Darling, I would never dream of obstructing your reign of terror,” he purrs.

Lucy sniffs haughtily. “See that you don’t,” she says and pulls him along.

Gringotts awaits around the corner, looming over them like a marble tomb. More reporters and photographers wait at the foot of the stairs. They rush forward when the first of them catches sight of Lucy and Regulus.

Lucy has to stop herself from fidgeting. When Regulus had apparated into her apartment, he’d taken one lingering look at her pink robes and gray cloak and asked her to change into something menacing. She hesitantly obliged, fearing that he might be one of those men who tried to dictate every aspect of their partners lives. She feels rather foolish looking back on it. He was only trying to help. Her first outfit was comfortable. This one, stark shades of charcoal and red, makes her feel dangerous, like they might cut themselves if they dare try and touch her.

Regulus tugs her along firmly, though his pace slows enough for the reporters to ask their questions. It’s a test. Or perhaps simply his way of giving her a choice.

“Who made your gown for the Longbottom’s party?” A woman calls.

That’s safe enough to answer.

“My friend Violet Brown. The gown and the matching holster.”

“Are you with Black for his money?” The balding man demands.

Lucy doesn’t stumble, but it’s a near thing. If she were, she wouldn’t admit it to him and the bloody paparazzi.

“I’m with him for his library.”

Regulus barks out a laugh, prompting another round of photos and questions.

“Did your estranged cousin introduce you?”

“Is this another of their attempts to sully your family name?”

“How did you meet?”

“I met her in my first year at Hogwarts,” he says, “but I didn’t know I wanted her until my third. There was no need for any introduction. Now, if you’ll excuse us we’ve got an appointment with my account manager.”

“What provoked your interest?”

“Was it a love potion?”

“A spell?”

“Is it true she’s a dark witch?”

Regulus pauses at that, shooting the witch who asked a look so dry that it has her cowering down a step. He makes some sort of signal and two goblins stomp forward, their metal armor clinking with every step. The press immediately comes to a halt. Another armored goblin leads them up the remaining marble stairs and through the massive doors. Inside, Lucy takes a moment to relish in the heat as yet another goblin strolls forward. This one has beady yellow eyes and is dressed smartly in a tailored suit. She notices Regulus shedding his cap, cloak, and gloves and mirrors him, surprised when a house-elf appears to take their belongings.

“This way, Mr. Black,” the goblin says.

They’re taken past the long line of bored customers and down a gilded hallway. Workers dart to and fro, chased by memos, quills, and velvet sacks. The further back they go, the quieter it becomes until they’re led into a tunnel that winds deep underneath the earth. They don’t stop until they come to an intricately carved set of steel doors.

Their attendant places his hand against the engraved axes, triggering them to glow and swing open on silent hinges. “They’ll be with you in a moment, Mr. Black.”

Regulus bows his head. “Thank you, Aglig. Come, Lucy.”

Lucy gives the goblin a solemn nod before stepping inside. The office is nearly as large as her flat. There are numerous suits of armor and display cases full of weapons and shields placed throughout the room. A bar and a chess set are placed under an animated tapestry depicting the execution of several wizards. Against the far wall, stuffed chairs surround a handsome oak desk. Regulus ignores them in favor of a leather sofa across from the roaring hearth. Lucy follows him, examining the elaborate metal figurines on the mantle with interest.

“This is cozy,” she says.

Regulus hums. “I’ve always thought of it as a more tasteful rendition of Slughorn’s quarters.”

“How on earth do you know what Slughorn’s quarters look like?”

She smiles at a framed photo of a stout goblin chasing after his two children. A female goblin beams in the background.

“I’ve had to escort a couple of children as part of my duties.”

“Sounds like a delegation of duties to me,” she teases.

Lucy glances over her shoulder, only to find his attention riveted to her ass. She turns around with her arms crossed.

“Really?” She asks, brow raised.

In lieu of defending himself- because when would he ever lower himself to something so plebeian- he relaxes back into the couch and motions for her to come closer. Lucy shoves down her nerves and approaches him with confident steps, the high heels of her boots muffled by the thick carpet. When his gray eyes begin to rake slowly over her frame, she uncrosses her arms and lets him have his look. She will not be cowed. Andromeda taught her better than that.

“What did you mean out there? About your third year?” She asks.

“I came across you doing a blood ritual when I was exploring the dungeons.”

“That’ll do it then. You would get turned on by animal sacrifice.”

Regulus rolls his eyes. “I was a fourteen-year-old boy and you were on all fours with your ass up in the air. Magic was the last thing on my mind.”

“Or maybe just a different kind of magic.”

“I’ve been derelict in my duties.” He says, reaching up to tug her down beside him. She’s startled when he wraps his arm around her shoulders and pulls her into his side. “I should have saved you from my brother and his terrible puns years ago.”

“Sirius and I haven’t even been friends that long. I’ll have you know my horrible puns are all my own. Just wait until you see...”

No, best not reveal her animagus form just yet. If Sirius acted like he did, Regulus will be intolerable. His animagus form would probably be something ferocious like a tiger or a panther, not some 'furry woodland creature’, as Sirius described Lucy’s.

“Until I see what?”

“The press won’t always be like that, will it? It’s just because of the betrothal?”

“Yes,” he says, in a great display of mercy. “There’s always a lapse in the news during the holidays. It’s why I proposed at a Yule ball. They’ll have something else to report after New Year’s and after that actual celebrities will make their appearances again. We’ll be forgotten about for a couple of years or until something particularly interesting happens.”

Suddenly, a portrait of a snarling goblin slides into its golden frame. A stout goblin in glasses and a burgundy suit enters the room, his sharp eyes immediately cataloging Lucy’s appearance and how she’s snuggled up to Regulus. That explains that then. Their relationship must be crucial to whatever it is they have to do to get the horcrux.

A low, grating sound comes from Regulus as she disentangles herself from him. She nearly jumps out of her bones when the same noise comes from the goblin.

“Why am I surprised you speak Gobbledegook?” She mutters petulantly.

“Oh, I read it more than I speak it.”

The goblin scoffs as he stalks closer. “He does not fool us. We are well aware of how fluent he is.” Lucy stands to shake his hand. It’s warm and his claws scrape against her sleeve. “I am Urguff, the Black account manager.”

“Nice to meet you.”

He hums, his thin lips pulling back over sharp, yellow teeth. “We will see if the sentiment is returned.”

A snap of his fingers and three thick scrolls float in the air beside them, each with a different colored seal.

“Itemized lists of jewelry stored in the Black vaults. Yellow is enchanted, green is cursed, and blue is neither.”

Lucy snatches the scroll with the green seal, settling into the far end of the couch as Regulus and his banker speak. The handwriting is cramped and spidery, rendering it almost impossible to read. She doesn’t let that stop her, not when new magic is just waiting to be discovered. She recognizes some of the curses from her previous studies. It’s the pieces that have been soaked in some terrible potion that catch her interest. Like a ruby bracelet that dissolves the wearer’s finger bones over time. The logistics behind it are fascinating. Is it a slow release? Is it a nearly undetectable liquid or a gas? How does the poison travel to the bones directly? How does it limit itself to the fingers? Is the thumb included?

Her rumination is interrupted when the portrait slides open again and four more goblins appear, two of them carrying axes and armored in silver. One goblin, this one with a yellow tinge to his skin, has a crooked nose and is dressed in a set of gilded goblin robes she’s only ever seen in history books. The other could pass for any other muggleborn wizard on the street, down to the briefcase in his hand. Both of them wear swords on their hips.

With mounting horror, Lucy is introduced to Ullok, the Goblin King’s representative and one she is already familiar with.

“You’re Brodirg,” she supplies, shaking his hand firmly. “Spokesman for the Brotherhood of Goblins. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Brodirg raises a bushy black brow. “You follow our organization?”

“I try to stick to your opinion pieces,” she says. “We all know how accurate the Prophet is, especially when it comes to anything other than pureblood wizards.”

Ullok's pointy face contorts into an ugly sneer. “Is that so, witch? You think you understand the plight of non-humans?”

“I’m told twice a week that I’m no better than an animal,” she answers calmly, “but I always have the option of disappearing into the muggle world. You do not.”

She wants nothing more than to peek over at Regulus, but knows to do so would portray weakness. She can’t be seen as reliant on him. They are to be equals, not master and servant. Instead, she patiently waits for Ullok’s answer. After a moment’s consideration, he gives her a terse nod and summons the last of the padded chairs from the desk. Lucy sits as far away from Regulus on the sofa as she can without raising suspicion.

“I suppose we’re not just here to pick out a ring?” Lucy asks nervously.   

It’s Urguff that answers. “You are here for that, yes, but not that alone. What do you know of the Black family’s relationship with Gringotts?”

Lucy licks her lips, thankful for the resilience of wizarding lipstick. “Regulus speaks Gobbledegook, apparently, and they help feed your dragons from time to time.”

The king’s representative chuckles darkly.

“Oh, they do more than that,” he says. “I assume that blasted ghost taught you about the goblin rebellions?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“I assume that you are intelligent enough to infer that goblins had the support of wizards throughout the rebellions?”

“Yes,” Lucy snaps. “And I’m intelligent enough to infer that apparently, the House of Black was one of those supporters.”

Brodirg clears his throat. “After the last rebellion, the alliance between the Goblin Nation and the House of Black fell through, though they and the other supporters have had a close working relationship with Gringotts in the centuries since.”

“Until Regulus picked it back up?” She asks, frowning over at him. “How is that even possible? You’re only seventeen. There are limitations to what even you can do.”

He smiles that feral, wolfish grin of his. “As flattered as I am, I can’t take credit. It was my grandfather. He recognized the signs of a rising dark lord and thought it prudent to negotiate a new alliance. I, however, pressured my father to take it further.”

Lucy stares. She stares at him and then the goblins and then back at him. After a long moment, she decides to throw propriety out the window.

“Since when do you give a shit about goblin rights?”

One of the goblins, she can’t be bothered to see which, howls with raspy laughter.

“Since I began sneaking out to Muggle London.” He relaxes back into the sofa, crossing his ankle over the opposite knee. “I've been sneaking out since I was twelve. It became even easier when Sirius left; he would always get bored and come to annoy me for entertainment. The truth is that I don't dislike or like Muggles any more than I like or dislike wizards or goblins. They're just people is all."

"I'm sensing a but here."

Regulus leans forward, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling light. "But I respect them more! They've progressed more than we have in generations! Their science is just as wondrous as our magic. They've gone to the moon, Lucy! The bloody moon! They're capable of far more than fools like Bellatrix or Malfoy are aware. They'll easily surpass us in the next fifty years or so. You and I are safe, but what about future generations? All it will take is another world war before they wipe entire continents off the map."

Lucy wants to glance at the goblins and see their reaction to his fervent rant, but she is trapped under his intense gaze. Regulus has an intoxicating sort of charisma that keeps the listener wondering what he will say next, half afraid if his excitement will bubble over into something more fearsome.

"Soooo you want to pull a Grindelwald with the goblins?"

"Of course not. Not until it proves necessary."

Lucy's eyebrows raise. "Not until it proves necessary?"

"It's only a matter of time until the magical world is discovered. If we magical beings aren't united, we will be obliterated. I don't want to 'pull a Grindelwald'. Or a Hitler, for that matter." He grins maniacally at whatever he sees in her expression. "I only want to be prepared for the inevitable."

Lucy settles her gaze on the three goblins. They stare back dispassionately.

"And you're okay with him exploiting your struggle for equal rights?" she asks.

"Is he, Miss Tonks?" Ullok sneers, "or are we using him to exploit the wizards' xenophobia?"

Lucy crosses her arms and leans back in her chair. After a moment of failing to discern something, anything from their blank expressions, she sighs. “And who's banner will we be unifying under? Surely not yours, Regulus?”

“Merlin, no,” he scoffs.

“We have our eye on a few half-bloods,” Brodirg supplies. He says it like he’s talking about his favorite dinner.

“Of course. A mudblood minister is far too progressive,” Lucy says bitterly.

Regulus cocks a brow. “I’ve never aspired to be a minister’s husband, but I’m not averse to the idea.”

“Do you have political ambitions, Ms. Tonks?” Urguff asks, his head tilted in calculation.

“Absolutely not. I want to kill Voldemort and then go on a long vacation somewhere warm.”

“There are Black properties in Spain, Greece, and Croatia,” the banker recites promptly. “There is another outside Florence, but anyone bearing the Black name is legally required to stay within the wards.”

“Ah, I’d forgotten about that,” Regulus says with a wistful smile.

Lucy thinks very hard before eventually deciding that it's best to leave that tidbit of information for later. She nods shortly, bolstering herself for the conversation ahead.

“Right, well, not to be rude-“ She steadfastly ignores Regulus’s amused snort. “-but I’m still recovering from a nasty round of torture and overexposure to Gryffindors. I’d very much like to take a nap. So what happens next in your plans? Do the goblins pave the way for others? Werewolves and the like?”

“Precisely,” Brodirg affirms. The other two nod fiercely in agreement.

“You do realize that we can’t take down the Ministry, or take it over or whatever until Voldemort is defeated?”

As soon as she says it, she realizes what Regulus means to do. Or orchestrate, at the very least.

“She’s quick,” Urguff grunts as he appraises the abrupt comprehension in her expression.

Regulus huffs. “Of course she’s quick. She’s mine isn’t she?”

Any other time, Lucy might have had several things to say about such a sentiment, but she suspects that their relationship is just as much of a show for the goblins as it is for the public. The family accountant is a bit too fixed on her ambitions and attributes.

“A dark wizard has to strike the killing blow,” she says.

“Someone not loyal to the Ministry or Dumbledore,” he corrects.

Lucy forces the rising whirlwind of her thoughts to calm. She shoves them deep in a distant corner of her mind to be extracted for examination later. Much later. Weeks later, if she’s lucky. One of them, however, is annoyingly persistent. She can’t quite keep from blurting it out.

“Goblins aren’t loyal to the Ministry or Dumbledore.”

Three beady sets of goblin eyes pin her to her seat. It is a much different experience than it had been with Regulus a short time ago. His intensity was exhilarating, fascinating, and if she were, to be honest with herself, arousing. The goblins seem to flay her down to her bones without lifting a finger.

Ullock flashes a set of sharp brown teeth. “And why shouldn’t we let you tear yourselves apart?”

“Because if he wins, he’ll kill all you too. He’s mad and it’s just going to get worse the longer he goes unchecked. What fragile plans he has left will disintegrate into chaos, where only the insane and the very cruel will survive.”

“You speak as if you know this for a fact,” Urguff muses. “Regulus has hinted at why he agreed to marry you without a dowry, but as his financial manager, I cannot fully endorse such a one-sided agreement.

Lucy glances at Regulus. Is this supposed to be a segue into horcuxes? Are they trustworthy enough?

“She’s a seer,” he announces calmly.

Lucy freezes. The goblins freeze. As one, their unnerving gazes swivel back to her, peeling her apart with renewed interest. Regulus begins explaining. She latches onto his smooth, melodic voice to center herself against her panic. Cold sweat, short breath, bright colors. She clenches her fists to keep from gripping her wand.

The goblins begin asking questions, their raspy voices grating on her ears. Regulus smoothly interjects, probably with the most ridiculous bullshit, anyone's ever heard. Lucy bites down on her bile. She thought if she had to reveal it to anyone, it would be Dumbledore, not Regulus fucking Black and his goblin friends. She can’t lie when it might affect the civil rights of an entire people. A people who's magic could probably detect that she isn't, in fact, a seer and slaughter her where she stands for lying to their faces.

It’s that image, one of her brains oozing out of a dent in her skull that has her blurting, "I'm not a seer.”

The room quietens. Regulus stills like a wolf that's caught a scent. Coward that she is, Lucy avoids their eyes and speaks to the axe displayed on the cavern wall.

"I'm not a seer. I’m from the future. I died in 2018 and woke up in 1966."

The silence drags on long enough for something like spiders to scuttle down her neck. Slowly, so very hesitantly, she makes herself look at Regulus. Her breath catches despite her attempted stoicism. He's looking at her with a reverent, adoring gaze that she's never, not ever in either life, had anyone direct her way. Lucy quickly averts her attention to the goblins. Coward, Sirius’s voice whispers.

"I'm sorry if this is a disappointment-" she tries, but Ullock interrupts her with his sharp teeth on display.

"A disappointment? No, no, Miss Tonks. This is infinitely better."

Brodirg grunts in agreement. "Much more substantial than any seer could be."

"You were American, weren't you?" Regulus asks suddenly.

"...yes?"

He nods to himself. "That explains so much."

Lucy looks to the goblins, sure they're just as confused, but they're too busy examining her like she's a very interesting worm they've found deep in the gold mines. She shifts in her chair nervously.

"You know the course of this foolish war, then?" Ullock demands.

"Yes. It drags on for a while, Voldemort is eventually defeated, and then it all goes back to how it was."

"How dreadfully uninspired," Regulus drawls.

"So the goblins were not involved?" Brodirg asks.

"Oh, they were involved alright." She straightens her spine, throws her shoulders back, and tips her chin in the air. "Voldemort's got a horcrux in the Lestrange vault. There was a straight-up massacre when it was stolen."

Sure, it was a massacre at Malfoy Manor, and there were probably only one or two goblins, but such details are inconsequential.

Ullock stands and leans over the desk threateningly. "You lie, witch. Gringotts has never and will never succumb to thieves!"

"They had inside help," Lucy says, undeterred.

He sneers a truly frightening image that alarms Lucy nearly as much as Voldemort did.

“One of us would never betray-“

“Not even for the sword of Gryffindor?” She asks.

At that, the goblins fall silent.

“There’s a boy,” she begins. “A boy who was hunting horcruxes and came across a strange group of people on the run from Voldemort: two goblins, two muggleborn wizards, and the boy’s schoolmate. One of the goblins is murdered alongside the wizards by Fenrir Greyback. The other and the boy’s schoolmate are taken prisoner to Malfoy Manor. The boy rescues them, but he soon figures out where the next horcrux is and makes a deal. Entry to the Lestrange vault in exchange for the Sword of Gryffindor. The goblin took the deal.”

“Did he get the Sword?” Brodirg asks quietly.

“Not for long.” She plows on, ignoring their dark looks. “The Sword of Gryffindor is enchanted to return to a worthy Gryffindor in need. It came to Neville Longbottom during the Battle of Hogwarts and he used it to slay the Dark Lord’s familiar, whom happened to be the last horcrux. I don’t know what happened to it after that. And it doesn’t really matter. Regulus and I are a Slytherin as they come. It will never come to us.”

The goblins take a long moment to consider her words. Eventually, one of them asks how the bank was infiltrated.

“One of the Deathly Hallows,” she says, amused at their ensuing shock, “Polyjuice Potion, and a liberal use of the Imperius Curse by a very powerful wizard. They had to free the dragon to escape, so it was really only dumb luck that they succeeded. I don’t know if there’s anything you can do to prevent any of that, except perhaps a Polyjuice test of some kind as we walk through the doors. Or when we sit in the cart perhaps, that usually results in direct skin contact. Some type of runic array would be your best bet.”

“You want the horcrux and help in the war,” Ullock says in a rather rude tone. “What can you offer in recompense?”

“We’ll take the horcrux and neutrality,” Regulus counters, “and in return, we’ll keep Dumbledore from finding out that you’re harboring a piece of the Dark Lord’s soul.”

One of the armored goblins shifts, the first movement either of them has made, and Brodirg grinds his teeth.

“You would undo the work of your father and his father before him? You would betray us so?” Ullock demands, his fist clenched.

“I will do what is necessary to protect myself and my family,” Regulus says with a strange tenor in his voice.

For the first time since she’s known him, he lets his magic free. Or maybe it slips free. It’s thick, heady, almost suffocating in its darkness. It is the starless night sky pressing down, down, down. Inescapable. Inevitable. It slips under her skin, filling her up like thick black honey. Her own magic rises up to greet it, swirling around like snow dancing in the wind, glitter sparkling in glue. She tries to force it back down but it refuses, eager to explore the darkness.

She always was too curious for her own good.

“Voldemort is a plague against magic,” he’s saying, completely oblivious to Lucy’s plight. “He must be eradicated. Grindelwald at least had plans and laws. Voldemort has none of that. He is nothing but violence and chaos. He wants nothing more than to rule over-“

“Regulus,” Lucy chokes out.

Regulus turns to her, his eyes widening. She is floored to her seat, pupils blown and limbs locked. Power is flooding her bones, wrapping its fingers around her throat and her heart, demanding entry inside.

Abruptly, it disappears. Air floods back into her lungs and something in her chest unclenches. Across from her, the goblins slump over in their chairs. The warriors at their back relax into their previous impassiveness. In her struggle, she hadn’t noticed them move.

Regulus squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Forgive me. I am well aware you were not threatening me. I’ve simply found myself overprotective of late.”

Heat rises to Lucy's cheeks as all of the goblins turned to her.

“Then might I suggest this ring?” Urguff says, unfurling the yellow scroll with a flick of his wrist. A small black arrow points to item number four hundred and thirteen. “Silver inlaid with pear alexandrite and black diamonds. Enchanted in the year 1208 to act as a primitive portkey. A person tied to the ring may be called to the wearer’s side with a tap of her wand.”

Lucy fingers the ruby and pearl monstrosity she’s already wearing. “Is it very large?”

The goblin glances at her hand and snorts. “No, Miss Tonks. It is a much more tasteful design. Here.”

He retrieves a small wooden box from his trouser pocket and taps his claw to the seam. Satisfied, he levitates it over to her. Lucy is surprised to see that the goblin was right. There is only one large gem in the center that changes colors in the light surrounded by smaller black ones arranged in swooping lines. It’s still a bit too ostentatious for her liking, but the enchantment is worth it and the atmosphere in the room has become stifling. She’s ready to go home.

“I’ll take it,” she says, already switching them out.

Regulus snorts. “Do you realize how much that gem alone is worth?”

Lucy rolls her eyes. “I really don’t care. I’m tired and it’s been a long day. Why don’t we call it quits for now and reconvene at a later date? I’m sure Ullock and Brodirg would like to discuss everything with their superiors, correct?”

Brodirg inclines his head respectfully.

“Indeed, Miss Tonks.”

“See?” She says. “We all go have lunch and take a nap and Regulus can go blast fiendfyre on some Scottish island to cool down.”

Regulus sighs, but he stands nonetheless. The house-elf suddenly reappears with their layers of clothing. He takes them and shakes his head when Lucy begins to pull on her gloves.

“I’ll apparate us directly to your living room.” He cuts a glance at the goblins. “If that’s alright with you, Urguff?”

“Of course.”

Regulus nods. “Then I hope to hear from you soon. Good day, gentlemen.”

“It was nice meeting you all,” Lucy says.

After everyone’s said their goodbyes, Regulus leads her to a slab of dark rock engraved with runes. A quick translation reveals it to be a sort of apparition point, a sort of break in the anti-apparition wards.

“Boy,” Ullock calls.

Regulus looks up sharply.

“Fiendfyre will not placate the power inside you,” he warns. “It needs blood. Your magic needs to feel life bleed out from under your wand.”

Lucy squeezes Regulus’s hand tight as he nods.

“I know,” he says, very softly.

And with that, he spins on the spot, dragging Lucy along through space until they land on a wooden floor. She looks around, puzzled. This is not her living room. It’s not even her apartment. They’ve arrived in a green and silver bedroom filled with heavy walnut furniture and almost overflowing with books.

“REGULUS ARCTURUS BLACK!”

“Oh, shite,” Regulus breathes.

Lucy turns, inappropriately curious, but Regulus has placed his body between her and the speaker.

“REGULUS! I LEAVE FOR TEA ONLY TO FIND HUMILIATION! I EXPECTED THIS FROM THE STAIN OF WHOM WE DO NOT SPEAK BUT NEVER FROM YOU. YOU PROMISED, REGULUS. YOU PROMISED THAT YOU WOULD-“

Lucy peeks around Regulus's arm. A tall woman with an austere bearing and long dark hair stands in the doorway. She might have been beautiful if her face weren't contorted into such a dark rage.

“I never promised anything except to speak with you." He hesitates, his breath hitching before he steps to the side. “Mother, I'd like you to meet my betrothed."

Lucy has faced the Dark Lord. She's lied to Dumbledore’s face and endured years of scrutiny from Lucius Malfoy. She can handle Walburga Black.

“Hello, Mrs. Black,” she says, extending her hand. “Lucille Tonks, Mudblood of Slytherin. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Walburga Black turns a dangerous shade of purple, her hand gripping tight  around her dark wand. Regulus raises a glowing shield at the very same moment that an eerie purple curse hurls toward Lucy. 

“Mother, I’ve had a very trying day. I never would have brought Lucy if I thought you were here, but I wanted to relax in my home. Can’t you please let me? Please?”

Silence reigns for what feel like an eternity. Regulus twitches when Walburga finally breaks it with a shrill, “KREACHER!”

An ugly, stooped house elf appears with his sharp nose near to the ground in worship. Lucy doesn’t realize she’s taken a step forward until Regulus wraps his hand around her arm. No one else has made her as curious as Kreacher does. Well, maybe Voldemort, but she was too terrified to indulge in any of her wonder. This is different. Kreacher is everything to Regulus. There’s something more marvelous about that than any magic Voldemort can do.  

“Yes, Mistress?” He croaks. 

“Fetch me a calming draught,” she snaps. After a withering look at Lucy, she concedes, “And serve black tea with the Hatian rum.”

Regulus lets out a long, deep breath when his mother marches down the hall. Lucy grabs his hand and sidles close enough to press against his arm, her head barely surpassing his shoulder in her heels.   

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I only wanted...She was supposed to spend the day with Cordelia Greengrass.”

“It’s alright. We had to meet eventually.”

He looks away, running his tongue along his teeth. “Yes, but not today. Not with everything else. I do like you, you know. I don’t want to scare you off.”

“Regulus.” When he ignores her, Lucy reaches up to cup his cheek, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Regulus, I think it’s a little too late for that, don’t you?”

“Sirius ran away,” he whispers, his gaze haunted. 

Lucy’s stomach twists. She wraps her arms around his waist, squeezing as tight as she can, trying her best to convey everything she’s too afraid to say. They stand wrapped up in each other for a long while, content to revel in the silence after their long day. Eventually, Lucy pulls back and stretches to press a light kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I promise I won’t run away until I’ve read at least half of your library.”

Chapter Text

Walburga Black’s personal solar is a round room edged with silver and furnished with the same dark wood as the rest of the house. Regulus leads Lucy to the circular table laden with a tea set in the center of the room. His mother is already perched in her chair, her rage having subsided into an artificial serenity. It smooths out the harsh planes of her face into something that hints at beauty. 

“Hello, Mother.”

“Hello, Regulus.” She takes a long sip of tea before she bites out, “Girl.”

Lucy takes a drink of her own, unsurprised and a little relieved to taste more rum than tea. 

“Hello, Mrs. Black. I’m glad to finally meet Regulus’s mother.”

Her face scrunches up in distaste. 

“Mother-“

“No, Regulus,” Lucy interrupts. “This needs to happen.” 

Lucy sits up straight in her chair and catches Walburga’s gaze. Holds it. Dares her to look away. 

“Whatever bigoted nonsense you think you can hurt me with is nothing I haven’t heard before. Whatever spells you think you can cast on me is nothing I haven’t endured before. It’ll be more productive and easier for all of us if we skip the insults and threats.”

Walburga’s jaw clenches. It’s the only tell before a honed spear explodes against Lucy’s mind.  She hides a smile behind her teacup. Sirius is his mother’s son; there’s not a bone of subtlety in either of their bodies. 

“I’ve kept my secrets from the Dark Lord and Dumbledore, Mrs. Black. You’re not going to get anything from me that way.”

She lets out a strange noise that is half scoff and half shriek. “You can’t expect me to believe such-“

“I was there, Mother,” Regulus cuts in. He’s forgone the tea and went straight to the rum. Lucy wonders if it would be too gauche to do the same. “I watched it happen.”

Walburga slams her teacup down in rattle of porcelain. 

“Why, Regulus? Why?! We taught you better than this! We taught you to respect and uphold your ancient bloodline. I expected this from Sirius, but never you. You were always the better son.”

Lucy reaches over and snatches Regulus’s tumbler of rum. She’ll need more than tiny sips of liquor to keep her mouth shut. Sirius may be brash and mercurial and careless, but he is unfathomably loyal to those who earn it. When she asked Sirius for help, he gave it unconditionally. Perhaps she should say something. Perhaps she should defend him. 

It wouldn’t accomplish anything. Walburga wouldn't take kindly to the reminder and Regulus, for all his haughtiness, still harbors deep feelings towards his brother. It’s a shame, really. The could accomplish great things together. 

‘Terrible yes, but great.’

The heavy slap of flesh on wood jolts Lucy out of her thoughts. Walburga seems to hav reached a stage of apoplectic fury. She’s gone deathly pale, there’s a muscle twitching in her jaw, and her hand keeps making aborted movements towards her wand. Lucy really shouldn’t have let her mind wander; she’s just so very, very tired. 

“What are you sneering at, you foul little mudblood?!”

‘How great the House you worship could have been if you hadn’t pushed your sons apart,’ Lucy thinks. 

Aloud, she says, “I find it very amusing that you think you know better than the Dark Lord.”

She stills, her palms still flat against the table. 

“What.”

Regulus shifts in his seat, none too pleased to relive the memory. It feels like it happened so long ago, but it hasn’t even been a week. Jesus. No wonder she’s so tired. She hasn’t had the chance to recover from everything that’s happened.

“I’ve already told you I was there,” he says hesitantly. “It was at the Malfoy’s ball. I followed Lucy into the library, hoping to have a private word, but he followed her too. He recruited her, Mother. Personally.” Regulus swallows thickly. “Do you know how rare it is to earn his direct praise?” 

Lucy isn’t sure who’s he asking: Walburga, Lucy, or himself. She isn’t sure he knows. 

Walburga doesn’t seem to care either way. She pulls back in her seat, elegant hand splayed against her throat in shock. 

“But she’s-she’s a mudblood!”

“She’s a formidable witch, Mother. The ladies of the House of Black have always been formidable.”

“That’s a bold claim, boy.”

Regulus freezes. He sucks in a breath and his shoulders snap back. Across the table, Walburga’s lips turn up in small, smug smile. Two sets of heavy footsteps, one punctuated by the thud of a cane, sound at Lucy’s back. Out of the corner of her eye, Regulus shifts his head ever so slightly. A silent command to be still. 

An old man with dark eyes and thick grey hair reaches the table first. The second is even older, yet no less dangerous. There is a strength in his posture that defies the limp in his left leg and the simple cane in his hand. With a tap of that cane, two leather chairs materialize between Lucy and Walburga. The men take their seats with a calm, almost mockingly nonchalant air. Both of them are dressed simply yet richly, as Regulus always does. Sirius must have picked up his extravagance from his Uncle Alphie or in an attempt to further distance himself from his family. Almost admirably petty, that. If there was anything he shouldn’t be ashamed of, it should be their fashion sense. 

Kreacher, god bless him, appears long enough to vanish the tea set and conjure bourbon and glasses in their stead.

“Lucy,” Regulus says, never looking away from the men. “These are my grandfathers, Arcturus and Pollux.”

Lucy has to take a drink of bourbon to hide her disgust. It’s a good thing they have magic or they’d be as hideous as the Hapsburgs. 

“This is Lucille Tonks, my-“

“We know what she is,” Pollux, the younger, thinner one snaps. 

Regulus grits his teeth, turning flinty eyes onto his mother. 

“Did you summon them?”

“Of course I did!” She whisper-screams. “You brought a mudblood into this house! What else was I supposed to do?!”

“You were supposed to wait and speak with the head of your family,” Arcturus snaps. He looks remarkably like Sirius, from the straight slope of his nose to his broad shoulders. Even their voices are similar.

Walburga winces. Lucy wonders if it’s because of his uncanny resemblance or harsh tone. 

“Regulus is just a boy-“

“Regulus hasn’t been a boy since before Sirius Orion fled like a coward. I trust his judgement and so should you.”

“We do not speak-“

Regulus sighs heavily. “You said his name yourself not five minutes ago, Mother.”

“What do you think about it, girl?” Pollux cuts in. 

Lucy takes a dainty sip of her drink. “I’m just a filthy little mudblood. I don’t see how my opinion matters.”

“I believe it was a foul little mudblood,” Regulus intones dully. 

“Ah. They do blend together. It’s rare that I get one creative enough to remember.”

“You DARE-“

“Merlin, Walburga! Don’t start your damn screeching!” Arcturus thunders. He downs his glass of bourbon, refills it, then rounds on Lucy. She has to fight not to flinch back. 

“Well?!” He demands, one perfectly groomed brow cocked. “What do you think about it? Should we erase Sirius Orion’s name from our memories?”

Lucy’s mind starts whirling. The old families have a plethora of magic that most witches and wizards couldn’t even dream of. Certainly not Lucy. Severus has always been the more creative of the two. And if it keeps them off Sirius’s back, who is she to keep silent?

“Can you do that? Is it even possible? There are taboos of course, but can you erase a name from all existence? What happens to the person or place? Does it also cease to exist? There’s a tribe in Africa that sees more shades of blue because they have so many words for the color.”

Pollux studies her with the same expression Voldemort had. Like she’s some delightful new creature that he will get credit for discovering.

“You’re good, aren’t you?” Arcturus asks. She can’t discern his mood. It’s unsettling to see Sirius’s face so cold and unfeeling. “Deflection. Distraction. Leave the lies for last. Go on, girl. Tell me a lie.”

Lucy does not balk or hesitate. She looks him dead in the eye and says, “It’s none of my business what you do about Sirius. Everyone thinks we’re great friends, but the simple truth is that he moved in with Andromeda for a summer. I respect him, yes, but I am not his priority nor is he mine.”

“And Regulus? Is he your priority?”

“No. That honor belongs to one Severus Snape.”

Arcturus settles back in his chair and looks down at her over his nose. Sirius’s nose. For one wild moment, she wonders if this is just another one of his pranks and Potter is sitting beside him under polyjuice. 

“The last one was a bad lie,” he says. “Your family is too well known for anyone to believe that your niece is not your priority. It would have been wiser to tell the truth.”

“Sometimes,” Lucy concedes with a nod. “But not this particular instance. I reasoned that it was best to avoid any mention of her. She’s a delicate subject.”

“Oh come now,” Pollux chastises. “We’re more tetchy about Sirius’s cowardice than her whelp.”

“That’s not what she meant,” Regulus drawls.

Arcturus leans forward in his chair. “Then what did she mean, son?”

“When Gawain Yaxley was murdered, he didn’t bother looking to Lucille for help.” He tips his chin up arrogantly. “They couldn’t even look her in the eye when she was done with him.”

Arcturus and Pollux share a loaded glance. While they work through their centuries worth of bigotry, Lucy prepares herself for an attack from Walburga. Yet when she peers across the table, she sees that Walburga’s mouth has been vanished entirely. Lucy immediately casts her gaze to a portrait of a curious old woman and clamps her teeth down on the inside of her cheek hard enough to bring blood. 

“Does something amuse you?” Pollux asks in that strange, oily voice of his. 

She lifts her shoulders in a tiny shrug, not daring to look away from the portrait. 

“It’s just that I have to use that particular curse against Sirius quite frequently. As much as you both like to deny his heritage, he truly is his mother’s son.”

Walburga’s chair slams back onto the ground as she surges to her feet. The portraits rattle against the wall and the numerous artifacts around the room begin to hum ominously. Pollux Black whips out his wand, eyeing a glass case full of crystal raven figurines warily. 

Lucy scoffs. “Come now, you’ll have to do better than that. I’ve just had Regulus’s magic try to smother me from the inside out and the Dark Lord’s was slicing at my bones not a week ago. Which reminds me.”

Just to stoke the fire, Lucy takes Regulus’s hand in her own and gently peels back his sleeve. His watch reads a quarter after five. It must have been inherited from his father, because there’s no other reason for him to wear the Canis Major anywhere on his body. There are two constellations embedded on the bezel and a specific star in each of them done in diamonds: the Dog Star and the Lion’s Heart.  Lucy keeps her expression carefully blank as she releases his hand.

It takes her a moment to find what she needs in her expanded purse. Regulus makes a soft huff of amusement when a cauldron clatters in its cavernous depths. Finally, she finds one vial and begins her hunt for the next two. He holds it up to the light. 

“You’re still taking these?” He asks in a soft tone. 

“It was only four days ago,” she points out petulantly, “and I’ve had a very busy week. I’m rather proud of myself. Aha! Found them.”

“What was only four days ago?” Arcturus demands. 

“‘Lord Voldemort is charitable’,” Lucy recites, throwing back the first two. “He gave me a parting gift. A little hint at what I can expect no matter which side I choose.”

“Why is that the Dark Lord is so interested in you? Other than the obvious parallels.”

Lucy chokes on the last elixir. 

“What parallels?!”

To her surprise, it is Walburga that answers. She can’t bring herself to directly speak with Lucy. Instead, she keeps her gaze pinned on a spot just above her shoulder. 

“I attended Hogwarts with the Dark Lord. He was only a year below me. In the beginning, we thought him nothing more than a orphaned mudblood and treated him as such.”

“One commonality doesn’t make a parallel!” Lucy argues. “I grew up in a loving family with a rather comfortable income. I’m not particularly powerful. I don’t have a legendary ancestor. I’m an ant to a god when it comes to the Dark Lord.”

“You shouldn’t underestimate yourself, love,” Regulus says, brush his fingers against her wrist. “Dumbledore and the Dark Lord have both seen it. They’ve both spoken of it.”

“What was it the Dark Lord said?” Pollux asks curiously. 

“That she did not disappoint. That she is more cunning and ambitious than we are capable of. That only he can understand her love for magic.” He frowns into his glass of bourbon thoughtfully. “I’m inclined to agree. Even those who worship magic as I do cannot truly revere it in the same way as Lucille and the Dark Lord. Not even Dumbledore can.”

Lucy nods, more to herself than anyone. “He never asked why I study the things I do. He just assumed it was for power and bloodlust. And some of it was, of course, but most of it was just wanting to know what magic really is. What it can really do.”

“And what have you discovered?” Pollux asks. 

“There at no limits, if one is willing.”

Arcturus settles back in his seat, appraising Lucy. “There are Gamp’s Laws.”

Lucy waves her hand impatiently. “Yeah, but when would you ever really need to create something out of nothing? Outside of academia, the only time it’s applicable is if you were starving and even then there are other ways.”

“What ways?”

“The switching and summoning spells are the most obvious. And stealing is remarkably easy with magic, especially in muggle areas. It’s as simple as an imperius curse.”

Regulus reaches over to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. He is close enough that his warm breath raises tickles her neck. 

“I adore that your first response is an Unforgivable when there are a plethora of other spells to choose from.”

Lucy sniffs haughtily to disguise her nerves. She hates feeling like a silly little first year fresh off the Express. 

“If I’m ever in a situation that desperate, I’m not going to waste time and resources getting out of it just because it isn’t the right thing to do. I don’t know them. I’m not risking my life for someone I don’t care about. ”

“Would it matter if you did?” Regulus proposes, his lips pulling up in knowing smirk.

“Don’t look so smug. It’s unbecoming for a wizard of your station.”

“ENOUGH!”

Lucy jumps. She feels more than sees the curse. The only thing she can process is relief- it’s neon red, and the cruciatus might hurt like hell but it won’t kill her- before the tray of sandwiches upends itself to intercept the curse. She scrambles out of her seat and draws her wand at the same time Regulus conjures a shield in the shape of a silver spiderweb. 

“Stop this, Mother! You’re-“

“NO! I WILL NOT HAVE YOU MAKING EYES AT SUCH A BEASTLY SLUT. SHE’S NO BETTER THAN FUCKING AN ANIMAL, REGULUS! IT TURNS MY STOMACH TO BREAK BREAD WITH-“

Oh, fuck this, Lucy thinks, and jabs her wand at the madwoman screeching across the table. Enraged as she is, Walburga doesn’t realize Lucy has retaliated until her wand is flying through the air. Another thrust and her mouth has once again vanished from her face.

“Yeah, well, it makes me sick to even fucking look at you, but you haven’t heard me complain, have you?”

Walburga flicks her wrist and a dagger materializes in her hand. It’s a neat trick, one that Bellatrix and Narcissa have undoubtedly perfected as well. The blade hurdles through the air, tip over handle. Lucy scrambles to the side and erects a shield she helped create with Severus. Walburga’s sneer drops when the dagger bounces off the shimmering black screen. She hastily ducks to avoid it. Her wide eyes follows its trajectory until it embeds itself in the jacquard wallpaper, even as her body suddenly locks together and falls back into the chair awkwardly. With a long-suffering sigh, Walburga’s father waves his wand and maneuvers her into a more dignified position. 

“I’ve only cast the killing curse twice,” Lucy says into the silence. “Once, when I was eleven and again when I was fifteen, to make sure it wasn’t a one off thing. It doesn’t work like that, of course. You’ve only got to mean it.”

She smiles down wryly at Walburga’s wand; red oak, uncommonly long, and extremely rigid. A perfect match for a bold, tempestuous woman set in her ways. 

“It takes a lot of hatred and indifference to cast the curse successfully. You have to really want the person- or animal, in my case- dead. No hesitation. No sympathy. Just an all encompassing desire to erase them from existence. Voldemort can cast it on anyone as easy as breathing. It’s why his followers are so terrified of him. Nothing they can do will ever change his mind when the time comes. All life is meaningless to him. There is nothing that could ever make him fail to cast it.

“There are only two people in the world that I could do that to so easily. Sure, I could cast it on anyone, but it would take a moment. I would have to justify it. I would have to make myself hate them to the point that I would no longer care about how it would affect their families. And you, Walburga Black, have the honor of being one of those two people.”

The men in the room immediately turn their wands on Lucy. Slowly, so very, very slowly, she places both of wands on the table. The soft click of wood seems to echo through the room. 

“I can’t think of a reason you shouldn’t be dead. Regulus loves you. You’re his mother. But I can’t bring myself to care. When I try, all I can think about is how much better his life would be without you in it. What have you ever done for him? What have you ever done for anyone? The only thing you’ve accomplished in your life is giving birth to your sons and they are the men they are in spite of you, not because of you, so I’m not sure that even counts. 

“I want-“ Lucy scowls when her voice catches, and then curses as she realizes her eyes are burning with tears. She rushes to wipe them away before they can fall. 

“I want to tell you how much I love Sirius, how much just thinking of him makes me feel like I’m going to burn from the inside out. I want to tell you what it feels like when I look at Regulus, how I’m overtaken by this...this awe and wonder at how someone like him could even exist, how when I think of what they could do, what they could be if they were together, but it won’t do any good. You’ll just screech and scream because you’re so stupid. Your sons could go down in history. They could be legends, but you don’t care. You’re worthless and bitter and so you want them to worthless and bitter to make yourself feel better and I want to kill you for it. I want to watch the light leave your eyes. I want to watch the weight of your existence leave their shoulders. Because that’s all you are and all you will ever be. You’re a deadweight that will pull them into an early grave.”

Lucy is sure they can hear her heart thundering. Her chest is heaving with her short, heavy breaths and her arms are prickling with power. The last time she felt like this there was a snake dead at her feet and a blood-stained ghost staring into her eyes. 

The Baron. The Baron would tell her to leave. He would hold up his arms and clank his manacles until reason came back to her. 

Lucy closes her eyes and takes a long, deep breath. She thinks Nymph’s hair fading from pink to yellow, of Ted’s warm hugs, Andromeda’s arms covered in flour, Sirius’s barking laugh, and Coco’s twitching ears. She doesn’t open her eyes until her heart is calm and her mind is as blank and smooth as a shadow. 

She can’t look at Regulus. Instead, she meet’s Arcturus’s fierce gaze. It’s probably for the best if she doesn’t try to puzzle out why the wretched old man looks so ardent. 

“I’m going to take my wand and go,” she tells him. 

He nods, shifting his weight on his cane.

“Until next time, Lucille Tonks.”

Lucy nods, picks up her wand, and calmly steps into the hall. It takes everything in her not to look back over her shoulder. 

Pollux's curiosity finally explodes as the girl leaves without so much as a backwards glance. It‘s been brewing all day, since the Prophet this morning, but now...

He hadn’t known what to expect when Walburga flooed. He hadn’t known much about the girl other than her connection to his estranged granddaughter. And why would he? She was an overreaching mudblood who would move to France or America if she had any sense. Now, though. Now he’s interested. It’s been a long, long time since anything has been interesting enough to it catch his attention. No wonder Regulus was so quick to lay his claim. 

“Regulus, give me your ring,” Pollux orders, striding across the room. 

Regulus snorts as he finally looks away from the door. “You won’t get into her flat.”

"No, but I can follow her everywhere else. ELF!"

The stooped, ugly house elf appears at Regulus's side with a soft crack of apparition.

"I require muggle clothing. Nothing too fine. I need to blend in, not stand out."

The elf glances up at Regulus for permission. It doesn't move until its master gives it a smile. The soft fool.

"I'm warning you," Regulus says, "I watched her break through parseltongue wards lain by Salazar himself. You will die if you try to break in."

Nonetheless, he still twists the ring from his finger and drops it into Pollux’s waiting hand. He tilts his head to the side as if listening to something far off. Feeling the wards, Pollux knows. No one gets in or out of Grimmauld without the knowledge of its lord. Regulus, for all of his youth, is the head of the family. Four years past, a convocation was called upon Orion's diagnosis. Even then Orion knew that Sirius Orion would flee. They could either try to manipulate the boy out of his ethics or make Regulus into a leader. Sirius, for all of his faults, was never a follower. He is a Black to his core, no matter how hard he tries to deny it. The Tonks girl said it herself: "He is his mother's son."

Pollux can't be bothered to spare a glance for his harebrained daughter, let alone a thought. She's always been a fool. Arcturus's youngest, Regulus I, was the only one of his generation with any sense, but that damn auror slaughtered him in the middle of Crescent Street. Her death had been particularly satisfying.

"She's gone," Regulus announces. 

Pollux nods and sweeps out of the room without a word. The trick to tracking charms is to not place them directly on the victim. It should be something they will wear everyday: a scarf, cufflinks, a hair ribbon. Or in this particular case, the soles of their shoes. Once outside, Pollux casts a disillusionment charm and then focuses on the charm he placed, centering himself around its beckoning call.

Chapter Text

Pollux is surprised to arrive in the Leaky Cauldron. He almost panics when a quick scan does not reveal any short, voluptuous blondes dressed in cutting shades of scarlet and charcoal. There is, however, a full-figured redhead in all black, stomping through the pub in basilisk skin boots with a tracking charm on the soles. It's a good enough glamour. Very subtle. Stronger jaw, thicker brows, thinner lips. Lucille Tonks has made herself into no-one. 

She leads him on a merry chase down Diagon, past Gringotts, and into the bowels of Knockturn. He briefly wonders if she’s trying to throw him off, but after winding through a labyrinth of grimy streets, she enters a nondescript apothecary. The shop is dark and oddly clean smelling. Places like these, especially in Knockturn, usually carry a herbal scent strong enough to induce headaches. The store might have been mistaken for a front if it weren’t stocked full of illicit ingredients. 

The girl seems familiar enough with the store. She walks directly to the far wall, picks out three merchild scales, and hurries up to till. The reason for the shop’s strange lack of stench is suddenly revealed. A muscular vampire with slavic features stands at the counter. His onyx eyes catch Pollux’s gaze for half a beat. 

To Pollux’s surprise, the girl strikes up a conversation with the vampire as he counts out her coins. The whole situation is astounding. Mudbloods do not make potions that require illegal ingredients. They don't go to Knockturn for said ingredients. They do not know the streets like the back of their hand. And they certainly do not greet the non-human proprietors of some back alley apothecary like old friends. 

“How’s it going?” She asks. 

“Bad,” the vampire says. His voice is as deep and accented as Pollux hoped it would be. “I read my true love is betrothed in paper.”

"Yeah, well, I've had a shit day too, Timmy. Goblins and in-laws back to back. Will you eat them for me?"

"No. I make you vampire and you eat all in-laws you wish." 

The girl’s lips twitch. "Not goblins?"

The vampire wrinkles his nose. "Goblins have thick blood. I do not like texture."

"So they're gloopy?" 

"Da.”

"Ew." 

Timmy nods. "Ew." 

Tonks pockets the paper bag and her change, but makes no move to leave. She props her chin on her fist and eyes a poster behind the counter. ‘Join the Society for the Tolerance of Vampires’ flashes in a bold black print over a red background. Every few seconds, a fanged silhouette pops in from the corner to wave. Pollux wants to burn it.

"You ever been so tired you don't even want to put the effort into going home?" 

"You stay here with me. My bed is very warm."

"That was one of your better lines. Very smooth. Seven out of ten."

Timmy, the handsome, looming vampire with a disappointing name, bares his fangs in a smile. The girl mirrors his expression, eliciting an amused huff. 

"I give you fangs, Lucy," he counters, grinning madly. "If only you ask."

Tonks rolls her eyes. “There are better paths to immortality. I’m out of here, Timmy.”

“Dasvidania, malenkaya gadyuka.”

Interesting. They’re close enough to have pet names. An ex-lover, perhaps?

The vampire doesn’t bother pretending to be a gentleman. His preternaturally dark eyes latch onto her backside and never stray as she walks to the door. Pollux follows his gaze. He’s always preferred men over women, but he is an aesthete if nothing else. Lucille Tonks is beautiful. If only Regulus had the good sense to keep her as a mistress, Pollux wouldn’t be skulking around Knockturn with a vampire and a mudblood. Then again, Regulus wouldn’t be worthy of the Black name if he weren't so dramatic. 

Unbidden, memories of Sirius Orion’s antics rise, an acidic bile that blisters the back of his throat. He scowls and forces it down, intent on getting out the door before it closes. Thankfully, the girl is too tired to notice anything amiss. 

At least, that’s what he thinks until she comes to an abrupt halt outside the shop. 

“Oh, fuck me,” she curses under her breath. Louder she calls, “Hello, Uncle. No need to be shy.”

Corban Yaxley slips out from the shadows of an alley across the cobbled street. Pollux hadn’t noticed him. He looks remarkably like his father, which is to say that he looks completely unremarkable. Dull hair, dull eyes, dull robes. Pollux bites back a sigh and settles himself against the brick wall. This debacle is bound to be dull. 

Tonk’s glamor fades with each step she takes. From his vantage point, all Pollux can make out is her long hair fading to blonde, but he can see Yaxley’s sneer deepen in an attempt to hide his appreciation. Fool. There is no denying her beauty, just as there is no denying Tom Riddle’s power. 

“I’m glad to see you so soon,” she says, peering around his shoulder. “Did you stop by for a spot of tea?”

A man wearing a necromancer’s amulet watches from under the striped awning of ‘The Last Drop’. Three hags smirk in his shadow, happy to witness two wizards make fools of themselves. Even the vampire slips outside to lean back against his grimy window. He crosses his thick arms and nods at Pollux in greeting. 

“Congratulations, Uncle,” Tonks says. “I thought it was one of the Blacks tailing me, but it looks like I’ve underestimated your cunning.”

Yaxley grips his wand tighter and glances around the street. Fierce pride burns through Pollux’s veins. They like to say that his great house is falling, but they still fear its very name. 

“Or not," she says with a frown.

She takes three steps back and raises her wand in a traditional dueling stance. “Come on, then. Let’s get this over with. I’m-“

Her taunting words are interrupted by a jet of acid blue light. It flies over her shoulder and melts a patch of the brick wall.

It’s a boring fight. Both of them are tediously average. Yaxley is more powerful and has better reflexes, but Tonks makes up for it with her unique spells. That black shield of hers is nearly impenetrable. She’s stiff, however, and it’s painfully obvious that most of her spell chains are memorized. She’s good at dodging, though. Pollux is willing to bet half his vault that she’s spent her summers ducking and side-stepping Sirius Orion’s stinging hexes. The curses graze her, but don’t manage to hit. Blood wells from her cheek and lock of swinging hair is singed off, but she continues to duck and pivot and lunge with surprising endurance for someone of her stature.

Finally, after nearly ten minutes of lackluster dueling, one of Yaxley’s spells collides with her left side. Someone watching from a second story windows boos dispassionately. A sickening crunch sounds. It’s immediately drowned out by a shrill scream as Tonks curls in on her left arm. Yet a curse barrels from her wand even as she cries out in pain. Yaxley, shocked, conjures a hasty shield. The lurid spell dissolves against it, but another follows in the next instant. It is almost invisible, nothing more than a shimmer of heat. 

The Imperius Curse spears through Yaxley’s shield and pierces his stomach. 

The effects are instantaneous. He unfolds from his defensive crouch and lowers his wand arm. His bland features smooth out in subservience as he straightens to his full height.

Lucille flicks her wand and his lands at her feet. She quickly casts a flurry of spells on her ruined arm. A splint appears down her brachium and a sling materializes around her shoulder. Sweat glistens on her temple as she bends down to pocket his wand. 

“Answer my questions honestly,” she orders as she stands. Everyone shuffles forward to better hear. A few even lean precariously out their open windows. 

“Do you have any other weapons?”

“Yes. A dagger in my left trouser pocket.”

She tilts her head and surveys him with bored interest, cradling her broken arm. “Did the Dark Lord send you?”

“No, but he gave me permission.”

“Permission? Did you ask him?”

“Yes.”

Pollux smirks in time with the girl. He can imagine Yaxley simpering at Riddle’s feet, kissing the hem of his dark robes, begging ‘oh please milord, won’t you please let me kill the little mudblood?’.

“Did someone follow? To watch?”

The audience looks around, peering at one another with interest. Pollux glances questioningly at the vampire. He shakes his head sharply. He either senses no one or does not care to tell. 

“I do not know.”

Lucille sighs. “Then what the hell are you good for?”

“I am wealthy, hold three Wizengamot seats, and have close family connections in Germany and Bulgaria.”

“How boring. Tell me, Corban Yaxley, what do you regret the most in your life?”

“I impregnated a muggle whore in Munich. She birthed my firstborn. He is the top of his class at Beauxbatons but does not know my name.”

Her pale brows rise. "Interesting. Would you like me to tell him?"

"No. He is better off without me."

"I think a lot of people will be better off without you." She studies him from head to toe, her tongue darting out to swipe at her lips. "Take out your dagger." 

Yaxley arms himself without a hint of hesitancy.

"Slit your throat." 

He obeys just as easily. The knife digs into the pale skin of his neck. Crimson blood wells around the steel blade. His hand tightens, preparing to slice, but then the vampire is there, wrenching Yaxley's arm out of it's socket and replacing the dagger with mouth. His full lips darken with blood as Yaxley's head falls back against his shoulder.

"Finite," Lucille intones. 

Yaxley jolts as the curse drops. The vampire's arms flex, trapping his prey, and Yaxley screams. His hoarse wails reverberate down the narrow street. The hags break into delighted laughter. Someone drops down from the window. He staggers forward, enthralled by the blood and agony, until a female vampire follows after and tugs him back. 

It takes a long time for Corban Yaxley to die. Not once does the audience look away. Not once does he look away from the girl, pain and pleading in his eyes, and not once does she look away from him. Just when his dying screams start to become annoying, Yaxley dies with one last gurgle. His fine robes darken with filth as soon as his body hits the cobbled streets. 

The vampire smiles. Blood marbles against his teeth and drips out of the corner of his wide mouth. His onyx eyes have turned a deep, haunting crimson. 

"Vkusno," he murmurs sensuously, stepping over the body. "I wonder will your blood be as sweet as your kisses, little viper? Or will you burn with venom?"

Pollux grins. Finally, something worth his attention.

Lucille angles her body to the side and raises her wand. "Calm down mate. You gotta keep it in your pants or I’ll have to hurt you.”

"It will be worth it. To burn with taste of virgin blood on my tongue."

"Tihomir," the necromancer cautions. The emerald in his amulet gleams in the dull light as he steps forward. "Tihomir, do not make me step in. I will not let you bring the House of Black down upon us."

In the tense silence, a clap rings down the street. 

A well dressed elderly man steps out from the shadows. His vicious grin cuts as sharp as any blade. Pollux remembers Cassius Nott from his time at school. He was cutting kneazles open by their second year and forcing mudblood girls into broom closets in their fourth. Crass, really. Pollux is no stranger to cruel urges, but he's never been so boorish about it. True violence is an art. 

Nott waves his wand at the vampire, freezing him in place. Clever little spell, that. Wizards often forget the older hexes in favor of new, brutal curses. 

“My, my, Lucille. You do not disappoint.”

Lucille does not look up, even as Nott strides to her side. He reaches over to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Distaste pools on Pollux’s tongue. It is a twisted reflection of how Regulus had flirted with her over tea.  

“Blood-crazed vampires, heroic necromancers, and botched revenge. How very fascinating. Was Yaxley your first kill?"

“Yes.”

“Mmm,” he hums, ghosting his wrinkled hand over her hair. The hand trails down to curl into her waist and he pulls her close. "The vampire could be your second. Tell me, have you really kissed him? I wouldn’t blame you. He is a fine specimen."

Pollux scoffs and pushes off of the wall, removing his disillusionment spell as he strolls into the street. Lucille’s eyes widen and she takes a step towards him almost reflexively. Her captor tightens his hold. She stumbles into his side, hissing when her wounded arm collides with his chest. 

“Still as uncouth as ever, I see,” Pollux says in lieu of a greeting. 

“Well, well. If it isn’t Pollux Black, back from the dead. Exiled yourself to Dover, no? How quaint.”

“Yes,” Pollux drawls. “How dreadful to retire peacefully with your wife and children. It’s more than you can say. How many wives is it now? Six? Or is it five and Lucille will be your sixth?”

“Lucille won’t be anything,” she hisses. 

Cassius tuts and digs his fingers into her ribs. Her lips pull back in a snarl just as feral as the vampire’s. 

“Do it,” she taunts. “Take me. I want to see what they do.”

“Now, now, doll,” he croons. “You’re only betrothed. The Black-“

Pollux laughs. “You think my grandson gives a fuck? He’s half mad already.”

“Do you think I’m threatened by that meek boy you call an heir?”

“Oh, I’m not talking about Regulus,” Pollux says, flashing his teeth.

Nott hesitates. In a truly inspirational display of shrewdness, Lucille contorts her wrist into an almost unnatural angle to cast at the vampire. Just as he begins to move, she shoves her broken arm into Cassius’s chest and runs. The soles of her boots scrape against the damp street. Pollux holds out his arm, prepared to pull her into a side-along, but she veers to the left at the last moment. He only manages to get out a spiteful “To me, you stupid-“ before she disappears with a loud crack. 

Pollux sighs up at the heavens. Foolish girl. He only meant to heal her at Grimmauld and set her free, but if she wants to be a cretin, that is her own business. The last thing he sees before disapparating is a spurt of blood and a lick of flame. 

The foyer of Grimmauld Place curls into place around him. He takes a moment to breathe in the familiar scent of his childhood home; lemon and wood polish and the metallic tang of blood magic. This is how his cousin and grandson find him, eyes closed and head thrown back to breathe in the smell of nobility. He doesn’t bother to look their way until the sharp sounds of loafers against the wooden stairs soften on the foyer carpet. 

“I’m too old to go mucking about with the poor,” he grumbles. 

Arcturus snorts. Regulus hooks his arm into his to lead him into the sitting room. Sunlight spills through the velvet curtains, casting a warm glow onto the plum interior. He allows himself to be lowered into a bergère with silver tassels. He doesn’t need the assistance; he isn’t quite that old just yet. It’s simply nice to be held by his grandson. They’re down two grandchildren already and the remaining three are entangled in the war. 

“Lucille is most certainly not poor,” Regulus says, perching on the matching ottoman. “Did she lead you on a merry little chase?”

“You sound far too amused by that notion.”

Arcturus uses the cane to balance his weight as he sits. He’s only two and a half decades younger than Dumbledore. The average wizard lives to be around one hundred and forty years, but the more powerful among them can live over two hundred. Arcturus might have if he hadn’t had the bad luck of being head of the family during the war with Grindelwald. This will be their last war for the two of them, succeed or fail, but it will not be the last for the House of Black. Pollux will claw his way back through the veil if it falls. 

“I do believe I may have become acquainted with your betrothed’s ex-lover. Nasty piece of work.”

Pollux really shouldn’t be surprised by Regulus’s fond smile. The boy is smitten. He might have feared amortentia if he hadn’t just watched the girl make a man slit his own throat. That’s exactly the sort of the thing that would captivate one of his godsforsaken kin.  

“She does have a type,” Regulus says. 

“Yes. The tall, dark, and murderous sort if today was any indication. Elf! Water!”

“A murder, really?” Arcturus asks, his brows raised. 

Pollux takes a sip of cold water and relaxes back into the chair. 

“She went to a nondescript apothecary deep within Knockturn. Odd enough for a mudblood, but then she chats up the proprietor, who happens to be a vampire that would have given Arcturus a run for his money back in the day.”

“Is he Russian?” Regulus asks thoughtfully. “I thinks Severus might have recommended the place.”

“Slavic, at the very least. Called her his little viper in accented Russian. Latvian, perhaps.”

Regulus frowns in distaste. “Lucille isn’t a viper, and there certainly isn’t anything little about her.”

“Focus, son, focus,” Arcturus sighs. “This is not the time to indulge in your romantic tendencies.”

“After her purchase,” Pollux continues loudly, drowning out Regulus’s retort. “We found Corban Yaxley waiting to ambush her.”

Regulus groans and buries his head in his hands. “Please tell me he’s dead. I have better things to do than hunt Yaxleys over my holiday.”

“He’s dead,” he says drily. “It was an abysmal duel. We’ll have to work on that if you insist on bringing her into the family. She only won because Yaxley underestimated her and that will not always be the case.”

“How did she kill him?” Arcturus wonders. 

“Baited him to raise a shield with simple curses and then followed up with an imperius.” 

“Hm. Clever.”

Pollux nods. “Even more clever, she embarrassed him in front of their audience. It was nothing too interesting, I won’t bother to report it, but then she told him to slit his own throat. I was impressed.”

Regulus grins. “She’s very creative, my Lucy.”

“Very resourceful,” Pollux agrees. “Unfortunately, the vampire went into a blood craze at the first scent of blood. I suppose he was the one to technically end Yaxley, but she will be credited with the kill.”

“A blood craze? He attacked?”

“That’s when it became interesting. He taunted the girl- are you aware that she is a virgin?”

Regulus sighs. “Yes. She’s mentioned something about an old Roman ritual.” 

Pollux blinks. His mind goes utterly blank. 

“Really?!” Arcturus blurts, leaning forward on his cane. “How the hell did she learn about those?”

Regulus shrugs. “I believe she may be second only to the Dark Lord in her knowledge of rituals. In Britain, anyway. Though admirable, it makes life considerably more difficult for me.”

“Is she fertile? If she needs help conceiving-“

“Merlin, Grandfather, no! She just wants to fuel a crystal.”

“But-“

“Focus, Grandfather, focus.”

Pollux smirks at his cousin’s curdled expression.  

“Oh, carry on, Pollux,” Arcturus grumbles. 

Pollux rolls his eyes. “The vampire turned on the girl, at which point a necromancer got involved.” Here, he pauses for effect, relishing in their rapt attention. “He said that he wouldn’t allow the vampire to bring the House of Black down on their heads.”

All three of them preen enough to put a Malfoy to shame. It’s almost embarrassing, but no one would dare to say it to their faces. Pollux is immensely regretful that he must ruin the moment with the mention of someone as base as Cassius Nott. 

“But then Cassius Nott stepped out of the shadows like some decrepit creature and made himself involved.”  

“How hasn’t he been murdered yet?!” Arcturus demands, at the same time Regulus asks, “Do I get to hunt down Nott?”

Arcturus rounds on him. “You think yourself capable of assassinating Cassius Nott?”

“I’d almost rather not,” Regulus says, smirking at his awful pun. They really should have cut Sirius Orion’s tongue out at birth. It would have saved them a lot of trouble. “The Dark Lord is fond of his Knights, but I could do with a challenge.”

“How?” 

“It would probably be too easy, really. Get Lucy to create a gap in his wards, kill him in his sleep, and raze his estate to the ground. I don’t imagine anyone would be too upset to see his line end. It’s the least he deserves.” He cocks his head to the side thoughtfully. “We should have married Narcissa to him. She’d have made herself pregnant and poisoned him within the first month.”

Arcturus grunts. “I doubt it. She’s yet to bear Malfoy an heir.”

“The Malfoys have never been known for their virility,” Pollux points out. Narcissa has always been his favorite, being the last and quietest of her sisters. “It doesn’t matter. None of this will be necessary just yet. He’ll need watching, but Tonks escaped. She unpetrified the vampire while I was trying to rescue her. The gall! I meant for her to come with me, but she disapparated on her own.”

“Was she well?” Regulus asks. 

“A few cuts, and it looked as though her arm was in shambles.”

Regulus sighs. “Of course it was.” 

He abruptly closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. After several moments, he raises his wand and intones, “Expecto patronum.”

A broad, shaggy creature with round ears and spotted fur jumps from his wand. Everyone had been immensely proud when Regulus first managed a patronus, but they were just as puzzled. No one could have guessed a hyena, let alone a female one. A little research cleared any confusion. It made perfect sense. Hyenas are matriarchal creatures, hence the gender, and they are brutal, cunning killers. Lions rip and tear at their prey. Hyenas break bones and eat them alive. 

"Find Severus Snape," Regulus orders. "Tell him Lucy is injured at her flat. He'll need skele-gro at the least."

The beast inclines its head and bounds through the window. Regulus slumps on his stool. 

"That's getting harder to manage." 

Arcturus grunts. "Like it's any skin off your back when you can just blast fiendfyre at them."

"Well, yes, but I can't show off my mastery of fiendfyre, can I? It's not worth the trouble of bribing my way out of Azkaban."

"Vain creature," Arcturus says fondly. "Who is this Severus Snape?" 

"Dear Salazar," Pollux gripes. "If you two are going to gossip like a pair of old crones, I'm going to soak in a bath and scrub the stench of poverty away. Merlin knows where she'll lead me tomorrow."

Regulus cocks a brow. "You realize she'll take the tracking charm off?"

Pollux hums noncommittally as he rises from his chair. At least three of her bones were shattered and she was nearly snatched by a man infamous for murdering his wives and their newborn daughters. A tracking charm will be the last thing on her mind. 

Muggles are bizarre. 

It is all Pollux can think as he stares at his reflection in the mirror. The clothes are comfortable. He'll give them that. They're made of something that resembles velvet yet conforms to the body with much more ease. The shoes aren't very thick or warm, but they fit just as well as his custom-made boots before the charms.

It's the style that has him so perplexed. Both the trousers and the jacket are made of the same putrid pea green, which is displeasing on its own, but there are bold jagged stripes across the chest in equally horrible shades of orange and brown. There are even more stripes on the outer seam of the trouser leg. It is hideous. He would not even leave the house if he had not taken Polyjuice. 

The disguise alone is disconcerting. Even nearing eighty Pollux has a thick head of lustrous gray hair. Blacks do not go bald. This stranger has a receding hairline and dull, tawny freckles. Pollux has never been mediocre in his life. It’s revolting, revolting enough that he refuses to be seen in such a state. He focuses on that flare of alien awareness in the back of his mind and spins on his heel. 

The guest room of Grimmauld Place is replaced by a dark, wide alley. A ragged man freezes from where he is rummaging in an overflowing dumpster. Face distorted in disgust, Pollux flicks his wand at the man. Green light illuminates the alley and then the creature is slumped against the brick wall. Filthy animals.

Pollux finds himself overtaken with the greatest sense of dread. Regulus said the girl isn’t poor, but she is obviously comfortable with destitute conditions and the muggles are nowhere near as advanced as some would like to believe. What if there are more of those scraggy, filthy men crawling around the streets?

In any case, Pollux is a Black. One of the more unsettling ones, too. Where Arcturus was all proud confidence and blunt truths, Pollux served as his aide-de-camp. Some threats are meant to be disposed of publicly. Others require a more surreptitious end. People fear the unknown, after all, and Pollux has always been fascinated with the more esoteric branches of magic. He may not be a blustering Gryffindor, but he is no coward. He holsters his wand and steps out into the street. 

He need not have feared. The street is clean and bright. Shiny automobiles line the pavement and uniformed muggles guard pristine glass doors. Pollux cannot make out Lucille’s direct presence, only sense that she is in the general area, which must mean that she is in her home. He ducks back into the alley long enough to cast a disillusionment charm. He wonders, with idle amusement, how long it will be until the ragged man is discovered. 

Back on the street, Pollux watches as women and children walk back, fussing and laughing. A few men pass by as well, almost all of them dressed in wide-legged trousers. It’s terrible. They should go back to how they dressed in the 20s and 30s. It was elegant enough to influence wizarding wear.

Finally, after an eternity, the tracking charm flares. Two teenagers exit a towering brick building to his right. Despite everything, Pollux can’t ignore the rush of emotion. It has been four years since he last saw Sirius Orion. A wild, mad urge, the likes of which he hasn’t had to suppress in decades, shouts to go greet him. There is a breathtaking dichotomy to Sirius’s features that is unique to the Blacks. Under the dark stubble and long hair and rebellious leather, there is a distinctly aristocratic beauty. He moves with an elegance that defies his charming boisterousness, which in turn masks the instability of his mind. Even from afar Pollux can make out the dangerous edge to his smile. 

Lucille was right. He is a Black, no matter how much they all try to deny it. 

Sirius strikes up an animated conversation with the doorman. His barking laugh echoes down the street, warming Pollux to the bone. The doorman puts a surprised, sheepish expression and follows up with something apologetic to Lucille. There are no bruises or cuts and she seems well rested. The only indication that she was injured is the sling cradling her arm close to her chest. She gives the doorman a smile that brings a blush to his cheeks, and then she and Sirius set off down the street. 

There’s no reason to try and keep them in sight. Sirius is too clever and Lucille has spent years honing her instincts. She’ll sense him a mile off. Instead, he allows the tracking charm to guide his steps. He supposes he’ll have to apparate if they hire an automobile or hop on one of those underground trains. Ghastly, those are. He took one back before the Second World War and vowed to never take one again. His late cousin Regulus teased him about it for three months. 

Thankfully, their destination is near enough to not merit transportation. It is also disappointing. He’d hoped for a clandestine vigilante meeting or an underground market ran by mudbloods. He did not expect a bright muggle diner advertising American food. Still, knowledge is power and neither of them will expect Pollux to dine at such a place. American, honestly. Italian or French would be too much to ask for.

Pollux pauses two buildings over to nab a copy of the Daily Mirror. Regulus's sapphire ring catches the green traffic light, eliciting a frown from Pollux. Powerful enchantments prevent an object from being transfigured, but he might get away with shrinking the jewel. He pretends to fumble with the newspaper to mask a quick spell. The sapphire goes down enough to be twisted around his finger, at least. Then, after a quick thought, he casts another spell to increase his hearing. One must always be prepared and willing to improvise.

Inside, Pollux takes a moment to survey the diner. He has to admit that muggle establishments are much cleaner than wizarding ones. The serviette dispensers may as well be mirrors for how well they’re polished. Fortunately, almost every seat is taken except for a couple of stools at the bar, a booth next to the rubbish bin, and a table adjacent to Sirius and Lucille. He slips through the tables and lowers himself onto the hard plastic seat. Their voices come loud and clear through his hearing charm. They have yet to erect any privacy spells.

“Can’t it wait until we get back?” Lucille is pleading. 

Over the menu- and dear Merlin, it’s comprised entirely of Americanisms- Pollux can barely make out her profile from his vantage point, but he’s nearly head-on with his scowling grandson. 

“It’s been months. You promised you would give me answers back when I saved your arse in that cave.”

The girl sighs. “Yes, but it’s personal and-“

She trails off as a pretty waitress walks up to take their order. Lucille requests "my regular please, Maisie" but Sirius stumbles over the American terminology. Or pretends too. The waitress playfully corrects him, blushing fiercely when he smiles up at her. Lucille rolls her eyes and aims a kick at his shin. Amusingly enough, the waitress stiffens. She turns to Lucille with wide, horrified eyes. 

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m engaged to his brother.”

“Oh! Oh, should I...will he be joining you?”

“No,” She says, obviously fighting off a smile. “We were friends before.”

A shit-eating grin spreads across Sirius’s face. “Yeah, Luce was family before she got with Reggie.”

Pollux coughs quickly to cover his laugh, eyes riveted to the menu. This Marlon Brando fellow is quite the specimen. The waitress finally leaves with their order. She makes her way over to Pollux and gives him a sweet smile. This close, he can see the freckles against her brown skin. She is still flushed from her earlier misstep. He’d have her blushing even more if it weren’t for his abhorrent disguise. 

“Hello, luv. You ready or you need a mo’?”

“Yes, I’ll take the Marlon Brando.”

She clicks her pen. “Wouldn’t we all?”

He hums in agreement. “With orange juice. I won’t contaminate myself with whatever is in these ‘soda pops’.”

“I know, right?” She says, scribbling away. “The only bubbly drink I want is champagne.”

“Quite.”

She blinks in surprise, her eyes flashing down to his blinding ensemble. 

“Never seen someone so posh in a tracksuit.”

He almost, almost tells her that he’s stock full of surprises, but he manages to bite it down. Even he isn’t cruel enough to subjugate her to that while he’s looking like this. 

“It’s comfortable.”

She nods. “‘Spose so. I’ll have your food out soon.”

He has the newspaper open before she turns away. Sirius and Lucille are still arguing in quiet voices at their table. 

“...get angry,” she is saying, “and we’re in public, surrounded by muggles. You can’t freak out and turn into Padfoot.”

Turn into Padfoot? Could that mean he has become an animagus? They would have been notified if he were on the registry, but if he hadn’t registered... Pollux smirks at his newspaper. An animagus at seventeen! And he hadn’t bothered to register! Oh, the boy’s a Black, there’s no doubt about it.

“I’m not an idiot,” Sirius says.

“Of course not. But you’re...you’re you and I can’t risk Ministry attention right now.”

“I still can’t believe that old creep touched you.”

Lucille groans. “Don't remind me. I’m going to have to thank your grandfather for his help with that clusterfuck.”

“I still can’t believe that old creep helped you.”

“He is unsettling, isn’t he?”

“Distraction’s not going to work either, Tonks. I was brought up by Slytherins. I know every one of those sneaky tactics.”

“Not all of mine, you don’t. It’s what makes me so good. I expand on theirs with all of my mudblood-“

“You're going to have to do better than that. I hear you call yourself that all the time.”

There is a lull in their conversation. Pollux can imagine the girl scowling out the window while Sirius folds his arms across his chest in haughty victory. 

“Fine,” she eventually relents. “But I want a vow.”

“Done.”

A third voice appears just as ceramic rattles against the tabletop. “Here’s your regular, Lucy, and the Ray Charles for you."

"Thanks," Sirius says, "we'll be fine until the check, love."

"Of course. Let me know if you need anything."

There is a low murmur and then a tingle of magic brushes against Pollux's skin. When Sirius speaks, his voice comes low and tinny through the privacy wards.

"So what do you want in this vow?" he asks.

"No interfering or repeating anything to anyone unless I die." 

"No."

"This isn't a negotiation, Sirius."

"That's ridiculous! What if you're put in a coma or-"

"Sev wouldn't let me waste away like that," she says dismissively. "You can take it or leave it."

"Eugh. Fine." 

Just as soon as he beings to make a vow, the waitress reappears at Pollux's side to deliver his food. He nods his head in thanks without looking up from whatever article he's supposed to be reading. Some hogwash about a Northern Ireland. Preposterous. Why divide Ireland?

He focuses back in on Lucille and Sirius, just in time to hear an incredulous, "Does that mean he had a cockney accent?!"

"I'm never going to get through this if you keep interrupting."

"Fine. Go on."

And so Lucille weaves the tale of the Dark Lord. It isn't entirely unfamiliar to Pollux, but he listens closely anyway. She emphasizes odd details and reveals truths unknown to anyone other than perhaps the Dark Lord himself. 

Tom Marvolo Riddle is an unloved, half-blood orphan raised by muggles. His caretakers and peers are scared of him, of the things he can do. Then he gets a letter and a visit and goes to Diagon Alley, where he buys secondhand robes and used books and a new wand with a core from Dumbledore himself. This boy, this sad, angry child, goes to Hogwarts. The castle becomes his home, but he is still as lonely as ever. His peers hate him for his name and power and blood. 

But Tom Riddle is not weak. He works hard and he studies. He delves deeper into magic than any student before him. His teachers begin to love him and the students quickly follow. He is feared and admired in kind. And then, when he learns of his mother’s blood, he is revered. Soon after, he makes himself immortal. He is a god and he will shape the world in his image. He will make the world pay for all the wrongs it has done. 

Tom Riddle, however, is not a god. He is a human. He is mortal. Death will come for him, as it does everyone, and he fears it and hates it in kind. So when a prophecy is spoken, a prophecy about a vanquisher born as the seven month dies, he acts. 

And later, she says, there is a boy who lives in a cupboard under the stairs. He is an unloved, half-blood orphan raised by muggles. His family and peers are scared of him, of the things he can do. Then he gets a letter and a visit and goes to Diagon Alley, where he gets a wand with a core from Dumbledore himself. This boy, this brave, hopeful child, goes to Hogwarts. The castle becomes his home, but he is still as lonely as ever. Tom Riddle was no one, but he turned this boy into someone, marked him as his equal and damned him to be feared and admired in kind. 

He defeats the Dark Lord in his first year. There is talk of a stone and blood protections, but he is victorious in the end. 

He defeats the Dark Lord in his second year. There is a diary and a basilisk and talk of “we even look something alike, you know”, but he is once again victorious. 

His third year goes a bit differently. A dark wizard escapes from Azkaban to kill the boy. Everyone begs the boy to not hunt the wizard in kind, but he doesn’t understand why he would. Not until he learns the wizard is his godfather, that he was his parent’s secret keeper. 

At long last, he confronts the wizard and uncovers the truth. His godfather was never the secret keeper. He proposed switching to someone less obvious at the last moment and for that he blamed himself. He served his penance in Azkaban until he saw the traitor in the paper. 

In the end, the boy is not victorious. The traitor escapes. 

The boy escapes the Dark Lord in his fourth year. There is a tournament and a ritual and a traitor and the Dark Lord is victorious. Yet the Boy-Who-Lived still lives.

He escapes the Dark Lord in his fifth year. There is a vision and a prophecy and a death and the boy is forever changed, but he lives. It is all his godfather would have wanted. 

He eludes the Dark Lord in his sixth year. He studies him, learns how right the horcrux was all those years ago. “We even look something alike, you know.” He goes to a cave and comes back to find his home overrun with pests. 

Dumbledore is murdered. The Dark Lord is victorious. 

The boy does not have a seventh year. He is on the run. He is on the hunt. There are five horcruxes in total and it takes months to find them all. And then the final battle arrives, a double agent reveals his loyalties, and the Boy-Who-Lived learns that he must die. Raised like a pig for slaughter. So he walks into the Forest with his heart full and his hands shaking and he dies. 

Harry Potter is victorious and he is dead. 

“But none of that has to happen,” Lucille says, leaning earnestly over the table. “If we destroy the four horcruxes and lure him to Godric’s Hollow, he will-“

Sirius stands abruptly. He pushes out of the booth and walks stiffly to the exit. Pollux watches as his broad frame is swallowed by the crowd. He stares after his grandson for a long time, lost in his thoughts. He tries to imagine him as the filthy man from earlier. He fails. He cannot imagine Sirius living off of rats and covered in his own filth. He cannot imagine Regulus’s fierce snarl contorted into a scream as he ripped from limb to limb. He dare not imagine it. He dare not-

“Hello, Pollux.”

Pollux startles. His wand is in his hand and aimed without a thought. Lucille stands across from him with a wry smile. He glances down, expecting to be back in his own skin, but it is not so. The Polyjuice is still in full effect. 

“How?” He asks. 

She nods at his left hand, where the ring is turned down. 

“I’ve been in love with that ring for years. I’d know it anywhere.” 

The red chair makes a scraping noise as she takes a seat. 

“Did Sirius notice?”

Lucille snorts. “No. I told him I removed the tracking charm.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She hums and traces her finger along the table’s metal trim. Her nails are painted a deep shimmering indigo. 

“You needed to know,” she finally says. 

“Did you See that I needed to know?” 

When she does not deign to answer, he slumps back in his seat and eyes her anew. All of her beauty and intelligence is nothing compared to her ability and her ability is nothing to how she uses it. Regulus’s infatuation makes a hell of a lot more sense. 

“The Dark Lord would rip the world apart to get his hands on you.”

“He won’t.”

Pollux tuts disapprovingly. “Such arrogance.“

“Do you know why so many people are afraid of me?” She asks conversationally. 

“Because you are ruthless.”

Her brows furrow for a moment as she considers his answer. After a moment, she shakes her head. “People are afraid of Regulus because he’s ruthless. It’s different with me. Not more, just different. I’m everything they fear. I am a threat to their status quo. I could change their world to fit with the muggle one.”

“Stupid of them,” Pollux interrupts. “You don’t care about either of the worlds beyond how they serve you best. Yes it’s creative and cunning, but that isn’t what makes you dangerous. It’s that you are willing to burn both of those worlds to the ground if it means you and yours emerge unscathed. You are ruthless, my girl, and that is why they fear you. That is why Regulus is in love with you.”

Lucille seems to have been rendered speechless. She stares at Pollux with a face made of stone. Well. Best to leave while he’s ahead. If not, she’ll reveal something that will have him gaping like an idiot. He already looks foolish enough as it is. 

Pollux reaches into his pocket and throws a handful of paper bills down on the table. Paper currency, honestly.

“Good day, Lucille. I expect I’ll see you soon.”

“Oh?” She asks, licking her lips nervously. It’s a tell of hers. They’ll have to train it out of her. 

“They already fear our name, Lucy. Imagine how they will cower when it is the House of Black that vanquishes a dark lord.”

It is better than imagining how they would have pitied them in this future of hers. 

Chapter Text

Lucy is scowling down at a turtle inching its away across her shaggy lilac rug when someone pounds on the door. She doesn't bother looking up when Coco opens it. House elves, Lucy was excited to discover, can single out imposters quicker and more efficiently than any security question.

"What the hell are you doing?" A deep voice asks.

Lucy glances up to find Severus towering over her with a fearsome scowl. A part of her is disappointed. Sirius has been avoiding her since their story-time two days ago. He’s probably spent every second of it trying to find a way out of his vow. It’s a worrying prospect. He’s known to do the impossible. 

“Let me see your shoulder,” Severus orders.

"I'm busy."

“Did you ever go to Saint Mungo’s?” He demands. 

“No. I healed up alright, didn’t I?”

“That I can tell, yes. I’m not a healer. This in conjunction with the poison and the Dark Lord-“

“It was just a few broken bones. Your Skele-Gro-“

“This is different, Luce!” He barks. He slumps down on to the loveseat and buries his head in his hands. His hands look frighteningly pale threaded through his black hair. “Magic leaves a trace. It isn’t just broken bones. It was a curse. A minor one, yes, but after those poisons last term and overexposure to the cruciatus-“

"I'm fine, Severus." She leans back against the coffee table and scrutinizes her friend with narrowed eyes. "What's got your knickers in a twist?"

"You and the Dark Lord have my knickers in a twist, you idiot."

Lucy frowns. He is dressed in billowing black robes that are a bit more dramatically cut than his usual black robes. She glances over at the clock hanging on the far wall, surprised to read that it is a quarter past nine. The damn turtle has been puzzling her for six hours. It explains why Coco kept shoving that plate of sandwiches under her nose earlier. 

"Did you have dinner? With the Dark Lord?" She can just imagine a waxy Tom Riddle delicately spearing stalks of asparagus at the head of long table. 

"What?! No, of course not! How are we supposed to eat through our bloody masks?!"

"Sorry, I'm hungry. Are you hungry?" 

He shifts in his seat. "He kept us late."

"I is making pizza hours ago, Miss," Coco interrupts. She snaps her fingers and a pizza clatters onto the coffee table, flattening stacks of paper and scrolls. 

"WHAT?! COCO, NO!"

The house elf lingers long enough to shoot her mistress a nasty glare before disappearing with a loud crack. Severus huffs in amusement as he slides off the loveseat. He takes a slice of pizza with one hand and picks up a spiral notebook with the other, dark eyes flitting over the scrawled writing.

"You got this equation wrong," he says, "and Apherumes's Theory negates latin naming methodologies."

Lucy takes an angry bite out of her slice. "Fuck off, Sev."

"What are you working on?"

"A curse. Arcturus gave me the idea for it. It’s supposed to erase a name from existence."

"That's too advanced for you."

"And I repeat: Fuck off, Severus."

He scoffs. “Would you let me waste my time on a runes project that I had no hope of completing?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you even bothering? I’m sure Grandfather Black was more than impressed-“

“Because I want to know.”

Severus rolls his eyes as he tears off a bite of pizza. “Whatever.”

Lucy rolls her eyes back. “Whatever.”

He doesn’t deign to respond. He only holds his wand up in the air until the television remote zooms out from under the couch. They fall asleep during a rerun of some terrible adaptation of Jack London’s. Lucy’s last thought is that magic is almost worth the regression in special effects. Almost. 

Lucy isn’t quite sure why she chose to ride the Hogwarts Express. Some misplaced sense of nostalgia, maybe. This is her last time going to Hogwarts, after all. She’ll graduate in June and never have to return. It shouldn’t be such an exciting prospect. Voldemort gave her until graduation, yet he’s already allowed his followers to hunt her down. No doubt he’ll have something wondrous in store. She feels like Bilbo Baggins, butter scraped over too much bread.

The door to her train compartment is wrenched open as soon as Lucy gets comfortable. Severus doesn't bother pretending to use a wand to shut the door behind him. Show off.

“I warded that,” she says petulantly. 

He smirks and throws himself onto the bench across from her in a flourish of black robes. He eyes her closely, no doubt scrutinizing her shoulder again.

“What are you reading?” He asks. 

She lifts the paperback up enough for him to get a good look at the cover. He quickly dons a suitable expression of horror. 

“The Night of Knights?” He demands, aghast. “As in knights, plural?”

“Yep,” Lucy says, popping the p. 

“Muggles,” he sneers. “Magic goes against their very foundation of morality, yet it’s perfectly acceptable-“

“Don’t judge Ruby and her voracious appetites.”

“Ruby is going to die of chlamydia. Hygiene was deplorable in the Middle Ages.”

Lucy laughs. “Wouldn’t that be a plot twist.”

“Indeed. What would the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black have to say about you reading such muggle filth?”

A shudder runs down Lucy’s spine. “Pollux would probably be delighted. He’s bonkers.”

“Aren’t they all?” Severus asks, raising a brow. 

Lucy bites her lip and shakes her head. “He’s different. His eyes....Bellatrix has that glossy wildness, you know? And Sirius and Regulus get this sort of manic look sometimes, but Pollux has these eyes that are dead and gleam at the same time. It’s creepy.”

"Narcissa gets that look sometimes. And speaking of Pollux Black, did you ever hear anything about the vampire?" 

Lucy's brows furrow. "Timmy? Yeah. Sent me an apology letter, actually. He's moving back to the Continent. Told me to stop by if I'm ever in town."

“Where on the continent?”

Lucy pins him with a look. “If he wanted you to know, he would have told you. Honestly, Severus, you’re acting like a Yaxley. You usually have more tact. It’s why we all love you.”

“Regulus has no tact.”

“Yes, well, Regulus....” Lucy pauses. Her head tilts to the side as a tornado of thoughts picks up in her brain. “You know, you’ve got everything that comes to mind first too.”

It is a test as much as the truth. Sev and Reg are both clever, ruthless men with a hidden well of courage and a dark sense of humor. Lucy braces herself for a snide, self-loathing remark, yet it never comes. His dark eyes dart to her, scrutinize her face, and he hums.

“Are you going to psychoanalyze me, Tonks?” He drawls, affecting nonchalance. It is an attempt to appear uncaring, uninterested. It is an invitation. 

A wave of fear crashes into Lucy. It brightens the light of the compartment and sets her stomach swirling in on itself.

This is not Severus Snape. Severus Snape would not have invited her to continue, even in such an insecure fashion. He would have tensed, deflected, and changed the subject. He has never been able to accept Lucy‘s affections, even as platonic as they are. He has returned them in his peculiar way, in perhaps the only way he knows how, but he has never accepted them. Sometimes she fears he will never be able to. 

Now she’s afraid that he won’t for a very, very different reason. Someone is wearing Severus Snape’s skin. 

Rage begins to boil alongside the fear. She’s almost thankful for it. It calms her racing heart and settles the thoughts whirling in her head. She can do this. She just has to pretend that nothing is amiss, then excuse herself to the bathroom in a half hour or so. There’s her engagement ring too, but it hasn’t been activated. In all of her foolishness and pride, Lucy didn’t want to go calling at Grimmauld Place and beg for three drops of Regulus’s blood so that he can save her ass when the time came. Not so soon after Pollux helped save her. 

Lucy folds her arms defensively. “I don’t know. Will you listen this time?”

“Yes.”

“Will you, really? Because I don’t fancy-“

The door slides open with a metallic crash. Severus has his wand leveled at the intruder before Lucy can throw her paperback down. Violet Brown stands before them, a halo of gold curls catching the afternoon light. She stumbles a bit when she catches sight of Severus, but quickly shoots a bright smile at him before throwing herself into Lucy’s lap. She bats her ebony wand away with a scowl, reaching for Lucy’s left hand greedily. 

“Lemme see, lemme see!”  

Lucy gapes at Severus across the compartment. “You didn’t put the wards back up?!”

One side of his thin lips curls up. 

“Oooo alexandrite!” Violet squeals, holding the ring up to catch the light. “And black diamonds! It’s beautiful, Luce! Stunning! Honestly, I’m surprised. I thought you’d go with something more practical.”

“Why? I like fashion just as much as you,” Lucy counters. She discreetly shifts herself around so that her body is angled in front of Violet’s. “Well, maybe not as much as you, but I do love pretty things.”

“Yes, but you’re also a pragmatist. You’d pick something hideous if it was useful enough.”

“Well, I’ll have you know that this is a very pragmatic ring. A goblin even recommended it for its enchantments.”

“What does it do?” Severus cuts in. 

Thankfully, Violet waves him off impatiently. “Shut it, you two can be swots together when we get to school. We’re talking about wedding ensembles!”

Whoever is wearing Severus shuts down completely. The glittering spark in his eyes flattens into disbelief. Violet grins mischievously.

“I’m making your robes, of course Sev. You’re one of the bride’s two friends-“

“What?! I have more than two friends!”

She can’t have this possibly murderous spy reporting back that no one will report her missing. 

Violet tips her chin in the air impetuously. “House elves don’t count.”

“There’s Sirius-“

“Family, not a friend.”

“He can be both!”

“Doesn’t count.”

“I agree,” Severus cuts in. 

“Oh, piss off,” Lucy snaps. Who the fuck is this person to have an opinion? “I didn’t speak to Sirius until last year and that was at school. He does not count as family. So there’s him and you and Sev and I have a very amicable relationship with-“

“Whoever you’re talking about counts less than Black,” Severus says. 

“It was going to be Flitwick,” Violet says in a knowledgeable tone. “And the vampire that tried to kill you doesn’t count either. Your bridal party is nonexistent at this point, Lucy.”

Severus snorts. Violet nods in a worryingly resolute manner. 

“We’ve got our work cut out for us this term,” she says. “You need to make friends.”

“I’ve already got enough work to do,” Lucy whines. “There are the NEWTs and I started a new arithmancy project -“

“Lucille,” Violet says, unusually stern. “You’re going to be the wife of the Black heir during a civil war. You have more important responsibilities than your NEWTs. You don’t even need them anymore, really. What you need is a network. It’s crucial that you have an ally or seven going forward in society. I can help you a bit, but you need more than just me. My brother is an auror, for Salazar’s sake.”

“This isn’t your problem,” Lucy argues. “You should be worrying about starting a boutique in Milan or Paris or-“

“We might not be the closest of friends, but you’re the best one I’ve got,” Violet cuts in sharply. “You and Severus are the only ones who don’t think I’m a thoughtless tart incapable of anything more complicated than a levitation charm.” 

She pivots in her seat and fixes Severus with a glare. Dread pools in Lucy’s stomach. Litanies of “oh shit, oh shit” and “please no, no, please no” begin echoing in her head. 

“Which is a right shame for you, you spying bastard,” Violet snarls, “because Severus Snape is my friend and I’m going to-“

Several things happen at once. The train, now out of London proper, picks up speed in a steady jolt. Violet screams out a spell at the same time as her attacker. The imposter’s stunner rebounds off a shimmering white shield and ricochets off the walls of the compartment. Lucy thrusts her wand at the door frame and bellows out a very old spell. She cannot allow the intruder to lock them in. They are as good as dead if he locks them in. 

“Scufameltan!” She yells. 

Magic hurls itself from the ebony wand and collides with the wall. The horrendous sound of grating metal is almost drowned out by the small explosion. Bits of wood and metal and glass are blown out into the corridor even as the weak remnants begin to melt in on themselves. 

Lucy immediately pivots to cast at the attacker. He bats away their spells easily. Nonchalantly. 

It’s an odd experience to fight at Violet’s side. She doesn’t fight like anyone Lucy has come across. When it’s obvious neither of them will manage to get a hit in, Violet aims at the area around their opponent instead. She enlarges the jagged sheet of metal protruding from the floor when he steps over it. Out in the hall, she waits until he is under a swinging light and blows it into pieces. Once, she even manages to make him stumble by expanding the hem on his robes. Lucy, meanwhile, throws curse after curse heedless of wherever they might land. 

The imposter was almost amused at first, but he’s steadily growing frustrated. Weak jets of light fly at them in quick blitzes, the colors blending together in his furious rush. 

Crashes and screams prick at Lucy’s ears, beg for her attention, and she wants nothing more than to give in. She wants nothing more than to turn to the students around them and scream for them to get help. It would be the death of her, she knows it, but a small part of her wonders if it wouldn’t be worth it. If it wouldn’t be worth dying if it meant the worthless cretins knew what useless idiots they are. 

She grits her teeth and concentrates until there is nothing except her and Violet and the curses hurling toward them. She starts to sweat. Liquid trails down her back and neck. It pools under her breasts, causing her bra to chafe. Absurdly, as she contorts her body to avoid something lurid and orange, she finds herself wishing for break. Just long enough to pull her hair back. 

Fake-Severus bats away Violet’s latest charm, levitates a textbook to take Lucy’s curse and erects a translucent shield. Behind it he twirls his wrist in tight circles to cast something undoubtedly frightening.  

“CRUCIO!” Lucy bellows, and he is forced to halt his movements to dodge the unforgivable. 

A blue jet of light catches her eye. She and Violet both step back out of instinct. It takes them a second to realize that it came from behind them, not from the imposter. They don’t dare turn to see who it is. Instead, they turn on their attacker with renewed hope. It burns through their veins, adds powers to their spells. They come out brighter, shimmering, practically pulsating with strength. 

It is Lily Evans that shoves between Violet and Lucy. Her long, bright ponytail flicks back and forth with every lunge and thrust of her long limbs. She is a nightmare. Or rather, a dream. She is Violet’s speed and creativity with Lucy’s repertoire and brutality. 

The imposter bares Severus’s crooked teeth and snarls. His spells become sloppy. Desperate. Savage. Everything is cast on instinct. Lucy falls back on her training with Severus and Sirius. She designates herself to Lily’s defense, summoning shields and debris and small animals to make her invincible. 

Violet holds her own. It’s tricky. She hasn’t spoken more than two words to Lily in their six and half years at Hogwarts. It takes careful thought that they can’t afford to fit into Lily’s space while still defending herself against their attacker. It takes its toll. She’s so preoccupied with her surroundings that she forgets to mind the fight. The imposter jabs his wand and Violet crumbles to her feet with a shrill cry. 

Hatred, deep and burning and endless, surges through Lucy. It unfurls in her stomach and rushes into her chest, down her arms and through her wand. 

“AVADA KEDAVRA!!”

He sidesteps just in time. It crashes into the door beside his face in a blare of green. Lily anticipates his lunge and casts her own curse. A pink shield absorbs it at the last second. Fucking spineless snobs. An unforgivable would have hit. He would be dead if they all weren’t so bloody sanctimonious. 

Lily batters at the shield with every curse Severus taught her. She’s using every one except the one she needs. White, blue, orange, red, orange. The imposter grits his teeth and buckles under the barrage of curses. 

Lucy aims at the pale, bony wrist jutting out of from his sleeves. “Sectumsemptra!” She thinks, throwing her entire body into the harsh slash of her wand. 

His hand suddenly falls, still clutching his own wand, and the shield dissipates. He doesn’t have time to react. Two of Lily’s curses land on his chest in quick succession. He crashes into the floor with a soft moan.  His skin is already gaining color and his hair shrinking in on itself by the time Lucy clambers over to Violet’s prone figure. 

A smattering of wood frames her face. Her lovely, bloody, still face. Blood steadily streams from her eyes and nose. The sight of it sends another surge of loathing through Lucy, a persistent itch under her skin begging her to act, to curse, to kill. 

Hone it, Regulus had said, so long ago in the Chamber. Sink it in to your bones. Breathe it in to your lungs. 

Lucy closes her eyes and takes deep, settling breath. In and out. In. And out. When she opens her eyes again, the itch is still there, but the ringing in her ears is gone. She hadn’t even noticed it before it had gone. 

“Coco!” She says firmly, picturing her girly little elf. 

Coco appears instantly. Her scarred, bony shoulders sink as she takes in the wreckage surrounding them. 

“Coco, I need you drop Violet off at St. Mungo’s. Can you manage that?” 

Coco’s ears wobble as she nods. She reaches down and wraps one long hand around Violet’s limp arm. They disappear with a loud crack.

“You selfish bitch!”

It’s delivered incredulously. Almost disbelievingly. Lucy rises and spins to face Lily Evans. She’s standing over Cassius Nott, of all people. Her messy ponytail is sparking and her face has gone a startling shade of scarlet. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?!?! There are children bleeding out. Children! And you choose to rescue your grown friend?! What the bloody hell is wrong with you lot?!”

Lucy frowns, looking around in confusion. She hadn’t noticed any children. She hadn’t been looking for them. She was worried about Violet. Only Violet. Honestly, she's more concerned with Cassius fucking Nott sprawled unconscious on the floor at the moment. This is the second Death Eater that's come after her in a matter of weeks. Voldemort is either testing her or trying to get her killed. However, this is apparently not the time to consider the threats to her life, if Lily Evans is to be believed. There are a handful of students poking around dented doors. Three of them are sniffling over a prone figure. One boy, a Ravenclaw with dark skin, clutches a blonde Ravenclaw girl to her chest. Something long and sharp is protruding where her left eye should be. 

“I didn’t-" She stumbles over her words, trying to formulate the best approach to get Lily to see reason. "I don't-”

“No, you don't, do you?” Lily spits out. “Your kind never does. You’re all so selfish, you snakes. You’re over here luring Death Eaters into school while their lord is out killing people like you and me.” 

“What the fuck do you think-“

“Sirius says there’s a mark,” she cuts in, crouching down. “He said they were going to mark him. Do you think this cod’s got it? Has Regulus got it? Do you have it?”

“Lily, no!” Lucy screams, throwing herself across the corridor. 

She isn’t fast enough. She’s never been fast enough. Lily’s freckled fingers dig into Nott’s forearm. The dancing gnomes on her nails look very strange against the angry, tattooed flesh. 

Fear overtakes Lucy. She tries to say something, anything, to tell them to hide, to run, like the voice in her head is screaming, but all that comes out is a strangled cough. Her legs give out. One moment she is standing and the next she is sliding down a cracked pane of glass. 

He is just as beautiful as he was on Christmas. Sensuous lips, graceful limbs, cutting cheekbones. And the power. Merlin, the magic. It is soft as he peers around the train car. It is a gentle winter breeze, reaching out to kiss at her cheeks. When his eyes follow it to land on Lucy slumped against the closed door, they scrutinize her as if searching for injuries. Seemingly satisfied, he nods to himself, then toes at Nott’s prone figure with a polished black loafer. Voldemort’s dramatic robes are nowhere to be found. Instead, he’s wearing a pair of simple trousers and a white shirt. Strange. Surreal. Like Lily’s nail polish. 

“What have you done with this one, Lucille?” He asks in an amused tone. “You’re going through my men awfully fast.”

A girl whimpers further down the car. Lucy, for her part, lets out a choked sob. 

“All Lily,” she says, waving her wand to the left. Glass and metal creak as her trusted bag tries to work its way through a pile of rubble. 

Voldemort raises a dark, groomed brow. He’s so pretty. Almost otherworldly. One look at him and it’s obvious there’s something off about him. Obvious that he is something more than anyone else. Something worse. 

He turns to Lily, who is staring up at him with wide, green eyes. The ugly flush in her cheeks has receded into a chalky white complexion. 

“Lily,” he muses, the syllables rolling off his tongue. “Lily Evans, no?”

“Y-yes. How did you-“

“My spies have told me all about you, Miss Evans. I had thought them to be exaggerations, but it’s enjoyable to be proved wrong on occasion.” He flashes a devilish smile. “It is a novel experience for Lord Voldemort.”

Both of them turn to consider Nott conked out on the floor. Of course, Lucy’s bag chooses that moment to finally wench itself free. It zooms across the hall and settles contentedly in her lap. Voldemort watches as she sticks her wand in and summons two emerald potions bottles. She downs one in a long gulp, then throws the other back even faster. It goes into effect immediately. Her heart rate drops, her breath evens out, and the panicked fear recedes into blissful calm. Truthfully, half a bottle would have been plenty enough to take the edge off, but needs must. 

“That was cowardly of you, Miss Tonks,” Lord Voldemort says, his upturned lips at odds with his chiding words.

Lily Evans lets out an almost inhuman noise. Disdain gushes from her like power clouds Voldemort. 

“Are you serious?!” she demands, stomping her foot. Some of the color returns to her cheeks alongside her temper. She looks very stressed. “There are children bleeding out and you get high as a kite-“

Voldemort holds up a hand. Lily sucks in a breath, but he merely cocks his head to the side as if listening. The magic blows gently down the hall, twisting around the corners and slipping through gaps. He peers around the railcar curiously. His gaze catches on the Ravenclaws in the corner first, then takes in the student lying down by the end. Her friends grip each other’s hands tightly. 

“Come, Lucille,” he orders, crooking his fingers demandingly. 

Lucy obeys immediately. She rises as gracefully as she can, ignoring Lily’s gaping mouth and wild arm gestures. 

“You too, girl.”

Lily’s mouth clamps shut. She stares after Voldemort with a mix of terror and disgust. As if sensing it, he sighs and pauses. 

“I mean you no harm, Lily Evans. I did not order nor condone this attack. By all means, stand there and cower in fear, but you are welcome to follow and learn. It is your choice.”

He turns back around, drawing his wand and striding to the far corner of trembling students. Lucy scurries after him. Lily catches up to them quickly, of course. It's so very, very easy to manipulate Gryffindors. She shoots Lucy a panicked glance, who shrugs in return. She can’t be bothered either way. She’ll go along with the madman and the bleeding children and then have a nice long rest in her dormitory.

Calming draughts are marvelous little potions. 

“Was that a spell just then, sir? Or just your magic?” Lucy asks, to fill in the silence more than anything. 

He peers down at her with an amused expression.

“Do you come across many people that have such control over their magic?”

She rubs at her nose. The potion has made her face go numb. “Well, not control as such. Their magic tends to act of its own accord without casting any spells.”

“Ah, you’re referring to Regulus, I assume.” He begins flicking and waving his wand as he walks, repairing and cleaning the railcar almost absentmindedly. “Or Sirius and Andromeda? Perhaps all three?”

Lucy nods. At their side, Lily is torn between gaping at their exchange and his prodigious skill. 

“What you speak of is exclusive to the Black family. They’re all very powerful witches and wizards, but that power addles their minds. It prevents them from ever becoming extraordinary and gaining control over their magic like Lord Voldemort and very few of his followers have.”

Lily frowns. “But Sev has been-“

“Severus is the greatest wizard of our age,” Lucy points out loyally. “It’s what Violet told her brother. I do hope she’s okay. I didn’t catch what curse she was hit with.”

“I hope you speak of me just as reverently, Lucille,” Voldemort says, gesturing for the students to make way. They nearly fall over themselves in their haste. It’s almost funny. It should be funny, but it’s just sad. She wonders if he gets off on it. If he likes seeing their lips tremble and their eyes go wide. Or maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe it doesn’t make him feel anything all. She doesn’t know which is worse. In her current state, she can't be bothered to care.

“Oh, of course," Lucy assures him. "You’re the greatest wizard of your age, too. You're only, what? Fifty? Sixty? And you already give Dumbledore a run for his money. Fuck Grindelwald.”

Voldemort pauses in his ministrations. His broad shoulders tense under his white shirt, the muscles in his forearms tightening with some awful emotion. This silly man must feel quite a lot and quite deeply. He’s rather like Regulus in that regard. 

“Though you’d have to forgive me if I ever met Lady Tofana. She did nothing wrong."

Voldemort's body unclenches. He goes back to waving his pale wand over the student. She's obviously muggleborn, dressed in flared jeans and a jumper, and looks to be in her third or fourth year.

Suddenly, a loud crack rings through the train. Lucy's reflexive jump is delayed. Her body doesn't react until several moments after Lily and the other students have leapt out of their skin. Dumbledore stands before them with Slughorn, Flitwick, and half of the marauders, all clutching at his magenta robes. Lily immediately twitches towards James Potter, who is gaping at the scene around him in an almost comical sort of shock. Sirius, however, doesn't waste time any time. Lucy realizes that he is the only one out of his friends to have come face to face with the war. This is the first time Evans or Potter have been dragged into it. 

Sirius shoves out of Flitwick's warning grip and stomps towards Lily and Lucy until he is stopped by an invisible wall. He growls- actually, literally growls- at the Headmaster. Dumbledore can't be bothered to care. Every bit of that marvelous mind of his is centered on the Dark Lord. 

"Hello Tom," he greets calmly.

Voldemort's body stiffens again, but he does not halt in his casting. 

"Dumbledore."

"Why are you here?"

"I was summoned, of course." 

A wild cackle bubbles out of Lucy. She tries to hold it back, but Lily Evans's fearful guilt makes it impossible. She throws her head back and laughs at them all. At Lily and her culpability, at Dumbledore and his sorrow, at Voldemort and his hostility. They're all nothing more than a group of lost souls herding themselves to their deaths and she is their omniscient witness.

Dumbledores shoots her a concerned frown. "Are you well, Miss Tonks? Have you been cursed?"

"Miss Tonks is perfectly fine," Voldemort snaps. "There's nothing wrong with her except for a severe case of pusillanimity. Get down here, Evans. She'll start seizing soon." 

Lily drops to her knees immediately, such is his authority. 

"Pusillanimity," Lucy murmurs to herself. 

"Lucille, what happened here?" Dumbledore asks. 

"While you work out who to blame, there's a Ravenclaw dying behind Horace," Voldemort grouses. The girl at his side begins convulsing. Lily gently twists her to the side, guiding the frothy drool erupting from the girl's mouth to pool onto the worn carpet. "It should be interesting; extractions are always so visceral."

"Why are you helping, Tom?" Dumbledore questions as Slughorn drags Potter over to the injured student.

"Because I can," Voldemort says, rising smoothly from his crouch. "Because Lucille is, as Evans so eloquently put it, high as a kite. Because the Hogwarts curriculum is so disgraceful that Evans does not know the first thing about healing a curse victim. Because I, no matter what you may choose to believe, did not condone this attack. The public does so love children." 

"A mystifying notion," Lucy agrees.

Voldemort gives her a look. She isn't quite sure what sort of look it is, but she clamps her mouth shut either way. 

"The girl was hit with the Mercian variation of a daedal nightmare curse," he explains, wand loose at his side. "She will live, though I cannot guarantee her mental state. As wonderful as this has been, I'll gladly take Nott and be on my way.”

“You know I cannot allow that.”

“You should,” Lucy argues. “He’ll buy his way out soon enough and the crucios will hurt worse before Voldemort here has had some time to cool down. Also, I’m very tired and would like a nap.”

Voldemort hums. “I’m sure, Lucille. How many unforgivables did you cast during your duel? They take a lot of the average witch.”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me, my lord. What’s an unforgivable?”

A loud, cruel laugh passes through his sinful lips. Beneath her unease, she is ashamed to find pride lingering under the haze of potion. That was a genuine laugh. His false laugh wouldn’t be so jagged and cutting. He wouldn’t want to be marked as a predator while charming Lily Evans into helping him heal an innocent student. 

His red eyes are bright with mirth as he grins down at her. “And what would you have us do with him?”

“Castrate him,” she says promptly. She thought about it viscerally while she tossed and turned in bed with her shoulder throbbing in pain. “He likes to hurt women. And girls. I’d take away what he thinks gives him power over us. And then when he’s done screaming, I’ll cut out his tongue and pour poison in his mouth to keep him from growing himself a new one. He seems the type to be enamored with his own voice.” She chews on her lip, considering his recent injury. “I’d also cast a necromantic curse on his new stump so you can’t replace it with something impressive. Or at least so that it would give you a headache.”

She blanches. He’s so masterful, so fucking charming, that she’d forgotten that he is a savage Dark Lord capable of ending her life with half a thought. 

“Forgive me,” she tells his shoes. He has wide feet. They look massive next to her basilisk boots.  He’s probably got a big, giant cock too, the bastard. “I didn’t mean-“

His hand snakes out and grips her chin, tugging her face up. He’s so exquisite. “So submissive, Lucy.” His thumb swipes at her bottom lip and her stomach twists from a lethal mix of fear, arousal, and wonder. There’s something so irresistible about him despite all that she knows. He’s just as likely to caress her cheek as he is to snap her neck with his bare hands. Everything about him is as beautiful as it is horrible. His body, his power, his mind. Merlin, what she would give to see into his mind.  

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “I don’t recall ever being called beautiful.”

“There’s a painting at the Met called the Wolf and Fox Hunt. When I first saw it, I couldn’t look away and when I finally walked off, I kept coming back. I found something new in it every time I looked at it. The horse’s veins, the fox’s fearful rage, the wild fury in the wolf’s eyes, like it was going to jump off the canvas and dig its teeth into my skin. I feel the same way when I look at you. Gratitude that I’ve seen it, yet this awful, gaping sadness that I’ll never see anything like it again.”

For a long, quite moment, the world is reduced to Lucille and the Dark Lord. No one dares to speak. They hold their breath, curious and dreadful of how he might respond. 

Tom Riddle places both his hands on Lucy’s cheeks. They are just as cold as she expected, though surprisingly rough. She wonders if this is it. If he's going to snap her neck like a twig. 

“I wonder if I ought to kill you before one of us does something momentous,” he says, low and deep and just for her. “Do you really want to see inside my mind?”

Lucy always was too curious for her own good.

“Yes,” she whispers. 

Riddle lowers her face to hers, his breath warm against his lips. He keeps his eyes open, piercing in their intent, demanding that she does the same. His lips press against hers at the same time fangs piece her mind. The venom floods her brain with a vision so horrible, so frightening, that the draught is rendered obsolete against the all-consuming terror. 

#
Lucy is naked in a grand room that she does not recognize. She is sitting on her knees in a traditional submissive pose: legs spread wide, palms up, head cast down. The Dark Mark writhes angrily against her left forearm. It is the only place on her that is untouched. Bruises and cuts- there are so many cuts. Shallow ones, deep ones, long ones, short ones. Some of them are nothing more than red lines, while others are gaping wounds that still weep blood. They are worst between her legs. The inside of her thighs are nothing more than mishmash of thin red slashes. 

Voldemort strides into view. He is dressed like Tom Riddle, but his cheeks are hollow and his skin is waxy and white, revealing spidery veins around his eyes and wrists. He stands before Lucy with an air of calm dominance. 

“To me, pet,” he says.

She looks up at him and everything in Lucy’s very being cringes away. It is her. It is Lucy Tonks. It is a version of herself that Lucy did not know she feared. She would rather die than become this. She would rather suffer a thousand crucios that become the girl on the floor. 

Her lips are swollen and red with abuse. Spit and snot run down her chin and the rest of her face is covered in semen. It is her eyes though, that are the worst. They are dead. Flat. Euphoric with fear and lust as she gazes up at Voldemort with rapture. 
#

This is a Lucy that has given up her heart, her mind, her soul, and reveled in the emptiness. This is a Lucy that has achieved something Lucille didn’t know she wanted, and it is that fact that scares her the most. That a part of her, however small, wants that empty euphoria. She wants to feel nothing, to be no-one.

Power- burning, unyielding power- crackles in the air. It rushes towards them in a maelstrom of protective rage. Lucy pulls away from Voldemort at the same time that he snarls and turns to raise point his wand at Dumbledore. The headmaster is suddenly regal and frightening in his bold robes and embroidered hat. He is guardian and executioner in one. 

“I will allow you once more chance to leave, and I only grant you that because of the students that will be caught in the crossfire.”

Voldemort bares his teeth in a venomous hiss. 

“I will not leave without what is mine. Tonks!” 

Lucy freezes, heart pounding hard enough to be felt in her teeth., from where she'd been inching her way against the wall towards Flitwick.

“To me, pet,” he croons, and everything in Lucy’s body screams. 

“Tom, you will-“

Dumbledore is cut off by a very loud wooshing noise. Everyone draws their wands and scans the room, desperate to figure out the source. Everyone, that is, except-

“BLACK,” Voldemort snarls, his grip going tight around his wand. “What have you done?!”

Cassius Nott is nowhere to be seen. There is only a body-shaped clearance of debris to hint that he'd ever been present.

“I’ve just had a life-altering epiphany is what I’ve done,” Sirius says in his most seductive tones. He preens under everyone’s attention. “I’ve always hated my family. They’re a bunch of sneaky, dishonest hypocrites, but I just realized that they’re a bunch of sneaky, dishonest hypocrites that get shit done. So I asked myself something I’ve ever asked myself before. I asked myself, ‘What would my father do?’”

“Where. Is. Nott.”

“I was never disowned, you know,” Sirius muses aloud. “Dunno why. I was burned off the tree, but I was never disowned. I was never removed from the wards.”

A nefarious grin grows across his handsome face. His perfect, rugged, sneering face. Lucy's heart is near to bursting with fondness. 

“I made my hair tie into a timed portkey and levitated it to that creepy fuck. Cassius Nott is probably lying at the feet of my creepy fuck of a grandfather. I can just imagine his smile.” Sirius shudders. It’s probably very genuine. “Good luck getting through those wards. My family’s lived on that piece of land since the Romans settled London in 43 AD. Amulius Icilius Crassus bonded with a Druidess from the Blæc-“

“You dare-“

Sirius’s eyes alight with something wild. Something primitive. Something mad. 

“I love having pure, untainted blood. Not a drop of muggle-”

Voldemort snarls and casts some sort of spell. It is intercepted by something of Dumbledore’s that bathes the room in a blinding blue light. It lingers, steadily burning into everyone’s retinas. Lucy is forced to open her eyes when something taps underneath her chin. She finds, to her immense relief, that Voldemort is gone. 

Her legs give out for the second time that day. She crumbles into a heap on the pristine floor. Lily Evans takes a tentative step forward, lips trembling with fear and worry, but Sirius gets there first. He wraps her in a fierce, rub-crushing hug. 

“I’ve got you, Luce. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

Her voice comes out muffled against his chest. “I want Ted.”

“I know, love. I want Ted too,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her hair. His tight embrace loosens long enough for him to reach for something, and then it’s back again. “I can’t get you Ted, but I can get you Reg. How does that sound?”

She nods, his muggle jumper soft against her cheek. 

“Alright. Hold on tight. Dumbledore’s given us a portkey and the last thing we need to worry about is losing up your lazy arse halfway to Scotland.”

There’s the smell of blood and vanilla as Lily squeezes into rich the portkey, and then the world around them swirls away.

They arrive in Dumbledore’s fantastical office to a harried McGonnagal and gossiping chorus of portraits, all of whom demanded an update. Lily takes point on that, thank Merlin, while Sirius ushers Lucy onto a chaise lounge. She falls asleep before her head hits the small, hand-knitted pillow.

“Lucille.”

“Lucy-love, it’s time to wake up.”

Lucy mumbles and burrows deeper into her pillow. 

Only it isn’t a pillow. It’s a person. A set of legs, to be exact, clad in expensive trousers. There is a hand toying through her hair, a few strands occasionally catching on a ring, and another hand tapping at her nose. 

“Lucy, you will never forgive me if you don’t wake up.”

The day’s events come rushing in after she picks that statement apart. The last she remembers is passing out in Dumbledore’s office, so it’s very likely that a herd of Gryffindors is watching her sleep on Dumbledore’s fainting couch. Dear god, the indignity. 

Lucy forces herself up. She groans and goes to stretch, only to pause in confusion when her shoulder doesn’t protest. She rotates it curiously in an attempt to stall looking out at the room. At Regulus. She’ll probably do something stupid and sappy when she looks him in the face. 

“That would be Fawkes’s doing, my dear,” a wizened voice says. She peers around to see Dumbledore wearing a warm, sad smile. “He gave a tear for the potion Poppy gave you.”

“Oh,” Lucy says stupidly. 

She was right. There is a veritable herd of Gryffindors watching her with unabashed curiosity. Well, they’re probably not all Gryffindors. Shacklebolt, she suspects might have been a Slytherin, but that’s neither here nor there. The problem is that she is weak to them in this moment and that won’t do. She glares at each of them until they either nod or look away bashfully. 

There’s Shacklebolt and Moody still in auror robes and seated in Dumbledore’s usual eccentric furniture. Potter and Lily are sharing a ridiculous chair printed with parrots and palm leaves that could have been conjured by either the headmaster or Potter. They’re both fucking insane. Beside them, in front of the merry fireplace, is a black witch with tight gray curls luxuriating in a leather armchair. Lastly, a ginger wizard with his arms crossed over his broad chest is propped against the mantle. He holds Lucy’s gaze the longest. 

“For those of you that don’t know, this is Lucille Tonks, quite possibly one of the brightest students to ever walk these halls.”

The new witch’s dark eyes widen. “Oh! As in the warding prodigy, Lucille Tonks?”

The words settle something in Lucy’s chest. The tension in her body unwinds and her heart does a funny warbling dance.

“Yes,” she chokes out. “Yes, that’s me.”

“What a pleasure! I’m Dorcas Meadows. Champion duelist and part-time, sometimes, sort-of-retired unspeakable.”

Lucy feels her brows raise of their own accord. “Pleasure.”

“Edgar Bones,” the ginger man says. 

“Ah,” Lucy says.

“Who’re you?” Sirius asks, his voice coming somewhere from behind Lucy.

Surprisingly, it is Regulus that answers. His mouth curls into a wry grin as he considers the man. “He’s Dumbledore’s Lucius Malfoy.”

“Ah,” Sirius says. 

Edgar Bones does not look amused with the comparison. 

“Yes, indeed,” Dumbledore says, his beard twitching. “Students, as you may have heard, I lead a group of witches and wizards who fight against Voldemort when the Ministry can or will not. We are called the Order of the Phoenix. Seated here are the senior members of our organization.”

Potter and Evans look suitably awed. Lucy supposes she might have been if she didn’t know that Shacklebolt is the only one who doesn’t get end up in a grave when it’s all said and done. 

“The Hogwarts Express is up and running. We have four hours until the students arrive. Lucille, Lily, you’ll be pleased to know that most of the students are expected to make recovery.”

“Most?” Bones wonders.

“Brown’s sister, a muggleborn, and a Ravenclaw are all at St. Mungo’s,” Moody explains. 

Dumbledore sees Lucy’s worried expression and cuts in smoothly. “Violet is being treated as we speak. She is expected to live, though we do not know how she might be affected. It was a fatal curse which causes the victim’s intestines to swell at a rapid pace. She would not have lived without your quick thinking.”

“Viscera turgesco,” Lucy murmurs to herself.

He really, really should be castrated. Pollux will probably oblige. Arcturus will be the one she has to persuade. 

“Now that we’re all up to date-“

“What about Severus?” Lucy demands. “Has anyone seen Severus?”

“We were in a compartment with Rosier,” Regulus says, tapping the inside of her elbow. “He tried to get Coco to bring him with me, but she refused.”

“Oh.”

“Who’s Severus? How’s he involved?” Meadows asks.  

Lucy sighs and rubs her eyes wearily. She launches into her tale, glossing over the finer details of the duel. Violet hadn’t cast anything illegal, something probably ingrained into her by her auror brother, but Lucy and Lily certainly had. Everyone looks suitably impressed with Lily, at least until they hear how Voldemort was summoned. The silence bursts into angry, incredulous cries. Lucy, being the petty woman she is, inhales it greedily. 

“She couldn’t have known!” Potter protests. 

“Not the point!” Moody barks. “That sack of shite could have been pretending. She should have shot a stunner at the very least if she was going to grab at his arms!”

Potter sputters. “At the least?!” 

“This is war, boy, and Nott’s one of the worst. Killing him today might have saved a life tomorrow.”

Lily looks up, her gaze searing into Lucy’s. They can still smell the acrid, burning stench of Lucy’s killing curse, of how close it came to ending everything. Lucy can still remember damning Lily to the deepest pit of hell for refusing to cast it herself. 

“What happened next, Miss Tonks?” Dumbledore prompts gently. 

Lucy smirks. “Oh, Lily’s probably best for the next bit. My account might not be so accurate. I downed four servings of a calming draught brewed in a runed cauldron.”

Moody throws his head in his hands. “Spare me from the young and foolish! Why the bloody hell did you think-“

“The bastard just tortured me half to death a couple of weeks ago,” Lucy snaps. “And I’d just recovered from the attack in Knockturn, and Severus told me all of that combined with-“

“What?!” Lily gapes. “He tortured you?!”

Potter shifts nervously in his seat. “Yeah, Lils. My parents made me swear not say anything, but Regulus brought her to my house looking for Sirius. It was awful. I’d never seen-“

“But he was so funny to you! He acted like you were old friends!”

Lucy laughs. “Of course he did! He had to. I knew what he was doing and he knew I knew what he was doing. It’s why-...” She trails off with a shudder, struggling to shove that horrid vision into the recesses of her mind. “It’s why he was teasing me. He’s a genius. He was luring you- and all the other students- in. We both were, I suppose. I could have told you all he was only pretending to be the wise and snarky professorial figure, but I knew Dumbledore would show up to save our arses eventually. Might as well placate the prick and make it easier on all of us.”

Lily turns ashen. “I’m such an idiot.”

“No you’re not,” Regulus says, shocking them all. “We’re all multifaceted creatures. Each of us has masks and costumes we don for our roles in life, and each of those personas is a true part of ourselves. The Dark Lord is a master manipulator. He knows which part of himself to use for each part of his life. For you, he is a ‘snarky professorial figure’, but for me he portrays himself to be someone I will admire and relate to.”

“And what sort of person do you admire?” Bones asks curiously. 

Regulus grins. “Oh, I’m not giving you that for free.”

“So what didn’t he do when he arrived?” Meadows asks. She is leaning forward, her attention riveted to Lucy and Regulus. 

“Lily got angry when I took the potions. Started yelling about kids bleeding, so Voldemort decided to heal one of them, probably to make himself look good and to try and appease Dumbledore. So we talked about magic while he worked and that was it until you guys got there.”

“Magic?” Shacklebolt asks sharply. “What sort of magic?”

Lucy shrugs. “Ambient magic. I was fucked up and pumped full of adrenaline. I was just trying to keep my mind occupied.”

“It was more than that, Lucille,” Dumbledore argues, frowning at her over his spectacles. “Tom rarely employs sexual terror personally.”

The air in the room suddenly goes very cold. Something wild and hungry emanates from Regulus as he shifts on the lounge. He leans back to scan Lucy anew, his gaze burning into his skin. 

“What happened, Lucille.”

Lucy fixes her attention on a portrait just above Lily’s shoulder. “It wasn’t-“

“What happened.”

“He was inside my head.”

Dumbledore audibly gasps. Sirius and Regulus spit out a curse together. 

“He didn’t...he didn’t see anything. He was just reading my surface thoughts, and he could...he heard me say that he was horrible and beautiful and I think he felt...I was high and there was so much adrenaline and he was using the blood glamor. He’s attractive and powerful and intelligent and that’s usually tempered by the fact that he’s fucking insane, but I was high and terrified and I just wanted to know.” A bitter laugh escapes her lips. “I always need to fucking know. I can’t leave well enough alone.”

“Need to know what?” Bones asks. 

It’s easy to look at him. Lucy doesn’t know him. It won’t hurt to confess it to this strange wizard with an blunt, honest face. 

“He let me in his head. He kissed me and showed me what he wanted from me. I don’t think...” 

It might be better to keep her mouth shut. These people will probably judge her, but there’s no other way to make them understand. Lucy clasps her hands together and sits up straight. In for a knut, in for a galleon and all that. 

“Sex is an effective tool for me,” she explains. “These purebloods are supposed to be repulsed by muggleborns. Muggleborns aren’t supposed to look like me and Lily. We aren’t supposed to be desirable. I have no problem using that. I use it to make witches insecure or make wizards uncomfortable or to make both of them trust me. People are always willing to trust a pretty face. I believe it was something similar for Voldemort when he was my age. He knew what he looked like and he had no qualms using his body or his face to get what he wanted, or to manipulate whatever they already felt.”

Bones nods interestedly and motions for her to continue. 

“It doesn’t affect me much. It’s just a tool for me. But for someone as power-hungry as Voldemort, I think he might have needed to take that power back somehow. I think sex might be a reprieve for him. It’s another way for him to prove himself worthy, in his eyes. It also...it also probably feeds his ego. He believes himself worthy of being worshiped and sex is another way to have that.

“You need to consider all of that when I tell you what I saw.  He showed me what he wants from me. He showed me what a part of me wants from him. The Lucy I saw had surrendered to him. I had let him manipulate and make me into that...person. I was no-one. I was nothing. And I was euphoric. It was- it was terrifying to be confronted with that part of myself and Voldemort knows enough about me to know that it would scare me. Like Regulus said, he’s a master manipulator.”

The silence drags for a while until Potter curses under his breath. 

“That’s the scariest story I’ve ever head about him,” he says. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, Tonks.”

Lucy nods shortly. “Thank you. Though I think I’ll be okay after a good night’s sleep.”

“Regulus.”

Lucy startles. Everyone turns to either Dumbledore, who had spoken, or Regulus, who is stiff against the chaise’s low back. Slowly, as if dragging himself from somewhere far away, Regulus’s posture loosens. 

“Sirius,” Dumbledore says, never looking away from the younger Black brother, “I think it may be best if you escort Regulus to Professor Flitwick for a friendly duel.”

Sirius appears from wherever he was sitting. He tugs Regulus up by the arm. 

“Come on, Reggie. Let’s go blow up some trees with Flitwick.”

“No,” Regulus says distantly. “There’s someone else I’d rather-“

Sirius rolls his eyes and drags his brother closer, leaning in to whisper furiously in his ear. The strange, milky cast leaves Regulus eyes as he speaks. It is replaced by something calm and sharp instead. He nods almost happily when Sirius releases him. 

“Right, right. Of course.” He sends Lucy as stern glance. “I’ll see you in the common room tonight.”

“Okay,” she says easily, pleased that he knows she will not be dining in the Great Hall. It’s the kitchens for her tonight. 

The brothers leave with their dark heads bowed together as they work out a plan for whatever is they’re up to. Dumbledore frowns at them as they go. 

“They’re not going to Flitwick, are they?” Meadows asks, with a nervous chuckle. 

Lucy grins. “No. No, they are not.”

Chapter Text

Lucy pulls up short when she enters the Common Room. She had planned to arrive precisely when the students were dismissed from dinner. It would be much easier for all parties involved: the Slytherins would get to dismiss her as another piece of furniture and Lucy would be able to avoid their accusing glares. Unfortunately, her efforts were for naught. When Lucy steps through the wall, she is greeted by the horrifying sight of almost three hundred heads swiveling as one. 

Regulus, of course, is unaffected. He is quite casually draping his winter cloak over the back of his favorite armchair, an overstuffed black seat with emerald stitching. To his left, Evan Rosier leans against one of the windows with a solemn expression. The glow from the lake casts his pale eyes in an eerie light.

“Come, Lucille,” Regulus orders. 

The crowd parts for her easily. They are all eager to hear what Regulus has to say. The younger faces are contorted with fear and curiosity, while the older students wring their hands anxiously. Not one of them sneers. Not one of them looks at Lucy with the usual disdain as she slowly makes her way through the maze of bodies. Lower years are crowded onto the floor while the older students have claimed the sofas and chairs. Some are cross-legged on side tables while others are draped over their friend's laps. Even more line the walls. 

Lucy lowers herself into Regulus's chair. She hadn't bothered changing out of Ted's old Hufflepuff jumper and a pair of Christmas leggings- a decision she definitely regrets now, even if it seems to amuse some of the children. Regulus takes the time to tug lightly on her braid in greeting before sauntering closer to the crowd. He doesn’t speak until he is positive they are all listening. 

“Gossip is one of the more dangerous crafts we encounter here at Hogwarts. Given today’s events, Professor Slughorn thought it best if you received the correct information from a trusted source. You all know there was an attack on the Express. I am here to tell you the specifics.” 

He pauses for effect. They hardly dare to breathe. 

“A Death Eater transfigured himself into Severus Snape.”

Hundreds of eyes swivel to pin Severus to his seat. He scowls at them all. Lucy doesn’t blame him. It’s a very unsettling image. She wonders, briefly, if the other houses are meeting and if they tend to act in synchronization. Probably not. Gryffindors are too wild, Hufflepuffs are too chill, and it’s rare to come across a Ravenclaw with any self-restraint. 

And they don’t have Regulus. There is a certain je ne sais quoi about him that has everyone seeking his approval. He isn't unlike Voldemort in that regard. They both draw in the world like moths to a flame. For Lucy, Voldemort's fire is toxic. It is pride and fear and magic and submission. Regulus's is something else altogether, yet no less dangerous. It is a blistering inferno of power and magic and adventure and a different sort of submission. One she isn’t sure she’s ready for just yet. 

“... very own Violet Brown attacked the imposter,” Regulus is saying. Lucy jumps to attention just in time for the crowd to gasp. “They managed to duel him to a standstill until Lily Evans arrived- yes, that Lily Evans- and helped defeat him. Violet was critically injured in the attack. She is at St. Mungo’s with her brother and Professor Slughorn, and expected to make a full recovery.

“Unfortunately, there were other students caught in the crossfire. All Ravenclaws, incidentally. Flitwick is nearly apoplectic with rage...” 

Regulus drifts off, his long fingers tracing the holly handle of his wand. After a long moment, he blinks rapidly and shakes himself out of his reverie. Curious, Lucy glances at Severus and then Rosier, but they are both just as warily confused as she is. 

“Of course, we wouldn’t have had a house meeting if that were all that happened,” he continues drily. “Lily Evans, in her panic and nerves and Gryffindor bravado, managed to accidentally summon the Dark Lord.”

Half of the room takes a collective breath. Another quarter flinches back just as the rest leans forward with wide eyes. Lucy wishes she was them. She wishes she was just a spectator eager for morsels for gossip. No one ever talks about how exhausting it is to be at the center of things. On the rare occasion that there is enough time for sleep, something else monumental happens the next day. It never stops. 

“It was-...The attack was not sanctioned by the Dark Lord. He was… not pleased. Dumbledore, of course, was just as displeased with the events upon arrival. There was an impasse in which the Dark Lord refused to leave without his servant and the Headmaster refused to give him up. It was only settled when my brother created a portkey.

“The Dark Lord left once it was clear his follower could not be retrieved. Lucy, Sirius, and Evans were transported directly to the Headmaster’s office while the other students were escorted to St. Mungo’s.” 

Regulus pauses once more, staring off at the entrance wall. Even Lucy cannot tell if it is another dramatic act or if he’s truly lost in thought again. Either is just as likely. 

“I’m sure Ravenclaw is having their own meeting now,” he says, still staring off into the distance. “Gryffindor too, though perhaps nothing so formal. And Sprout wouldn’t want her badgers to be at a disadvantage...If Lucy hadn’t been injured, I might have had her help smuggle spies into the other common rooms. Truthfully, I considered sending Severus into Ravenclaw but I didn’t want to risk upsetting Flitwick in case he returned from hospital. I ran into him as he was leaving and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone outside the family get that look in their eye.”

He heaves a deep sigh and frowns out at the room. 

“A lot of people are going to be angry,” Regulus tells them. “They’re going to be full of rage and grief and we will be blamed for it. The Dark Lord wasn’t even behind this attack, yet it is the children sorted into his old school house that will take the brunt of their fear and rage. I’m sure I’m supposed to tell you to keep your wands pointed at the floor, but fuck that. Lucy!”

Lucy startles upright. “Yeah?”

“What did you do when Lucius sent a snake after you?”

“I killed the snake.”

“Did he bother you after?”

“No.”

“And did Yaxley ever bother you after he threatened your niece?”

Lucy scowls, crossing her arms under her breasts and leaning back to better glower up at him. “Why are you bringing me into this? You’ve literally got a millennia of family stories to fall back on.”

“I haven’t got a clue of what you’re on about, love.”

She rolls her eyes. “So you’re telling me that you’re not named after your father’s favorite brother, who was killed in a duel with an auror? An auror, mind you, that just happened to go missing four nights after said duel? An auror whose mutilated corpse mysteriously appeared in the Ministry atrium three days later? You’ve never heard of any of this, ever?”

“No, of course not.” He slips his hands in his trouser pockets and tips his head to her. “But do tell me more. It sounds riveting.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Rosier cries, peeling away from the lake window. A grindylow beats its willowy arms at his retreating figure. “Can we go? I’ve got better things to do than watch the two of you flirt.”

Heat suffuses Lucy’s cheeks, but Regulus remains unbothered. He sneers nastily out at their audience. 

“Do not mistake me; I do not want to hear about you lot dueling in the halls like a bunch of Gryffindors. I do not want to hear about third years trying to curse each other’s intestines out. But if someone hurts you, get them back in a way that will keep them from ever coming for you again and can never be traced back to you . If you can’t think of a way, admit that to yourself and come to one of us. This is about more than your pride. This is about more than detention or house points. The war has come to our school. It’s already killed one Slytherin and put another in intensive care but they won’t remember that. They’ll only think of poor Lily Evans and the Ravenclaws in St. Mungo’s. 

“From now on, only NEWT students are permitted to leave alone. Fifth years are allowed pairs, but fourth years and below do not leave in groups smaller than four. No exceptions . I don’t care what your excuse is. When I find out- and I will, believe me- I will humiliate you so thoroughly that your grandchildren will be ashamed to walk through these hallowed halls. Do you understand me?”

A chorus of “Yes, Regulus”es and “Yes, sir”s and a few sarcastic “Yes, Your Holiness”es echo through the room. The latter has come from a cluster of sofas claimed by the quidditch team, who all look thoroughly put-out at having their captain lecture them off the pitch. 

“ Furthermore ,” he continues, “If you’re going out and about for a long while, you take a NEWT student or the Baron with you. I don’t care who they are or what they think they’re busy with. You do not leave this room without an escort.  

"Escorts, I know we're busy with NEWTs, familial obligations, and a bloody civil war, but we are still at Hogwarts. We still have an obligation to Slytherin house. We've got to look out for each other. If I get wind that any of you have refused to help out any of the younger ones, there will be unpleasant repercussions, shall we say? That goes for all of you. Snape, Rosier, and Tonks included. Luce, you've only got three classes in-person, so you'll be spending your days down here rather than wherever it is you sneak off to."

Lucy lifts her hand in lazy salute and mutters, "Aye, cap’n.”

He shoots her a look, one that is simultaneously amused and chiding. It is nearly identical to the one Voldemort gave her on the train. A chill runs up her spine at the memory of his unimpressed expression, the way the overhead lights had cast tantalizing shadows under his cheekbones. 

Regulus’s brows furrow in concern. Lucy looks off to the side, watching as a clump of seaweed drifts across the nearest window. 

“Very well,” he says. “Are there any questions?”

Lucy turns back in time to see a desi girl with long pigtails raise her hand. “Will the Ravenclaws be alright?”

“I wasn’t told either way.” He glances over his shoulder at Lucy. “What do you know?”

Lucy tugs on her braid uncomfortably. “Like Regulus said, the Dark Lord didn’t have anything to do with today. He started setting everything to rights as soon as he realized there were injured students. He even healed one of them as best he could. She’ll live, but it was a nightmare curse and we all know how intricate mind magic is.”

“What’s he like?” Someone asks in a low voice. 

The Slytherins are all staring at her, fearful and enraptured. This could go several ways. She could paint him in a terrible light, ultimately reveal her true loyalties, and be hunted down for it. She could sing his praises, which would endear herself further to the Dark Lord and sow more distrust with Dumbledore. She could make him seem desirable, terrifying, kind, or wise. What she says now could very well influence the course of the war. 

In the end, she goes with the truth. It is not what they expect, but the truth rarely is. 

“He’s beautiful in the way that horrible things can be. In the way that the Killing Curse is such a brilliant shade of green or how Amortentia smells so sweet. I….the worst part is how smart he is. He hardly knows me and he knew exactly what to say to terrify me. He didn’t even have to use his wand to make me want to scream.”

The students are deathly silent as they process her words. Several of the older ones grimace. She sees Evan Rosier squeeze his boyfriend’s hand out of the corner of her eye. She and Rosier have never particularly got along, but she does pity him. Someone as talented as he is will not have the option to sit aside and Dumbledore has never treated the Slytherins warmly. 

Regulus suddenly claps his hands. Several people jump, Lucy included. 

“Alright, then. It’s off to bed with you. I’ve heard a rumour that the Head Boy and Girl are covering some of the lower level Charms and Potions courses tomorrow so you’ll need plenty of rest to handle that.”

“Would you look at that?” A fourth year drawls as he stalks off towards the boy’s dorms. “I’ve suddenly come down with an atrocious migraine that will prevent me from attending my morning class. How terrible.”

Hardly any except for the eldest linger. The mood is too somber. The war has finally reached Hogwarts and the Slytherins are already down two for the count. One murdered by his own uncle and the other hospitalized by a rogue terrorist. They probably won’t want to discuss the worst parts of what’s to come until they’ve got a good handle on everything that’s happened thus far. Or as good a handle as one can get. Lucy certainly doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing. There isn’t even a bloody handle for her to grab on to these days. 

Warm fingers brush against her own where they are clutching at the armchair. Regulus stands above her. The charismatic, almost feverish light has left his eyes. Now they are unreadable as they rove over her ridiculous pyjamas. 

“Why is it that you’re always in men’s clothes other than my own?” 

Oh, bloody hell. “They’re usually Ted’s,” she says flatly. “I’m a curvy girl, Reg. I’d be hard pressed to fit in any of your clothes, so you’ll have to find another way to soothe your possessive streak.”

Regulus pouts. She finds herself drawn to the soft curve of his lips. The feeling of Tom Riddle’s lips is still imprinted on her own. She can remember the hard, cruel press of his mouth, the way fangs reared back before they pierced into her mind. Would kissing Regulus make it go away? Or would it only make it worse? Would it bring back the haunting promise of empty euphoria or make her wish for something else? Something infinitely more frightening?

Regulus hums thoughtfully. “Come on. I was hoping to sort out the enchantments on your ring before you can run off again.”

Lucy allows herself to be pulled out of the chair and led around the common room. Only weeks ago she would have scowled and batted his hand away. Now, she’s so bloody exhausted and she misses Ted and Andy and she wants a big hug and a batch of fudge brownies and a night in her old childhood bed. It’s been a very long month. 

Slytherin’s de facto kings always gave Lucy visceral secondhand embarrassment. The teenagers playing at politics looked so silly and young. Avoiding that particular mess in the common room was one of the advantages of her exile. One look at Regulus’s room, however, and she understands why they do it. She’s tempted to have a go at it herself if she gets to live here.  

Regulus’s dormitory is everything she wanted from her own. His room has its own fireplace, a massive four-poster bed, windows looking out into the lake, and a door cracked open enough to hint at an en suite- a definite upgrade to curtains blocking off the toilet. The stone mantle is bracketed by plush velvet sofas covered in pillows and throws. Surprisingly, hardly any of it is in green. Charcoal and navy and silver make up the color scheme. It is somehow comforting instead of imposing or depressing, almost cozy despite the rampant luxury. 

Or maybe because of it. Slytherins are an ambitious sort who enjoy the finer things in life. Oh, they’ll get their hands dirty if they need to, but there’s no reason not to wash the blood off in a nice hot bubble bath and sleep on silk sheets after.

That would all be so wonderful right now. Lucy is so very, very tired. After this, she’ll have to trudge back to her tiny cold dorm and lie awake wondering if the Baron will have time to stop by. She always sleeps best when he’s there to stand guard. 

“Are you alright?” Regulus asks, just as Lucy blurts, ”Can I stay here?”

Regulus quickly schools his features into a blank mask. She hurries to do the same. She’s surprised herself with that one. 

“Severus helped me make an exception for you in my wards after the Chamber of Secrets,” he says slowly. Carefully. “You’re always welcome here. You’re welcome to almost everything I have to offer.”

Lucy chuckles awkwardly. “Almost everything?”

Regulus raises a brow sardonically. “I’m not the Dark Lord, Lucy. I don’t expect us to make slaves of one another. I know what goes on in my head isn’t exactly normal, but it’s not anything like his. I think you might need reminding of that on occasion. I saw the way you looked at me out there.”

Lucy wraps her arms around herself and turns to study the serpents charmed to slither around the bed frame. It’s still disconcerting to see a wooden thing move, even after all these years. 

“I’ll transfigure the couch,” he says. “Pass over your ring and-“

“I didn’t ask just to be alone,” Lucy cuts in sharply, spinning on her heel to glare at him. “I asked because I didn’t want to lie in bed by myself and replay that stupid vision in my head all night.”

Regulus’s features remain carefully empty, even under the brunt of her temper. She hates that he has to hide himself around her, that he has to hold himself back. It makes something under her skin itch. She wants to scratch her arms until her nails are caked with blood. 

“You shouldn’t be ashamed of what you saw,” he says, holding her gaze. “You shouldn’t be ashamed of wanting to be free of your responsibilities. You shouldn’t be ashamed for craving your own selfish peace. You should be proud that you resisted his temptations. You faced the worst parts of yourself and came out stronger for it. Don’t let him take that from you. He doesn’t deserve the satisfaction.”

A ball of something rough and strong- gratitude, perhaps, or maybe affection- rises in her chest. She clears her throat violently to keep it from leaking out. Regulus is right. If Tom Riddle is going to make her cry again, it won’t be because of manipulation . Let it be because of pain or rage, but not this. This is something she herself would do to Evans or Potter. Lucy knows how to tear someone apart and make them hate themselves. She won’t let someone else do it to her. 

Lucy lowers herself onto the ground and draws out the task of untying her boots. Regulus, to his credit, doesn’t mention her cowardice. He begins ruffling around in his chest of drawers as if it is any other night. She’s only just straightened when he asks for the ring.

“Alright,” she murmurs, slipping it off her finger. It already feels strange, almost wrong, to take it off and only weeks have passed. Do witches apply a potion to prevent tan lines? There was never a reason for Andromeda to take hers off. Any harm was easily prevented with a couple of charms. 

“Are you so reluctant to part with the symbol of our love?” Regulus teases. 

Lucy scowls and practically shoves the offending object onto his pile of nightclothes. The bastard has the audacity to wink before he heads for the bathroom. 

She looks around curiously as she rebraids her hair. His room is surprisingly clean, though that’s probably the house elves. Quidditch equipment and two brooms are balanced against a far corner. Every free surface is covered with neat stacks of books and journals. Besides that, there aren’t many personal effects other than a few photographs: official quidditch team photos on the mantle, a picture of his grandfathers playing chess on the nightstand, and a candid shot of Regulus and Rosier roughhousing above one of the shorter bookshelves. Lastly, on his chest of drawers, is a picture of a little blonde girl balancing a toddler in her lap. Narcissa. 

Regulus’s wand is lying just to the left of the ornate frame. Lucy is struck with a sudden, shameful urge to pick it up. Using another’s wand without express permission simply isn’t done. Family and close friends are an exception (though only Andromeda’s ever came close to working for Lucy) and, of course, when a wand changes loyalty after a duel. 

“You can try.”

Lucy just barely manages to bite back a shriek. She spins, her back bumping into the dresser and her hand splayed across her chest. Her heart pounds dangerously fast against her palm. 

“Jesus!” She gasps. 

He smirks unapologetically. “I’ve been here forever. I wanted to see if you would pick it up.”

“Of course not!”

“But you wanted to,” he hedges. 

“Of course I do! Wands are fascinating, aren’t they?” She twists her wrist so her own wand slides out of its holster. “Sirius and I have the same wood and core, yet the wands want nothing to do with the other’s owner. But with Severus, our wands don’t have anything in common other than appearance, and they don’t mind-“

“You’ve used Snape’s wand?” Regulus cuts in. 

Lucy eyes him warily. “The first time was an accident, obviously. His blackthorn-“

“The first time?!”

“Possessive streak, Regulus,” she reminds him succinctly. “His blackthorn is the same jet-black as my ebony and the lengths are within an eighth of an inch of one another. We were embarrassed for a second, but you can imagine that didn’t last long. We spent so long experimenting we completely forgot about whatever we were initially working on. It doesn’t happen as often now that he’s made more friends. Just occasionally in class.”

“How has no one noticed? I should have heard about it by now,” he says, frowning. 

“I dunno. They really do look alike.”

Regulus presses his lips in a tight line. He reaches over her shoulder- she does her best to ignore the warmth of his body against hers, the citrus scent of his face wash, his warm breath against her hair- to retrieve his own wand. 

“Here, try it,” he demands. 

Lucy scoffs. “You’re being ridiculous,” she says, but acquiesces all the same. 

The holly wand is as smooth as hers and brighter than any other she’s held. Even Ted’s mahogany isn’t nearly as vibrant. It’s also significantly longer than hers or Severus’s, which makes sense. Regulus is definitely tall, dramatic, and in possession of a big personality. Its magic hums against her skin as though reaching out curiously. 

“What’s the core?” She wonders. 

“Phoenix. Dragon, correct?”

She nods. They lock eyes, blue on gray. 

“ Lumos ,” they cast together. 

Oh, Lucy was right about the wand being curious. It responds to her lighting charm with a definitive air of snooping. ‘ Who are you?’ It seems to ask. ‘Why are you holding me? What does your magic taste like?’

She and Regulus quickly cast a murmured, “ Nox .”

The room is soon awash with magic. Hydrangeas and hyacinths litter the floor at Regulus’s feet and Lucy’s blackbirds and magpies circle their heads. Blue flames, silver ribbons, and pink sparks float into the air, carefully avoiding anything flammable. It’s a long while before Regulus and Lucy lock eyes again. The mischievous atmosphere becomes heavy and tense as they study one another, eyes on lips and stomachs twisting, but then a sudden jolt goes up Lucy’s arm and an alien impression of boredom wraps around her heart. She shrieks, jerking her arm to the left just as a white jet of light erupts from the wand. Wood cracks and breaks as the spell collides with a desk beside the window. 

“Bloody hell!” She cries into the silence, gaping at an obliterated textbook. One of the others flaps midair in distress. “Is it really bored ?”

Regulus gives his wand a fond smile. “Probably. She does that quite often.”

“She. She does that quite often.”

“Mm. Made first year a bitch to get through. I can’t tell you how many times she blasted McGonagall’s tortoises across the classroom.”

“I couldn’t deal with that,” Lucy says adamantly. “Here. Take it back. I prefer my perfectly dormant dragon heartstring, thank you.”

The holly wand buzzes against her palm. It feels like it might be preening. 

“Like hell! We’re just getting started.”

Lucy studies him, scrutinizing the healthy flush to his cheeks and the playful glint in his eyes. It makes him look remarkably like his brother.

“I don’t want to trash your room,” she says weakly. 

He shrugs. “The desk’s already fucked. We’ll just take care to aim at it.”

She doesn’t really think that’s a good idea given how close it is to the window, but surely Slytherin enchanted them to the high heavens. The dungeon windows have survived Voldemort and Walburga together. Regulus and Lucy are probably nothing compared to those two. And Merlin only knows what…well, what Merlin got up to. 

Regulus and Lucy begin with simple jinxes, then steadily give over to auror’s hexes and curses before finally abandoning all pretences. Bits of wood and paper and quills are soon flying through the air with the heady scent of dark magic. 

The wands apparently don’t mind being used so brutally by someone new. In fact, Regulus’s is absolutely thrilled. It gets more and more excited with the different types of magic she casts, practically humming with elation when she transfigures the desk chair into a snarling wolf. It isn’t until Regulus casts something she’s never heard that the desk melts in two with a heavy, almost distressed groan. 

“Shall we try to curse each other then?” He asks. 

Lucy might have been alarmed if she weren’t thinking the same exact thing. She’s bloody exhausted, but she hasn’t had this much fun in ages. It’s probably the first night she hasn’t spent worrying about everything and nothing in weeks. Months, maybe. 

The curses don’t work, of course. His fizzles out before it reaches her, eliciting a surge of pride and affection from Lucy for her wand, and his wand drags Lucy’s arm to the right at the last moment. The spell burns a hole through a painting. The painted snakes hiss frantically and slide over one another as they try to escape their frame. 

Regulus laughs, a boyish sound that is completely at odds with Tom Riddle’s. It’s hard to reconcile this Regulus with the fear she felt earlier. How so very foolish to obsess over their similarities when they are so obviously, critically different. 

“What’re you grinning about?” He asks, sauntering closer. 

“Just thinking. I haven’t had this much fun since the summer, I think.”

“So, it’s a good first date then?” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Thinking about a second?”

Lucy laughs. “I’m insulted. What did you think the Chamber of Secrets was?”

He cocks his head to the side in mock-contemplation. “Was there some sort of innuendo in showing me a massive snake?”

“You are playing with my wand.”

They hold each other’s gazes with the utmost sincerity. Try as she might, Lucy is the one to break. She might have spent the past couple of years with Sirius, but Regulus was raised alongside him and the likes of Pollux Black. 

“Will you take me flying when it warms up?” She asks once she’s managed to get control of her laughter. She’s dead tired, but in a different way than she was before. A content way. She wipes the tears from her eyes to see Regulus looking at her with that terribly soft expression he gets around her sometimes. 

“I’ll take you flying. Have you ever free-fell from the clouds?”

“Uh. No. Can’t say I’ve ever had that particular urge.”

“It’s wonderful.” He sighs wistfully, his gaze pinned somewhere over her shoulder. “Your heart leaves your chest and the wind is cradling your body while the ground reaches up to gather you in its arms and there isn’t a single thought in your head. It’s freedom in its purest form.”

Lucy steps closer so that she can squeeze his hand. “I feel that way when I do magic sometimes,” she confesses. “It’s the best feeling in the world, like something beyond happiness. Like euphoria, maybe, or enlightenment.”

“I envy you,” he murmurs, raising their hands to kiss their knuckles. It does something to her stomach, makes that scratchy mass of whatever she swallowed down earlier try to crawl it’s way back up. “I fear that I will always take magic for granted and that ungratefulness will bleed over into the rest of my life until I become a wretched, miserable creature.”

Like my mother, goes unsaid. 

Lucy wraps her arm around his waist and rests her head against his chest. He’s harder, more muscular than she thought he would be. Foolish of her, considering the strength it takes to play quidditch and that Sirius maintains the figure of a Greek god with nothing more than jogging and dueling. She might think it unfair if their minds weren’t the price they unwillingly paid. 

“I used to be afraid of it too,” Lucy confesses, “so I told Ted about it. He said he still feels that way when he heals someone or when he’s with Andy. He says you’ve just got to find what you love and hold onto it.”

Regulus bends down to press his lips to the crown of her head. “What a horribly Hufflepuff sentiment,” he says, but he doesn’t stop stroking her back. 

They remain that way for a long while, Regulus thinking about whatever strange things he thinks about while Lucy loses herself in the steady beat of his heart. Neither of them move until she yawns. 

“Come on. To bed with you.”

Lucy doesn’t protest as he dims the lights with a wave of his wand and casts a warming charm on the bed. He pulls down the covers for her, and when she lies down she sees that a glowing map of the night sky is painted on his ceiling. The constellations are grouped together in glowing shades of green and silver that contrast beautifully with the pale blue moon. 

“Did you do this?”

Regulus huffs derisively as he climbs into the bed. “No. An ancestor of mine named Asterope painted it over a century ago and everyone that’s lived here since takes care to maintain and restore it.”

“It’s beautiful.”

She wonders if Tom Riddle hated it. She wonders if he lay in bed and cursed the Blacks for taunting him even at night. Perhaps the thought of Salazar Slytherin building this very room comforted him and the painted snakes lulled him to sleep with their hisses. Maybe it was both. He is only human, no matter what he may believe. 

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“I can hear your mind running in circles.”

“Alright, Sirius .”

Regulus snorts. “Does he still crawl into beds at two in the morning and talk about nonsense for hours?”

“Eugh. Yes. But I made him shift to Padfoot before he fell asleep. He even did to Ted and Andy. It got to the point that they just expanded the bed and cast silencing charms on him. ”

“I think I might like Ted.”

“I’m quite fond of him.”

“I’d be quite fond of you if you’d go to sleep.”

“I’m too tired to fall asleep.”

Regulus turns over on his side and wraps one arm around Lucy’s waist so that he can tug her closer. He’s heavy and warm and smells like detergent and green apples. 

“What cologne do you use? You always smell so nice.”

“Go to sleep, Lucy.”

Lucy smiles, but she closes her eyes and sidles closer to Regulus. He sighs contentedly, dropping his chin onto her head. It isn’t until she’s nearly given herself over to exhaustion that he mumbles out, “Versace. The purebloods think it’s a very exotic import from China.”

Chapter Text

Lucy’s small world is tinted green by the emerald silk sheets. They somehow caress her skin lovingly though they are as unreachable as the sky. Magic is wonderful. 

“Yes it is,” Tom says. 

He’s lying across from her with his head resting on his arm. He’s beautiful. The sharp, sensuous curves of his face are relaxed in his contentment. It must be very rare to see him like this, so serene. Lucy reaches over to trace the elegant shape of his nose. 

“You’re not going to cut me, are you?” She asks. 

His eyes gleam red at her question. They quickly dull with irritation as a strangled cry sounds from beyond the sheets. Lucy goes to sit up, but Tom wraps his hand around her wrist. 

“Ignore that,” he orders. 

“Okay,” she agrees, watching as a fold of the night sky falls back from where her arm is raised. She could have sworn she was in a jumper of some sort. 

“What am I wearing?” She wonders. 

“Regulus’s magic, of course.”

“Oh. It’s beautiful.”

Tom nods. “You tried to drape me in yours but there wasn’t enough.”

Something heavy settles in her chest. Tom must notice, because he frowns and begins lightly dragging his fingers down the inside of her arm. It tickles and comforts her in equal spades. 

“It’s okay,” he assures her. His breath is warm against her skin. “I have plenty of Versace instead.”

“You’re not going to cut me, are you?” Lucy asks again. She peers down to where the night sky is draped over her thighs. “I don’t want you to cut me.”

She looks back up to find Regulus intertwining his fingers with hers. The calluses on his hands scrape against her smooth palms. There is something inherently comforting in his ruggedness. 

“I’ll only ever cut you open when you’re dead,” Regulus says. 

Lucy frowns. Anthropomancy is her favorite kind of divination. The Romans weren’t over-particular with what human entrails they could get their hands on. Or in. The Aztecs, though, dealt specifically with virgin witches. She can’t fault Regulus for being an opportunist but still…

“Why would you need divination if I can just tell you the future?” She asks. 

“Because you’re going to die,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of her wrist. 

The desperate, lingering cry sounds again. She pulls out of his grip and tries to rise, but another voice tells her to lie back down. 

“He’s not worth the effort,” Corban Yaxley says. His long nails press harshly into the thin flesh of her wrist, already leaving half-moon marks. He looks like he did at the Malfoy’s Yule party- fashionable and desperate. 

“Let me go,” Lucy demands. “I’ll cut you open if you don’t let me go.”

Blood begins pouring from his eyes. His nose, his mouth, his ears. It puddles onto the shining green sheet between them. The cruel light in his eyes dulls as he sneers over at her. 

“But you’ve already killed me,” he croons. 

Lucy screams. She tries to wrench her arm away, to kick at his legs, to do anything to get away from all of the blood, but she is tangled up in green silk and the night sky. 

When she bares her teeth at him next, he is gone. His nephew lies in his stead. 

Terror emphasizes the youth Gawain tried so hard to hide. He was always trying to act like an adult, sauntering through Hogwarts as though he owned the halls. Now his eyes are wide and wet and a blush colors his cheeks. That horrible, keening sound from earlier escapes his trembling lips. 

“Tonks,” he pleads, grabbing at her wrist. “Tonks, help me. I don’t want to die. I’m only seventeen.”

Lucy struggles against his grip. She claws and bites and screams as Gawain’s pleading grows more desperate. He’s trying to drag her down somewhere that she cannot see or sense, and the sheet is too far to reach. Wandless magic was always nearly impossible for Lucy, but she refuses, absolutely refuses, to die at the hands of a Yaxley. Let it be a Black or Voldemort or an auror, but never a fucking Yaxley. 

Lucy squeezes her eyes shut and focuses inward, deep into her heart, a place similar to and yet so very different from where her Occlumency shields are. Her magic is as elusive as it’s always been. It is like ambushing the basilisk in the Chamber again. She is peering into a deep chasm, but there isn’t a great monster writhing around on itself. There’s only the occasional pink glimmer and an elusive swirl of dark indigo. No phoenix will come to help her this time. 

“Shhh,” Regulus whispers. He brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. 

“You’re dreaming,” he murmurs. “It’s just a dream.”

Lucy opens her eyes. 

Regulus is dead. 

Water drips from his clothes and hair. She watches, paralyzed with horror, as a single bead drips down his nose and onto his lips, turning pink with blood the further it goes. His lips, once so plush and expressive, are now blue and chapped. And scarred. There are so many scars. Impressions of human teeth litter his neck and the skin showing under his ripped jumper. Humans aren’t supposed to leave those kinds of gaping wounds. Humans are cruel and dangerous, but they aren’t wild animals. They aren’t feral. 

Wake up! Lucy thinks, desperation pooling in her stomach. Wake up! Wake up wake up wake up wa-

She jolts upright in the bed with a frantic inhalation, one so deep and sharp that it cuts at her lungs. The first thing she sees is a man with shining black hair. For half a moment, she wonders when Sirius got a haircut. 

“Reggie?” She asks groggily, rubbing at her eyes. They are stinging and running and her head is already aching and she desperately wants to go back to sleep, nightmares or no. 

“Good morning, Miss Tonks,” someone who is most definitely not Regulus replies. 

Lucy groans. She would have thrown her body back against the bed if she’d sat up. It is entirely too early for Albus Dumbledore.

“The fuck time is it?” She mumbles. 

“Time for you to get up!”

That voice jolts her up off the bed, causing Regulus to deftly shift to the right so she doesn’t collide with him. Alastor Moody glowers near the doorway, surrounded by a rather odd group of people. His partner, Kingsley Shacklebolt, is lingering in the hall. The same grey-haired female auror from the Hospital Wing is there too, along with Minerva McGonagall, Albus Dumbledore, and Arcturus Black. Half of them are looking around the room curiously while the other half are regarding the ruined desk with trepidation. Except for Arcturus, of course, who looks just as unenthused as Lucy already feels.

“What the fuck.”

“Now, now,” the female auror chides. “No need for vulgarity.”

Lucy’s rage rears its head despite the early hour, or maybe because of it. She gives Regulus a blank look and says,  “What is that. Make it go away.”

His grandfather taps his cane against the stone floor to draw attention to himself. 

“It is called an auror,” Arcturus drawls. “A vile species-“

“Fuck you, Black,” Moody spits. 

Regulus sighs and rests his head on Lucy’s shoulder. They watch as the adults dissolve into a spat for the ages. Arcturus is yelling at Moody, Kingsley is yelling at the female auror, and McGonagall is lecturing them all in her thickest brogue. Dumbledore is the only one who isn’t about to spontaneously combust with rage. If anything, he seems more amused than Lucy’s ever seen him. Meddlesome git. Why does he have to be so likable sometimes?

“We should go back to sleep,” Regulus murmurs. 

“I’d almost rather go back to the nightmares than this,” Lucy agrees. 

“Nightmares?”

A bead of water slowly turns pink as it slides past the wet rope of exposed muscle in his cheek.  

“You were dead,” she says flatly. 

“AND YOU TWO!” 

Both Lucy and Regulus jump apart at the sudden shout. McGonagall seems to have won the fight. Her glasses have fallen down her nose, her tartan hat is askew, and perhaps worst of all, her finger is pointed menacingly at the bed. 

“IT IS EXPRESSLY FORBIDDEN FOR COUPLES TO SHARE BEDS. THIS IS A SCHOOL. YOU ARE HERE TO LEARN, NOT FORNICATE! THE LAST THING I NEED IS A GESTATIONAL TEENAGER-”

“Woah!” Lucy cries. “There was no fornication! I’m saving my virginity, and even if I weren’t, there would be no gestating-“

“IF YOU ARE SO SURE OF THAT, THEN YOU CAN EXPLAIN WHY IN DETENTION, LUCI-“

“What?!” Lucy swings her legs off the bed, her cheeks turning red as her indignation rises. “Why am I the only one getting detention?! Regulus is breaking the rules, too!”

“BECAUSE REGULUS IS NOT INTERRUPTING ME!”

Dumbledore takes a decisive step forward to draw McGonagall’s eye. She turns her fierce snarl onto him, yet he remains cheerfully calm. 

“Minerva, why don’t you go fetch young Sirius, hmm? A nice walk will do to calm your nerves.”

She is frozen for a long moment in which no one dares move. Her shoulders are the first to unthaw. The tension slowly leaves her wiry body until the rage leaves her face. It leaves her lips pinched and her cheeks flushed as she reaches up to straighten her witch’s hat. 

“Very well, Albus. But I will say that I would have never imagined that you would allow Ministry officials to harass our students. This is Hogwarts. They are in our care until they graduate.”

Dumbledore’s face turns solemn. “It is not an easy decision to make, Minerva, but there may not be students to protect if we do not play our part in this war.”

She eyes his yellow robes with an unreadable emotion. “As you say, Albus.” She straightens her shoulders and turns back to Lucy with a more familiar sternness. “Your detention still stands. No matter your own decisions, you are an example to the younger students. The both of you will hold separate lectures on reproductive health and sexual wellness to Slytherin House. Understood?”

Lucy sighs. It’s grossly unfair, but she knows when to pick her battles. “Yes, Professor.”

Regulus shoots Lucy a mock glare before giving his own nod. 

McGonagall purses her lips one more time in answer. She brushes past her former combatants as if they are unworthy of their attention. Not many people can hold a candle to the raging inferno that is Minerva McGonagall. 

Dumbledore clears his throat politely.

“If that is all, I shall activate Mr. Black’s fireplace and we can take our business to my office.”

The adults all nod or shuffle awkwardly. They each go through one by one until it is only the Headmaster and his students. He peers at them seriously over his spectacles. Lucy has one foot in the fire when Dumbledore stops her. 

“Miss Tonks?”

Lucy pauses with one foot in the green flames. “Yes, Professor?” 

“Ten points to Slytherin for a wonderful display of feminism.”

Lucy nearly falls into the mantle. She’s still trying to wrap her head around it when the emerald fire engulfs her vision. Dumbledore’s antics almost make her forget the silk sheets that tinted her world green. Almost. 

Lines are drawn in the Headmaster’s office. Auror Byrne sits alone, catty corner to her colleagues. Regulus, Lucy, and Arcturus claim the sofa opposite. Dumbledore, to Lucy’s surprise, has conjured a chintz armchair beside them, though that could be a ploy to stay near Arcturus. She wouldn’t blame him one bit if that were the case. Arcturus Black in Hogwarts is a worrisome sight.

Finally, after a long, awkward silence, a very groggy Sirius half-stumbles through the door. He’s still wearing pyjamas- including a t-shirt that proclaims “Potter’s Hotter!” in flashing text- and his hair is piled precariously on top of his head. He plops down into a new chintz chair without his characteristic grace- and more importantly, without any characteristic aversion to his family. 

Auror Byrne clears her throat. It seems she has dropped the kindly mother routine from the Hospital Wing all those months ago. The lines around her eyes that had once crinkled with warmth are pulled down in her exhaustion, and her loose gray curls are smoothed back into a utilitarian braid. 

“You know why you’re here,” she accuses, but her dark eyes flit from Dumbledore, to Arcturus, then back to Dumbledore nervously. She is not confident in this particular interrogation, which means it’s not about the train. Very interesting. And worrying. What could have possibly happened in that span of time? 

No one replies. Sirius glances around to see everyone’s reactions, so Lucy decides to speak before he manages to land himself in Azkaban.

“Well, I know why I’m here, but I don’t know why Evans isn’t. She was more involved than-“

“Piss off!” Moody barks. “You know this isn’t about You-Know-Who!”

Lucy raises her brows. “I don’t, actually. I just woke up.”

Moody sneers, but Byrne interrupts with a flat, “Is that so.”

“What the hell does it lo-“

“Shut up, Sirius,” Lucy and Arcturus say at the same time.  

Sirius slumps in his chair petulantly, but he obeys. 

“Do you really not know?” Shacklebolt asks. His intense gaze is riveted to Lucy. 

“No,” she says, trying to convey her honesty. 

His eyes dart over to Regulus before he hums thoughtfully.

“Shifts at the Ministry are staggered,” he begins in his deep baritone. “Security, custodial, and maintenance staff are scheduled to arrive before seven. They arrived and found nothing amiss, so they carried on with their days. However, when the first wave of administrative and department staff began to flood in at eight, there was definitely something amiss. A mutilated body was waiting to be found in the Ministry atrium.”

Ah. That would do it. 

Arcturus finally breaks his silence by demanding, “Mutilated? Mutilated how?”

“It was in seven pieces,” Byrne says. “Either cursed or simply blown up. We haven’t received the lab results yet. Very sloppy work.”

Arcturus snorts. “Then I don’t know why you’re calling on us. The last time you accused our family of leaving a body in the Ministry atrium, the mutilations were much more intricate.”

“Yeah?” Moody says. “You wanna go on-“

“Gentlemen, please,” Dumbledore cuts in. “We will accomplish nothing if we continue to stray from the course. Did you have any specific questions for my students or shall I kindly ask you to leave?”

“Why?” Byrne asks. “Are you going to obstruct justice on behalf of them?”

The temperature drops several degrees and the air pressure changes in a very unnatural, very unsettling way. It's a familiar enough sensation at this point; Lucy’s spent far too much time in the Dark Lord’s presence over the last month. The aurors and Arcturus, however, all shift uneasily in their seats. 

“There is hardly anything I will not do on behalf of my students, Auror Byrne,” Dumbledore snaps. 

“You just said that you wouldn’t have any future students if you don’t play your part!”

“I am willing to oversee a routine questioning but the baseless condemnation of three promising young adults is not part of my duties in this fight.”

Byrne throws her hands up in exasperation. “We all know at least two of them are guilty. Three of you were some of the last people to see Cassius Nott alive, and we know it wasn’t you who killed him, Albus. These promising young adults are going to graduate Hogwarts and run right to him-“

“If we kneel to Tom Riddle, it will not be eagerly,” Regulus interrupts. His voice is cold. Distant. “He tried, and failed, to cast his past in shadow. Even Sirius has never denied his bloodline. He has cursed us and damned us to the deepest pits of hell, but he has never lied about us. It must have taken an unforeseen amount of tenacity to overcome the difficulties that Riddle has encountered throughout his life. He should have taken pride in them. The fact that he did not, and that those secrets were uncovered by a hat, merely exacerbates his lack of integrity.”

Byrne blinks at him several times. “So it’s alright if he goes around slaughtering muggles and muggleborns so long as he doesn’t lie about it?” She rounds on Lucy in an accusatory manner. “You’re muggleborn! How could you be with someone who thinks so little of us?”

Lucy studies Byrne closely. Short nails, no cosmetics, straight spine, tired eyes. 

“You’re a Hufflepuff, aren’t you?” Lucy guesses. “Maybe a Gryffindor. All about hard work and justice. There’s lots of you. All of you like to think you’re good, brave people who always do the right thing.” She leans back, settling against Regulus the slightest bit. “Not one of you stood up for me. You were all about standing up for each other, but I was a Slytherin. I didn’t count. And you’re no different. Where’s Evans? She was the one who took Nott out, but I don’t see her being interrogated and insulted.

“Tell me, Auror Byrne, why should I spare any of them a second thought? Why should I waste my time and energy caring about what they think?”

“Let’s not pretend you ever needed it,” Moody says gruffly. “Didn’t have nothing to do with you being a Slytherin. It was something else. They couldn’t put a finger on it, but they knew you were different. They were the same way with me when I was a boy. Same way they were with Albus. And Black here, I’d wager. Same reason Evans isn’t here. She’s full of fire and good with a wand, but she doesn’t have what you three kids have. She isn’t cold like we are.” 

He stretches out leisurely, grunting and cracking his knuckles. “Way I see it, Sirius here lost his temper. He killed Nott on accident, panicked, and ran back to his family for help.”

“Why would I run back to my family?!” Sirius asks, his face distorted with disgust. “If I was going to run to anyone for help, it would be the Potters, and you can bet your arses there wouldn’t be a body left.”

Moody lets out a contemplative grunt. “Euphemia always was a clever one.”

“Regardless“, Byrne says loudly, “a man has been killed and your family has a history of kidnapping people and leaving their bodies in public areas.”

“Allegedly,” Regulus counters, “those people are usually gone for several days and in a much more impressive condition.”

Dumbledore sighs. He sounds just as tired as Byrne looks. “It appears that you are acting on nothing more than speculation” he says, “which will not hold up in a court of law. It is just as likely that Mr. Nott escaped back to his master, who proceeded to kill him. I’ve already reported that Tom claims to have had nothing to do with yesterday’s attack, and I must say that I believe him. He would have never tried to pacify me as he did otherwise.”

“This doesn’t fit his other victims,” Shacklebolt points out. 

Lucy laughs, a wild dark thing that has Byrne reaching for her wand. 

“He’s insane. Insane, not mad like these three.” She gestures to her right, where Regulus, Arcturus, and Dumbledore are watching with amusement. Truthfully, Arcturus might be a little bit more on the insane scale of the spectrum, but he’s at least capable of joy and love. “Tom Riddle doesn’t feel normal emotions. His brain simply isn’t hardwired to make them. Muggle scientists call it antisocial personality disorder. There’s no doubt in my mind that he lost his temper and blasted Nott to bits without a spell.”

“You seem to know a lot about him,” Shacklebolt says, his tone verging on accusation. He’s too good at playing dumb to be anything other than a Slytherin. A Ravenclaw, at the least. 

“And I won’t be telling you any of it. He’s just now stopped trying to kill me. I won’t ruin it by doing your jobs for you.”

Moody sighs. “So none of you have got anything useful to say pertaining to the death of Cassius Nott?”

“No,” Arcturus replies firmly. “This farce has reached its conclusion. You can contact our solicitor if you have any more questions.”

“I quite agree,” Dumbledore chimes in. He stands up, vanishing his conjured chair with half a thought. Bloody exhibitionist. “Classes will begin any moment now, yet none of us has eaten breakfast. My floo is available this once or I may call a ghost to escort you to the gates if you would prefer apparition.”

Byrne stares at Dumbledore long enough for the moment to grow boring instead of tense. It isn’t until a yawn escapes Sirius that she admits defeat. She rubs at her eyes wearily as she and the other aurors stand. Kingsley Shacklebolt is the first to go, followed quickly by Byrne. Moody comes to an abrupt halt, almost as if he has lost an argument with himself. One fist is full of floo powder and his chin is jutted out petulantly. 

“We wouldn’t be in this mess if you’d burned the damn body,” he grumbles. 

Arcturus tips his head in something that could be mistaken for agreement. “Sirius Orion was the one to make the portkey. The blame would have fallen back to him. Now there are at least five suspects and no evidence other than a mangled corpse. You can’t send us all to Azkaban over a dead maniac in the middle of a civil war.”

Moody grunts again. “Good fucking riddance,” he mutters, just before his ragged form disappears in a swirl of green flames. 

The rest of them sit in silence, stewing in their own thoughts. There is only the sound of the fire cracking and the portraits rustling until Arcturus suddenly says, “You could be the next Alastor Moody if you ever got your shit together, boy.”

“Merlin’s fucking beard!” Sirius curses, surging to his feet. He opens his mouth once, closes it, looks to Regulus, then clenches his jaw shut. 

“I’m going to class,” he declares in an icy tone. “I’d rather listen to Binns than you.”

“That’s the best insult you’ve given me in years,” Arcturus calls at his retreating grandson. “Keep it up and you still might impress me yet.”

Lucy presses her lips together to try to keep her nervous laughter from rising. Sirius sees it anyway. He gives her a rude hand gesture just as he slips through the door. 

“Must you antagonize him, Arcturus?” Dumbledore asks. 

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes. Better that he is strewing in righteous anger at me than the Dark Lord.”

Dumbledore folds his hands in his lap and offers Arcturus a polite smile. “If I may, I’d like to say that it is a relief to see you together again. Love is one of the oldest and most powerful magics in the world.”

“I suppose we owe you a great debt,” Arcturus says, his own hands tight on his cane. “The aurors would have never relented without your intervention.”

“It was as you said. They would have demanded memories eventually and the blame would have fallen on Sirius, and the last thing we need is our Miss Tonks under further scrutiny.”

“Pardon?” Lucy asks. She can’t begin to speculate how she’s been dragged into this conversation. She’d much rather have sat back and listened to the two of them talk. About anything. Arcturus Black and Albus Dumbledore could read the phone book together and she’d be riveted. 

“Dear girl, you don’t expect me to believe that you would sit idly by if Sirius were to be sentenced to Azkaban.”

That sounds suspiciously like a compliment. 

“I’ve already got two plans worked out for him,” she admits. “And one for Regulus. And one for Sev, but he’s too smart for that. Funny enough, that one is an amalgamation of Regulus’s and one of Sirius’s.”

Technically, she could use Severus’s method for Regulus too. If Severus were ever arrested, she’d pull a Barty and a Sirius in one: switch places with him and sneak out in her animagus form later. She could do it with Regulus, but locking Walburga away in Azkaban would be too good of an opportunity to pass. 

“I am going to conveniently forget everything you’ve just said.” Dumbledore says, eyes twinkling. His cheerful tone turns solemn as he adds, “In a similar vein, I cannot know what happened to Cassius Nott. The fewer who know, the better.”

“Of course,” Arcturus replies.

The two men scrutinize each other as their conversation lulls. Lucy shares an excited glance with Regulus, who nods up at the domed ceiling. Every former headmaster and headmistress is listening in closely. Some are huddled together in large frames while others lounge in painted chairs. Not one is feigning sleep. 

Everyone is surprised-  even Fawkes, who trills irritably- when a bird taps on the window. Lucy tears her gaze away from the men to find a handsome owl waiting impatiently on the nearest window frame. He has a scroll tied to his left foot and an envelope in his beak. Lucy holds her breath as Dumbledore lets the bird in, then breaks open the envelope. His expression hardens with each word he reads. 

“Miss Pearce, the Ravenclaw whom Tom helped heal, has been put in a magically induced coma. They say she would have been lost to us completely if not for the treatment she received on the train. The healers are giving her mind a few days rest before they attempt further treatment.” He pauses, his lips twisting oddly under his beard. “They request the presence of her initial healer. Apparently, they’ve never seen anyone so adept in the mind arts.”

He throws the parchment off the side. “The more I think of all the wonderful things Tom might have done, the more disgusted I become.”

Without another word, he unfurls the scroll and begins reading. This time, his shoulders relax the slightest bit. He looks up at Lucy with a soft smile. 

“Miss Brown is expected to make a full recovery,” he announces. 

A great weight is lifted from Lucy’s chest. Regulus reaches over and squeezes her hand. 

“She is very weak, but she is awake and conscious. She’s asked after you and Mr. Snape. You both have my full permission to go visit her as soon as you’re dressed.” He frowns and pushes his spectacles up as he ponders something. “If you’re up to it, perhaps you might speak with the guardians of the other students while you’re there. They’re all muggles and probably very overwhelmed. But only if you’re up to it. You’ve been through quite the ordeal of your own.”

“I’ll consider it,” she says. It could be interesting. Probably not the way she should look at it, but an interesting experience nonetheless. It isn’t a side of the war she’s encountered. 

“I’ll escort them,” Arcturus volunteers. “I’ve been wanting to meet this Severus chap.”

Regulus huffs a laugh. “Then I’d better go warn him.” 

He rises, then halts. He looks down at Lucy, his head tilted so that his hair spills onto his shoulder. The image of him dead and wet superimposes itself onto his face. Revulsion and fear and desperation all clutch at Lucy’s chest. She has the sudden urge to wrap her arms around him. His expression turns curious before it smooths out into something soft and unreadable. 

“I’m embarrassed for you, son,” Arcturus drawls.

“I find it quite charming,” Dumbledore counters. 

Regulus rolls his eyes. Almost defiantly, he bends down and cups Lucy’s chin. He kisses her sweetly on the forehead, an act of affection that somehow feels far more private than a kiss on the lips would be. He smirks when he sees that her cheeks are flaming red.

“I’ll see you later.”

Lucy scowls, mostly at herself, as he spins on his heel. He exits through the door with much more grace than his brother had. She rises, pulling the hem of Ted’s jumper down as far as it will go. The Christmas leggings may be comfortable, but she’s definitely regretting them now. She’d rather not have her ass out for her pseudo-boyfriend’s grandfather to see. At least she never took off her bra last night. That would be mortifying. She definitely would have had to do some sneaky charm work. 

Dumbledore smiles gently at her. “Very well, Lucy, what do you say to meeting back here in an hour? You, Severus, and Arcturus can floo from my office.”

“Okay.”

She glances between the two of them. She can’t imagine them sitting together in content silence for an hour. It would have to be one of the most fascinating things to ever happen in the Headmaster’s office. For a brief moment, she isn’t sure who she pities the most, but the answer comes to her quickly. Arcturus is the worst off in this situation. It isn’t anything he can’t handle, but an hour subjected to Dumbledore’s idiosyncrasies and half-veiled riddles...

“Would you like to walk with me?” She blurts. 

Arcturus raises a brow. “Pardon?”

Fuck fuck shut the fuck up-

“Would you like to come with me?” She asks, trying to ignore her nerves. “I've ....bonded with Pollux. If that’s the word for it. I haven’t had the chance to speak with you since we first met.”

He contemplates her offer for a moment, looking remarkably like Sirius when he sits down with the daily crossword. Her stomach twists until she tells herself to stop fretting. He wants her to be anxious.  It’s what Regulus would do.

“Yes,” he finally says. “I think I will, if Albus doesn’t mind the likes of me traipsing through his castle.”

Dumbledore, however, is hardly listening. He’s busy scratching away at a piece of parchment. “That’s quite alright. I’ll just have the Baron catch up with you.”

Lucy groans inwardly. The Baron will never let her hear the end of it. 

Chapter Text

Arcturus isn’t sure how to feel about his morning thus far. His Nott plan was a roaring success and he’s finally getting to meet this Severus chap, but he’s also been roped into escorting Regulus’s girl around the school. The bloody school . It has been a very long time since he was forced to interact with children. Babies, he adores. Teenagers, he can survive. Children, he despises. They are sniveling, sticky little blights of humanity made to be neither seen nor heard. 

Hogwarts hasn’t changed much. It has managed to remain stoic and proud without retaining a sense of stagnation. This is how Arcturus prefers things. He isn’t much for change, but he isn’t one to hate progression. If he did, he would have had Lucille killed long ago.

“Tonks!”

Arcturus comes to a stop with his strange companion. A South Asian girl in green-trimmed robes skids around the corner and comes to an abrupt halt in front of them. A Patil, perhaps? Who can tell? All sorts are being let into the exalted house of Slytherin these days. 

“Oh, and the Baron!” The girl leans against the wall in an effort to catch her breath. She notices Arcturus and slumps further down the wall in relief.  “Praise Morgana! You’ve got a Black too. You’ve both got to come help! A massive duel’s broken out in History and Binns is just carrying on with his lecture!”

A heavy sigh sounds from behind them all. The Baron rolls his eyes dramatically. It had been passing strange to encounter the Bloody Baron again and even more odd to see him interact with Lucille so intimately. It’s rather pathetic in Arcturus’s opinion. She should have befriended a Ravenclaw or attached herself to Sirius rather than sunk to something so desperate as to befriend a ghost. 

The Baron steps through the nearest painting with all the enthusiasm of a bowtruckle. The Slytherin girl peels herself off the wall and makes to follow him around the corner, but she stops when Lucille taps her shoulder. 

“Go fetch Madam Pomfrey,” Lucille tells her. “The Hospital Wing is closer than any classroom.”

The girl’s face scrunches up in confusion as she glances from Lucy to Arcturus and back again. “Aren’t you coming to help?”

“I’m not a prefect,” Lucille says, her voice thick with amusement, “The Baron will handle it until someone who cares arrives.”

“I-…alright, then.”

The girl leaves with her brows furrowed tight together and her school loafers echoing with her slow, confused steps. 

Arcturus tilts his head. “How heartless, Miss Tonks.”

She snorts at him in a crude display of amusement before offering her left arm. He takes it and allows himself to be led through a tapestry and down a hidden staircase. Such dichotomous manners.

“Please. You know as well as I that those sorts of things are a right of passage at Hogwarts. It’s how the little brats learn to care for themselves.”

“Do you like children?” He asks curiously. “You’ll be expected to continue the line, you know.”

They bank into a narrow, sunny corridor just in time for Arcturus to see her nose scrunch. She truly is beautiful. Rumor has it that her brother is good looking as well. On any other person, her plump lips and round blue eyes might have been disproportionate, but her face is long enough to make her provocative rather than childish. That and her body. Her figure is evident even under her brother’s frumpy Hufflepuff top. 

“I’ve never liked children,” she admits, “but I love Nymph. I guess it really is different when it’s one of your own.”

“Quite,” Arcturus agrees. “I didn’t enjoy their company until I fathered my own cretins.” He hurriedly banishes the thought of his youngest, Regulus, away. It’s usually much easier to not dwell on the grief, but unearthing his tragedy today was for the good of the family. He would have understood. 

“I thought maybe two,” Lucille muses aloud. “I love Ted too much to begrudge any child of my own a sibling, and I know Regulus and Sirius have the potential for a similar relationship.”

“I always thought of Pollux as a brother. He never understood why I felt the need to make a distinction, but Pollux isn’t like you or I. People like us need labels. Plans. Order. He was never like that. He still can’t be bothered to declare his sexuality, for Merlin’s sake.”

She cringes in commiseration. “I could never. It’s one of the reasons I befriended Sirius. I needed someone to pull me out of my own head.”

They take a door down another set of stairs. Arcturus bites back a groan. His hip is going to ache something terrible tomorrow. He’s too old for this sort of nonsense. 

“I’ll cut to the chase, girl.” Her arm tenses around his own, but she does not interrupt. “You never had anything to worry about from me. I’ve approved of you since that little speech you made at tea. You would die for my grandsons. You’d burn Britain to ashes if it meant they lived. I’m not the type of wizard to turn down free galleons, Lucille and I’m also not the sort of man to make decisions lightly. I would never have turned the family over to Regulus if I did not have faith in him. He’s young. He will stumble. But I do not think you are one of his mistakes.”

Lucy looks up at him with surprise and a begrudging sort of amusement. “Well then. I’ll return the favor. Does my blood status bother you?”

“I am not a blind fool. I know what extensive inbreeding can do. That being said, I’d much rather have brought in a half-blood or a lesser pureblood, but I suppose it could be worse. You care about yourself more than spreading muggle culture, at least.”

She hums thoughtfully. It isn’t until they’ve traversed to the next floor that she offers a response. 

“I suppose I should try to change your mind, but I am an economic woman,” she says. “It would be a waste of my time, effort, and resources to argue with you.”

A sense of giddiness begins to rise in Arcturus. He does so love surprising people. 

“‘ Homo economicus ’,” he begins, “is a hypothetical man who solely makes rational and selfish decisions that result in his maximum wealth. The philosophy was first mentioned by John Stuart Mill in the nineteenth century, but the rationale behind it can be traced back to Scotsman Adam Smith, ‘The Father of Economics’.”

Lucille halts on the next step. She blinks up at him twice before saying, “Well damn, Mr. Black.”

“Indeed, Ms. Tonks, ” he agrees, trying his best to ignore his blooming satisfaction. It would be immature to gloat, so he merely raises his chin and leads her further down their latest set of innumerable stairs. 

“I was the head of the family for many years. As you know, wizards have not had educational institutions beyond childhood until fairly recently, and those only offer magical subjects to this day. If one wishes to study economics or genetics, one must deign to venture out into the muggle world.”

“You can't expect me to believe you attended university.”

Acturus grunts. As a matter of fact, he rather wished she would. Everything would have been much simpler if Regulus fell for a gullible idiot. 

“Of course not. I had books delivered by associates.”

“You do realize that there’s no logic in any of that? You hate muggleborns but you’re willing to study muggle subjects and memorize muggle philosophers? It doesn't make sense.”

“I thought you said you weren't going to argue with me.”

“I shouldn’t,” she grumbles, “but I’m tired and hungry and pissed off at that auror lady and I’ve got detention.”

They step into a dark corridor and Arcturus abruptly realizes that they’ve arrived in the lower levels. Years of prefect duties have seared every last bit of Hogwarts’ dungeons and basement in his brain. There should be a parlor behind that tapestry further down if he remembers correctly and that portrait in the distance is of a patchy werewolf. Arcturus leads his companion through a nearby archway with confidence. This path will skirt around the Head’s office and straight to the common room, a path that all Slytherins learn by their third year at the very latest. 

“And who were these associates, anyway?” Lucille wonders. “House elves?”

“Not everyone is obsessed with house elves,” a deep, ringing voice interjects.

A tall wizard with stringy black hair suddenly falls into step with them. Arcturus scowls at himself. He hadn’t heard or seen the young man. Where had he come from? Surely his senses haven’t aged quite so dismally. Lucille’s startled jump makes him feel a bit better, but still. It’s unbecoming. 

The young wizard’s greasy hair hardly moves as he dips his chin at Arcturus. “Severus Snape.”

A slow, predatory grin creeps across Arcturus’s face. Lesser men have blanched at that smile; Severus Snape just stares back impassively. It makes the pleasure of meeting him that much more enjoyable. 

“Arcturus Black. I’ve heard so much about you from Regulus and Lucille, and I’ve only met Lucille the once.”

Snape shoots her a nasty sneer. He really is an ugly fellow. Very unfortunate nose. And teeth. And everything, really.

“ Lucille needs to learn to keep quiet, ” Snape grumbles. 

“You know, I never thought I'd be glad to listen to you belittle yourself, but it's very soothing to hear after yesterday.”

He bares his crooked, yellow teeth in a truly alarming picture of aggression, but Lucille only rolls her eyes. 

“I'm off to get changed. I’ll meet you back here.”

“Regulus and I ran into Slughorn on his way back from hospital,” Snape cuts in. “He agreed to unlock the Slytherin floo after a bit of bribery. You can meet us there.”

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Arcturus mutters, at the same time Lucille cries, “Praise the fucking Lord.”

At the sight of his admonishing raised brows, Lucy curls her lip. 

“I don't let bigots judge me on my language, ” she says coldly. With that, she spins on her heel and stalks down a shadowed corridor with her head held high. 

“Shame,” Arcturus says, sighing. “I’d hoped to get a look at her rooms.”

“There’s not much to discern from her Hogwarts dormitory, ” Snape says. He tips his head in the opposite direction. “Shall we?”

Arcturus nods and sets off at a brisk pace. The idea of flooing back to the Headmaster’s office has him feeling rejuvenated and optimistic. 

“What do you mean by that, Severus?” Arcturus asks. 

“The library and the Baron are the only two things she has ever liked about Hogwarts. She would have dropped out and taken her NEWTs early if her mother hadn’t requested that she stay in school.”

Interesting. “Impressive. What does her flat look like, then?”

“Feminine.”

“Feminine?” Arcturus hedges. 

“It’s pastel. Everywhere. And she and that blasted elf magically expanded a cupboard into a walk-in closet that they share . It's ridiculous. Repulsive, even.” 

They stop outside of a familiar expanse of wall. Arcturus pauses to breathe in the nostalgia and pride and melancholy. Decades and decades have passed since he was last here. Once, his life revolved around this room. It was so simple. So easy. Since then, he’s lost a child, a wife, and led his family through a war. Merlin, what he’d give to go back knowing what he knows now. 

“ Fraternitas ,” Snape intones, and the passage reveals itself. 

The Slytherin common room is just as he remembers. It still smells the same, like a warm fire and wood polish. There, in the corner, was where that strange Lovegood boy did all of his experiments, and Siobhan Selwyn commandeered the leftmost windows in their fourth year. And he’d had his first kiss with Ilse Dietrich in that supply closet. And he’d learned to never pick a fight with a beater under that portrait. 

When Snape speaks, it sounds as though it is coming from a great distance. 

“Has it changed much?” He asks.

“They’ve changed the carpets,” Arcturus says bluntly, taking care to suppress his maelstrom of emotions. It’s more difficult than he cares to admit. 

“That one in the middle is particularly new. Ask your grandson about it.”

“I assume fire was involved,” Arcturus says as he lowers himself into the handsome leather armchair next to the fire.

“Of course.”

Severus Snape mirrors him. He is a graceful young man despite his jittery disposition. Even in the empty room, his black eyes dart to and fro beneath the heavy curtains of hair. Did the Dark Lord never admonish him for his hygiene? What sort of man allows his apprentice to keep up such an appearance?

“I hear you’re the man to watch,” Arcturus says. He lounges back into the chair and rests his cane across his knees. 

Severus does not relax, nor does he fidget under the heavy scrutinization. “I’d rather you have not heard anything.”

“Not enough to hold yourself back, apparently. It would be easy enough for the likes of you to go unnoticed.”

“I am a Slytherin. I have ambition.”

“Mm. And what are your goals?”

“To survive.”

Arcturus fights back a smile. He likes this one. Snarky. Intelligent. Quiet. If he’s half as brilliant as everyone makes him out to be, it’s no wonder the Dark Lord and Lucille have both claimed him. 

“That’s becoming difficult, from what I gather. Riddle’s own man impersonated you.”

That gets a reaction. His spindly fingers tighten on the chair’s leather arms and his lips pull back in an ugly facsimile of amusement. 

“Not successfully, ” he says, caressing the syllables in a way that is very memorable to Arcturus. That is how the Dark Lord speaks when he is trying to intimidate someone. How fascinating that the boy finds himself in such company so frequently.

“Not through any accomplishment of your own, ” Arcturus points out. “It was your friends who foiled Nott’s plan. Lucille and the Brown girl. I've heard next to nothing about that one. Are you close?”

“No.”

“She’s very beautiful, and in a much more traditional way than Lucille. Do you love her?”

This time his “no” is more exasperated than defensive. 

“What about Lucille? Are you in love with her?”

“No.”

“Are you close?”

“Not anymore.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why ever not?”

Snape’s flat stare takes on an almost sarcastic edge. “You know why.”

“I’m afraid I don’t. I’m afraid I don’t believe you at all, Severus Snape.”

“That sounds like a ‘you’ problem, Arcturus Black,” a girl’s voice interjects. 

Arcturus freezes. Snape freezes. Lucille Tonks is stood before the nearest sofa wearing an expression of deep amusement. Her hair is pulled back on top of her head and she’s dressed in muggle clothes: a pink jumper tucked into flared red trousers. She looks very pretty and very, very young. 

“How did you do that,” Severus Snape demands. 

“I haven’t even let Regulus in on that secret,” she says by way of answer. “Are you ready? Or would you like to continue your conversation? I wouldn’t mind.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” Arcturus says blandly. He balances his cane on the floor and begins the arduous process of rising to his feet. Merlin, is he glad that Horace unlocked the floo. “Let’s get on with it. I’m ready to have a long soak at home.”

Chapter Text

St. Mungo’s hasn’t changed since Lucy last visited Ted at work. It still smells like citrus and vinegar, still lit with unbearingly harsh witchlight, still bustling in that quiet way only a hospital can. It’s comforting to see something unaffected by the world outside and yet still vexing to see it carry on without Ted. Her heart is breaking without her brother. Why does this place get to remain unaffected? 

The lift dings and the doors slide open to reveal the fourth floor. Ted’s floor. The Janus Thickey ward is to the left. Closer and to the right is emergency spell damage, which was where Ted began working when the war broke out. He’d always preferred the magical ailment and maladies department, but most of those cases were handed off to the mediwizards when the triage for spell damage was overrun. That happened years ago, before Lucy’s mother was even diagnosed with cancer. 

“Time is a funny thing,” she muses aloud. “Witches and goblins and muggles alike give it names and try to measure it but there’s not a thing we can do to make it stop. It keeps going on and on and on and making fools of us all.”

“Fourth floor- spell damage,” a neutral, magical voice announces. 

Lucy takes a step into the bright hallway, heedless of the glance Arcturus and Severus share behind her. New posters line the bland walls, their cheerful designs at odds with their grim content. ‘Recognize the Imperius’ , one reads. Another says, ‘Episkey Quickly: Ten Spells That Can Keep You From Saying Farewell!’

“The more time I spend with you, Miss Tonks, the more I understand why Regulus is infatuated with you,” Arcturus says. “You’re just as insufferably idealistic as he is. I’d wager my good hip you’re a closet romantic too.”

Lucy turns from the ridiculous poster to frown up at him. God, he looks so much like Sirius. Down the shape of his eyebrows. 

“I beg to differ. Regulus and I are cynics. Realists, if we’re feeling optimistic.”

“House elves,” Severus intones. 

“Oh shut it,” Lucy grouses, scowling. “The intensive care unit is this way.”

The halls are relatively empty. Two healers pass, their heads bowed together as they consult a parchment floating ahead of them. One mediwitch runs past with a steaming goblet in her hands. Another mediwizard that Lucy dimly recognizes nods in greeting as he jogs around a corner, his bright green robes billowing out in his rush.

They soon come across a set of pale wooden doors. A bold, professional typeface declares it to be the ‘Entwhistle Intensive Care Ward’. Severus goes to open them only to come face to face with a harried healer. The healer scowls, pushes past a glowering Severus, then comes to an abrupt halt across from Lucy. 

“Merlin’s beard,” he breathes.

Lucy swallows around her suddenly thick tongue. 

“Hello, Richard.”

Richard Hesleden has aged a decade since she last saw him over the summer. His hair, once a neat chestnut, is now untamed and sprinkled with grey. The most noticeable change is a set of heavy frown lines bracketing his mouth. He used to be the sort of man who always laughed. Lucy could always tell it was the Hesledens who had come over for dinner because of all the laughter going on downstairs. 

“I didn’t expect to see you,” he says, more to himself than her. “‘Spose you’re here for the Brown girl.”

“How’s Tulela?” 

The new frown lines deepen as his mouth pulls down. He looks past Lucy to glare at the men behind her. His voice is uncharacteristically harsh as he grits out, “Wouldn’t know, would I? She and the girls went to visit her parents in Namibia. Indefinitely.”

Arcturus raises his brows. 

“Perhaps you should have accompanied her if you’re so worried,” he says. 

Oh, fuck me , Lucy thinks. 

Richard takes a heavy step forward. “Fuck you, Black. Fuck-“

He’s cut off by the door swinging open. A weathered mediwitch takes in the scene with one swift glance. She makes quick work of dragging Richard away, her nails digging into his arm. She must have slipped in a silencing charm too, because his insults go unheard despite his attempts. Arcturus watches him go without bothering to hide his amusement. 

“What did we do to him?” He asks curiously. 

Severus rolls his eyes. “Not even attempting to deny it.”

“He’s Ted’s best mate,” Lucy explains tiredly. “Loves Andy like she’s his own sister.”

“Ah.”

“I’m impressed, actually. I’ve never seen him like that. The stress must be getting to him.”

“Hence my suggestion of accompanying his wife to…Namibia, was it?”

Lucy sighs. “He’s a Gryffindor. He’d never leave Britain when it’s in this state, not when he knows his family is well hidden. Shall we get this over with then? The longer we’re here, the more something like that is bound to happen.”

“I wouldn’t mind. This is much more amusing than I thought it would be.”

It’s Lucy’s turn to roll her eyes as they step into the ward. “Of course this is fun for you. You’re just as insane as the rest of them. I don’t know why I expected anything different.”

The intensive care ward is much different from Ted’s accident and emergency wing. There are fewer employees, for one, and the patient beds have much more distance between them. Most of the bed curtains are drawn, but a handful have been pulled back to reveal worried visitors and sleeping patients. On the far wall, the staff seems focused instead of beleaguered at their workstation. It is a much more organized area than several mobile carts interspersed haphazardly around the room in the a&e. Quite frankly, Lucy doesn’t know how Ted thought straight in that chaos. 

“Lucille! There you are!”

Lucy’s field of sight is suddenly overtaken by a swath of red fabric as Violet’s brother pulls her into a tight, unexpected embrace. He’s still dressed in his work robes and when he finally lets her go, she sees that his golden curls are frizzy and sticking up every which way. Lucy blinks up at him, a little overwhelmed by his affection.  

“Hello, Auror Bro-“

“It’s just Michael to you, Lucy,” he says. He lays a heavy hand on her shoulder and gives Severus a tight smile. “And you, Severus. Thank you both so much for coming. And you’re Arcturus Black, yeah?”

“Yes,” Arcturus replies shortly, taking in Michael’s auror uniform with distaste. 

Michael waves off his sour expression with a nonchalant gesture. “Oh, don’t mind my robes. You won’t find me whinging over Cassius Nott. Just don’t let Byrne hear that, mind you.”

Arcturus gives him a kind smile, causing a deafening cacophony of alarm bells to go off in Lucy’s head. 

“Of course not,” he croons. “Why don’t we have a cup of tea while the children visit?”

“Alright then.” Michael squeezes Lucy’s shoulder and grins down at her. “She’s just there, behind that curtain next to the empty bed. She’s a little groggy from the potions but she’s well, all things considered.”

Lucy reaches up to keep him still when he pulls his hand away. “Michael, I really don’t think-“

The idiot only winks at her and squeezes her shoulder again before taking off with Arcturus, who pauses long enough to throw a wink of his own over his shoulder. 

“Moron,” Sev mumbles. 

Lucy nods in agreement. She sighs, loops her arm around his, and steps forward to pull back the curtain. 

Violet looks like shit. Black rings have formed around her eyes and her fingers and lips have turned a strange blue color. She looks as horrible as Lucy had tried to make herself look all those months ago. 

Lucy doesn’t have much time to be concerned, however, because Violet very suddenly blurts out, “I’m gay!”

Lucy blinks. She blinks again. Then she looks up at Severus, who blinks down at her. They turn to blink at Violet together.

“I’m sorry!” She cries, her lip wobbling as she plucks at a loose thread in her blanket. “I just…it’s all I can think about. I never told anyone. I almost died and no one would have known.”

Severus snorts. He’s found the medical charts somewhere and is scrutinizing them with a practiced eye. 

“I’ve known for years, Brown. No need to die worrying over that. What shade of pink was the potion you took before we got here?”

“The loveliest pale-… What ?! How’d you know?!”

Lucy sighs again. She aims a softening charm at the ugly hospital chair so she can settle in for the show. Violet and Severus never disappoint. 

“Legilimency is more than magic. It’s observing, and I observed you staring at Lucy’s arse more than Blishwick’s.”

A sudden, fierce joy sears through Lucy’s bones.

“Severus Snape!” She hisses excitedly. “Are you insinuating that you’ve observed Everard Blishwick’s blish-“

“If you even think about finishing that sentence, I will tell Malfoy what you confessed about his blishwick when we were testing out our Veritaserum in third year.”

“See!” Violet exclaims. “This is it! My whole life I’ve been suffocating under the weight of this monstrous lie and recently I haven’t been to stop thinking ‘Lucy would fight for me ’ and ‘Severus wouldn’t care in the best way ’, and I told myself on New Year’s that I would come out to you both and then I saw Severus on the train and thought ‘This it, I’m going to to do it now’ , so I asked where he was going to be and went to find you Luce, but Sev was there again and I knew it wasn’t him and it all went to shit and I was lying there, dying , and I-“

Severus shoves a glass of water in her face. 

“Take a fucking breath, Brown.”

Violet chokes out a laugh, but takes a deep drink. Lucy’s heart warms at the sight of them being complete idiots. She rises from her seat to brush a stray curl from Violet’s face. A sheen of sweat is coating her pallid skin. 

“You poor thing. How high are you, exactly?”

“Oh, I feel wonderful.”

Severus snorts. “I bet you do if that potion was as lovely a shade of pink as you claim it was.”

“It was such a lovely shade,” Violet says wistfully. “It would make for a lovely silk gown.”

“You’re lovely,” Lucy says, still petting her hair.

“You’re both dunderheads,” Severus declares, but he lowers himself next to Violet’s feet all the same. 

The three of them lapse into a companionable silence for a while, watching as the hospital goes about its business. One of the curtains is pulled back to reveal a couple dressed in muggle clothing. They must be some of the parents Dumbledore mentioned. 

“In all seriousness, I am glad you came,” Violet says. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a coward all these years. I would have been so much happier if I had told them all to shove it and just spent Hogwarts with you two.”

“It’s alright, Violet,” Lucy assures her. “Neither of us are the friendliest of people. We’re not even friendly enough to have spent Hogwarts with each other. Not really.”

“But that’s precisely it! One day in Herbology I wanted to tell Potter to shut the hell up and just as I was thinking it, Severus turned around and cursed him to eat shit. It was beautiful.” She flops back against her pillows dramatically. “I might have fallen in love with you that day if I weren’t such a raging lesbian.”

Severus’s lips twitch. “I got two weeks of detention for that.”

“Eugh, don’t remind me,” Lucy complains. “I’d forgotten about my detention.”

“What’d you do this time?” Violet asks. 

“McGonnagal caught me in Regulus’s room and now we have to host a sex party.”

“Oh, but that’s wonderful! You can use it for your objective!”

Lucy raises her brows. “My objective?”

“Don’t think I've forgotten what we were talking about before that bastard did this to me. You have responsibilities now. I don't want to show up at Hogwarts in a couple of weeks and find that you’ve secluded yourself in some supply cupboard.”

“You can't expect me to make friends with those twats without you there as a buffer, ” Lucy whines. 

Violet’s bruised eyes crinkle with the depth of her answering smile. “Of course I do. As a matter of fact, Slytherin has the Quidditch pitch scheduled for Sunday afternoons. All of the player’s significant others go to watch, rain or shine. That's as good a place to start as any.”

“Oh dear God, ” Lucy says with mounting horror. “I forgot he plays Quidditch.”

Severus snorts. “I might have to come just to watch you suffer.”

“Would you, really?” Lucy asks, trying not to sound too hopeful. 

“No.”

Violet erupts into laughter loud enough to draw the notice of the other patients. Some scowl. Others pay them no mind. The muggle parents, however, gaze back at their daughter sadly. 

Lily Evans should be the one to do it. She’s charming and optimistic and attached to the Muggle world. Lucy doesn't plan on returning to it at all. She’ll venture out for high fashion, concerts, and books, but that’ll be it. And for films when the technology progresses to a reasonable state. And Netflix. And HBO. Regulus would love Game of Thrones. And Spotify. Definitely Spotify.

So pretty much for everything, really. God, Ted would be laughing his arse off at her if he were here. 

“Ted would want me to talk to them,” she says to no one in particular.

“You should, “ Violet agrees. “I’m tired, anyway. You can come back and see me on Friday. With gifts, this time. I want chocolate and magazines and that new shade of nail varnish Witch Weekly was going on about.”

“Anything else?” Lucy asks sarcastically. 

“I’ll owl you if I think of anything.”

Lucy huffs. “I’m sure you will.”

She squeezes Violet’s hand in farewell and closes the curtain behind her to give Severus privacy. He is awkward enough with his feelings without any spectators. Arcturus and Michael are already waiting. Neither of them is sporting a black eye, though Arcturus looks inordinately pleased about something. 

“I thought you said she was groggy, not high as a kite,” Lucy accuses. 

“Kite? What’s a kite?” Michael asks. 

“A muggle thing that you release into the sky- oh, don’t worry about it.”

Her attention slips back to the worried parents. Michael follows her gaze. 

“You should talk to them,” he says. “I tried, but it’s like speaking to an American. We speak the same language but don’t understand a word the other is saying.”

She cringes. She’d much rather just go back to Hogwarts, but he’s right. Violet was too. 

“No pressure, though!” He says, reaching down to squeeze her shoulder. “Do whatever makes you feel best. You deserve it. Violet and I owe you so much, Lucy. She wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

“If anything, it’s the other way around. She was my friend when no one else would be.”

“She’s a wonderful person, my sister. I’d best check on her again. I’ll be sure to update you both tomorrow.”

With one last unexpected hug, he slips back to his sister’s bedside. Lucy watches him go, surprised when Severus doesn’t immediately appear. 

“I think the muggles might be fun,” Arcturus offers.

Lucy rounds on him and his smug smile. “No. Absolutely not.”

“I’m your escort, Miss Tonks. It would be remiss of me if-“

“I thought Pollux would be like this. He seems like the one that would get off on messing with muggles.”

“My dear, Pollux would simply kill them on sight. There’s no fun in something that can’t put up a fight.”

A dull pressure begins to build behind her eyes. This is not what she had envisioned when she considered appeasing Dumbledore. It will end in disaster. Just as she goes to point that out, Severus appears. She examines him for any indication of what happened with Violet and Michael, but he reveals nothing. Competent bastard. He’s probably occluding to the high heavens. 

“Maybe we should just go back,” she says, turning to Arcturus, but he is already stomping across the aisle, the tap of his cane echoing sinisterly. Lucy looks to Severus for help but he only gives her one of his flat stares. He’s probably going to find it hilarious. 

“Bugger,” Lucy mutters. 

Severus hums. 

She chooses to ignores him. She straightens her spine and follows her grandfather-to-be through the gates of hell. 

Mr. and Mrs. Pearce turn out to have a very British air about them. It could be his flat cap or her knitted cardigan or their luridly 70s wellies. Whatever it is, something about them is as quintessentially British as Longbottom Manor was. Nonetheless, they look incredibly out of place despite being in the middle of London. They look afraid . They are huddled together, their shoulders hunched up to their ears, and eyeing Severus and Arcturus with panicked distrust. 

“Hello,” Lucy says, before Arcturus can get a word in. “My name is Lucille Tonks. The Headmaster-“

“You were there,” Mrs Pierce cuts in. A thick Welsh accent clips her vowels. “You were one of the other girls.”

“Yes. I was there. I was wondering if-“

“Wait here,” she says, rising briskly. “I’ll fetch the Fagans.”

Lucy blinks after her retreating figure. She looks to the woman’s husband for some sort of explanation, but he has yet to look away from Arcturus. Lucy glances over her shoulder to find Arcturus staring back at him with a foreboding sort of fascination. 

“No. Absolutely not, Arcturus.”

Arcturus lifts his perfectly manicured brows in a silent ‘What are you going to do about it?’ . He’s never looked more like Sirius. Sirius has given her that same exact look a thousand times, only without the icy promise of violence. His were always teasing, taunting, full of fire. She desperately wishes he were here. He would charm them all within moments, have Arcturus rolling his eyes and Mrs. Pearce blushing despite all of her worry and grief. But there’s no point in wishing. This is the hand she’s been dealt and she’ll have to play it as well as she can. 

“I will obliterate your finances if you do not behave,” she says. “I have information the goblins would literally kill to get their claws in. I’m sure we could work out something that would leave you a beggar for your last years on earth.”

There is no sound except for her deafening heartbeat and the slow, even breaths of the comatose girl. 

Abruptly, miraculously , Arcturus smiles. It is a nasty, handsome sort of smile that makes her think of Pollux and the hint of crazed instability that he tried so hard to hide. 

“Wonderful, Miss Tonks. Simply wonderful.”

With that cryptic compliment, he taps his cane on the floor. Five chairs appear simultaneously. They are simple in their elegance, all gleaming rosewood and black velvet upholstery- infinitely more tasteful than any of Dumbledore’s vibrant monstrosities or Sirius’s leather behemoths. Yet for all of their beauty, she does not miss the underlying threat. He could lay her out with half a thought. Even Severus grimaces as he lowers himself into the closest seat. 

Mrs. Pearce chooses that moment to reappear. Another couple, a man and wife dressed in muggle business attire, hover over her shoulder. She stares down at the new furniture with confusion and no little amount of fear. 

“My…Arcturus was kind enough to conjure chairs for all of us,” Lucy explains. 

“Kind,” Mr. Pearce says flatly. 

Arcturus grins again. “I can vanish them if you’d like.”

An awkward silence takes over their little group. Kind or not, each one of them chooses a chair. The newcomers couldn’t be more different from their counterparts. Mr. Fagan has a big bulbous nose and even bigger ears. His wife is a lovely woman with short, dark hair and thin lips. They look like they should be in an office-wear advertisement, not waiting for their child to die. 

“Right. My name is Lucille Tonks. I was there during the attack. I’m also a muggleborn, like your daughters, and my brother is a healer here. Because of all that, the Headmaster suggested I speak with you. Or maybe answer questions you might have.”

“Who’re they?” Mr. Pearce demands, his harsh gaze trained on Arcturus. 

“This is my friend, Severus Snape. He came with me to visit our friend Violet. Her brother, Auror Brown, said you’ve already spoken-“

Mrs. Fagan furrows her thin brows. “You’re the one that dreadful man impersonated.”

“Yes,” Snape bites out. His fingers dig into his thighs and wordlessly dares them to say anything else. The Fagans blanch, but the other two hold his scowl. The Pearces will be the ones to watch, then. 

As if on cue, the husband snaps out, “Who’re you?” to Arcturus. 

Arcturus does not deign to answer. He merely grinds his cane against the floor.

“This is Arcturus Black,” Lucy says. She sits up straighter and makes sure to enunciate- anything to get these muggles to realize that he isn’t a man to cross. “He is my fiancé’s grandfather. Professor Dumbledore personally requested that he escort Severus and I on our visit, but you shouldn’t pay him any attention. He’s only here to watch. Do you have any questions for me?”

“Quite a few,” Mrs. Fagan says. “Could you explain the war to us? The aw-au-…I don’t trust these magical policemen. They talk to us like we’re children and-“

“Vanessa-“ her husband begins, his eyes darting to Arcturus, but he’s cut off by Mrs. Pearce. 

“No, she’s right.” She shares a grim look with her own husband. “We were discussing it too. Something about the situation was off. There were too many of them and they all seemed distrustful of one another.”

“And it got even worse when the Headmaster arrived,” Mr Fagan adds. 

“All politics, I’m afraid,” Lucy says, trying to keep her voice soft and her body relaxed. “It’s election time in the middle of a civil war and if that wasn’t bad enough, Dumbledore exists. He’s a good man- or tries to be at least, but he very well may be the most powerful wizard on the planet. The only reason he isn’t ruling Magical Britain, or perhaps all of Europe, is that he simply can’t be bothered. As you can imagine, he makes the Ministry very nervous.”

Mr. Pearce’s frown deepens. “So there’s this Dumbledore fellow, two possible Ministers, and a dark lord person all fighting?”

“What even is a dark lord?”  Mrs. Pearce suddenly blurts. It’s obvious from the way she chews on her bottom lip that she’s been dying to ask that question for a long time. 

“That is a complicated concept. A dark lord is a dark wizard that has gained power. A dark wizard is a person who practices dark magic. The problem is that dark magic can be several things depending on when and where you are. Our current dark lord calls himself Lord Voldemort, but you must never repeat that name. There can be…tracking spells, I guess you could call it, tied to his name.”

All four of them nod seriously. Mr. Pearce is the most skeptical of them all, but he takes it in stride.

“So what’s this ‘lord’ want, then?” He asks. 

“Depends when and where you are,” Severus answers drily. “Power is the simplest answer.”

Lucy nods. “And he went to the aristocracy to build his power base. At the time, it was composed of traditionalist purebloods who believed muggleborns threatened their power and wealth. So to get the rich and powerful on his side…”

Everyone looks back to the sleeping girl. 

“To be fair, he didn’t sanction this specific attack. He’s too much of a politician to target magical children, especially those under Dumbledore’s jurisdiction. Nott was just a sick man.”

Mr. Pearce’s neck nearly cracks with how quickly he turns to face them. “What? Not who?”

“They haven’t told you?”

“We haven’t spoken with anyone other than the doctors and nurses,” Mr. Fagan says. 

Lucy twists in her seat to gape at Severus. He raises his eyebrows as if to ask her if she expected anything different. She hadn’t spared any of this enough thought to expect anything at all, but for even the Order to have forgotten the victims’ families is so fucked . 

“Do you…do you know something?” Mrs. Fagan asks in a trembling voice. 

To Lucy’s surprise and utmost horror, Arcturus is the one to answer. His deep posh voice is ringing with amusement as he says, “We know the Ministry was questioning us about the murder of a terrorist instead of contacting you.”

Mrs. Fagan gasps, her engagement ring glinting in the harsh light as she covers her mouth. Her husband reaches into her lap to grasp her other hand. The Pearces, however, only sit up straighter in their ugly hospital chairs. 

“He’s dead?” Mrs. Pearce demands. “How can you be sure?”

Arcturus narrows his eyes as he considers her. Lucy knows that he must be clever enough to see beneath her peach cardigan and rosy cheeks to recognize the steel in her bones. He must notice the tension her husband carries in his shoulders, how his fists are clenched as though he might reach up and throttle someone at the slightest provocation. These two could be trusted with the truth. Arcturus could tell them how Cassius Nott died in grisly detail and they would nod. Maybe even smile. The Fagans, however, are another story. They are people of privilege. They do not expect these sorts of things out of life. Vengeance might not be justice to them. 

“His body was found in seven pieces this morning,” Lucy tells them, watching their reactions carefully. 

Sure enough, the Fagans are shocked at the barbarity. The Pearces simply nod. 

“Wh-who was he?” Mrs. Fagan asks. “Why would he do something like this?”

“His name was Cassius Nott,” Arcturus answers. “His ancestors founded Nottingham in the seventh century. The original plans for Nottingham Castle were based on his family home. They were more ingrained and important to British magic than muggles like yourselves could possibly comprehend and yet his line is ended.”

Severus scoffs. “‘ His line is ended’ . His line is ended because he slaughtered his wives and daughters. Imbecile.”

“Very ironic for such a man to meet his end at the hands of a woman,” Arcturus agrees. 

“Which is exactly why you should’ve married him to Narcissa,” Lucy says. “It all comes back to Lucius Malfoy. If he didn’t exist, Narcissa wouldn’t have married him and Nott wouldn’t be alive today.”

Arcturus gives her a very strange, very penetrative look. “Regulus suggested the very same idea. Without the Malfoy nonsense, of course.”

“My God, you’re dark wizards aren’t you?!” Mr. Fagan cries. 

Lucy twitches. She’d nearly forgotten their audience. The Fagans share matching expressions of betrayal and fear. Their counterparts have edged toward their daughter’s bed, gazes locked on Arcturus’s cane. 

“Of a sort,” Lucy admits. 

Mr. Pearce shifts in his chair, cheeks flushed with anger. “What sort, then?”

“The sort who is going to tell you the truth,” Lucy answers, unperturbed. She can’t blame him. She doesn’t want to consider what sorts of things she would do if it were her own daughter lying there. 

“I would have left this country a very long time ago if it weren’t for my brother and his family. They are in hiding now and I would have gone with him if I weren’t so intrinsically tied to this war. Sometimes I wish I would have gone anyway.”

“So you think…” Mr. Fagan gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing under his turtleneck. “You think your dark lord will win?”

“He isn’t my dark lord. But I don’t support the Ministry either. They are bigoted and nepotic to the point of ruin.” All four of the parents flinch back at the acid in her tone. “I would leave if I were you. The Ministry won’t be able to offer you protection and there are too many spies to trust them if they did. Dumbledore is your best bet if you want to stay in Britain.”

Mrs. Fagan sucks in a deep breath. She closes her eyes a moment, then squeezes her husband’s hand. Tears grip on to her lashes when she opens them again.  

“And if we didn’t?”

Lucy considers her question carefully. “There aren’t many magical schools. In Europe, there’s Beauxbatons and Durmstrang to choose from. Durmstrang doesn’t take those of us with ‘impure blood’ though, so that’s out. Some might recommend Japan but they’re too censorious with their magic in my opinion. Given that your children are Ravenclaws, they’ll probably agree with me. If you don’t feel like learning a new language, America’s got a better school than Australia, but their health system is shit. Something that you’ll probably have to worry about. Both of your daughters suffered brain injuries, even if one was magical rather than physical.”

“So, Australia?” Mr. Fagan croaks. His hair, once so neat, could now give James Potter’s a run for its money. 

“I dunno,” Lucy says, leaning back in her chair. “This war could end tomorrow for all I know.“

That’s a lie, of course. She does know it won’t end tomorrow. There’s still the diadem, the ring, and the locket to destroy, and they haven’t even gotten the cup yet. It might not even be at Gringotts. 

“It’s impossible to predict what will happen. Time is a funny thing,” Arcturus says drolly, to Severus’s amusement. “And speaking of which, I do believe it is time for us to return. A war is no reason to fall behind on your studies.”

Lucy rolls her eyes as she rises to her feet. It would be impossible for her or Severus to fall behind in their studies.

Arcturus and Severus let their prejudice shine through with their goodbyes. Or more precisely, their lack of goodbyes. They stand from their chairs and sweep away without so much as a nod. Lucy, for all her apathy, isn’t so bigoted. 

“I’ll speak to Professor Flitwick for you. He was impressively angry over what happened to his students. He’s much better qualified to do this sort of thing anyway.”

Mr. Pearce shrugs and rubs his stubbly jaw. “Weren’t too bad. Treated us like people, at least.”

Lucy’s lips quirk up in a small smile. “Well, as nice as it was to meet you, I hope to never see you again. There’s too much going on for me to be an ambassador to muggleborn parents. And I hate children anyway.”

Mr. Fagan begins to rise from his chair, and Lucy scurries away before he can try to shake her hand. Terribly unBritish of her, but there’s only so much human interaction she can handle in a day.

Unfortunately, Arcturus doesn’t seem to feel the same.

“You did well, Miss Tonks,” he says as they step into the lift. “I respect your integrity; your unwillingness to compromise your personal truths.”

“Only because the Dark Lord isn’t here. If he were here I would have sung an entirely different tune.”

“As you should,” Arcturus says. He eyes the two of them with his lips pursed tight. “Lie. Lie and grovel unless you are sure there is no escape, and when you are defeated, die with dignity and courage.”

The lift dings and they all step out into the small corridor. It has become packed since they first arrived. There are no less than a dozen people waiting on the twin pairs of lifts to become available. Behind them, the chairs in the general waiting room have filled and a long line branches out from the greeter’s desk. Arcturus leads the way to the line of floos, his cane whacking at anyone that lingers too long. He pauses outside one of the grates designated for floo departures. 

“Can we assume we passed your tests?” Lucy asks, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

In reply, Arcturus bends down to kiss her engagement ring. A flashbulb goes off, startling Lucy into going for her wand. Even Arcturus has been caught off guard. He straightens and frowns over his shoulder. There is a witch in loose red robes with a camera dangling from her neck. She is hunched over a leather bound journal, the peacock quill flying across the page in a colorful blur. 

“You two get yourselves back to Hogwarts,” he murmurs. “I’ll take care of that.”

Lucy shares a silent conversation with Severus. It isn’t likely to be taken care of. In fact, he’ll probably make whatever it is worse. On the other hand, she and Severus are only students coming to visit a friend. They’ve already put it in their community service with the Ravenclaw parents. 

They both rush for the complimentary floo powder in a fit of childishness. Severus has over a foot on her and is much more coordinated besides, so he is the first to disappear into green flames. 

The last thing Lucy sees is the reporter jutting her chin out at Arcturus’s oily grin. 

The Slytherin common room is quiet. Most of the students are either in class or studying somewhere quiet. Anything to get a change of scenery in while they can with the new restrictions in place. Thankfully, Regulus seems to have finished with class for the day. He is in a chair by one of the windows, speaking with a pair of fifth year girls in low tones. They both look up as Lucy approaches, but he pays her no mind. He merely motions to the plush carpet at his feet and keeps talking to the girls. Something about transfiguration masteries on the continent. 

Lucy lowers herself onto the floor and leans her head against his knee. She peers out the window, watching the bleak light shift from green to teal to blue and letting Regulus’s voice wash over her. He toys with a lock of hair in her ponytail until the girls leave, then magics the elastic band away entirely.

Time does not exist here. It is pocket out of time and space, a little spot of quiet just for the two of them. She can’t remember the last time she was so at peace. Not joyful or playful or excited, she can remember that well enough. This is an entirely different feeling. This is a contentment beyond happiness. It is the low murmur of the common room, the steady scrape of Regulus’s nails against her scalp, the calming colors of the lake, and the warmth of having him at her side. Lucy nuzzles in closer. The soft fabric of his trousers is smooth against her cheek. 

Regulus is the one to break the spell. His voice is soft and his fingers never stop their ministrations. 

“It was my mother,” he says. “Sirius was arguing with me and Arcturus, Mother was screaming at him, the portraits were in an uproar, Kreacher was growing upset, Nott had regained consciousness, and Pollux was laughing his arse off all the while. Mother lost her temper, as she tends to do. She didn’t even cast a spell. Just pointed her wand at him and he exploded into pieces.”

Lucy laughs. She laughs and laughs until she gets a stitch in her side and she’s kicking at the carpet. She laughs even harder when Regulus rolls his eyes and slides down to join her, but her mad cackles fade into giggles as he kisses her from the inside of her wrist, to her elbow, to the side of her neck. 

Chapter Text

A story breaks next Thursday morning- close enough to the weekend to pick up sensationalized gossip while leaving the Sunday edition open for a rebuttal. It’s a five page exposé on one Tom Marvolo Riddle, something that’s apparently taken six years to write. Or six years for the Prophet to find a Gryffindor talented in something other than belligerence. 

Lucy practically inhales it, abandoning her breakfast for the Daily Prophet. Severus tries to grab for it when she’s done but one look at the fury in her eyes and he relents. If she weren’t so absorbed in rereading the heaping pile of shit, she would have been treated to the amusing sight of her dear friend bullying a copy from a third year Hufflepuff across the aisle. Instead, she’s entranced by the article. It’s less of a biography of a dark lord and more of a discriminatory essay on Slytherin House. Whatever Arcturus Black had said to the reporter at St. Mungo’s obviously hadn’t worked. 

Lucy finally sets the paper aside after her third read. She glances down the table to Regulus’s seat. He, too, is preoccupied with his own copy. A handsome Tom Marvolo Riddle glares at her under the headline ‘In Defense of Peace’. His dark eyes follow her all around the dining hall. Anyone who isn’t reading the article is whispering about it, their gazes trained on the Slytherin table as they spread their gossip. Even the staff is preoccupied at their table. Surprisingly, the Headmaster’s brow is furrowed just as deeply as Slughorn’s. 

“Lucy.”

Lucy looks up, surprised to hear Regulus so close. He and Evan Rosier are hovering over her shoulder. They both look troubled. 

“I need you to organize a photo shoot for this evening.”

Oh no , she thinks. 

“Oh no,” she says. “Regulus, your grandfather already-“

“I am not my grandfather.”

Lucy sighs. “Of course not. I’m sorry.”

Regulus gives her a haughty once over. “You can make it up to me later.”

“Did you need anything else, Your Majesty?” She asks in a droll tone. 

“Yes,” he says, his tone rich with amusement. “It would be very helpful if you stopped by Grimmauld to have Grandfather Arcturus make arrangements with the Prophet.”

“Is your mother going to be there?”

“Yes. Along with Grandfather Pollux.”

Pollux, at least, will make the trip easier to swallow. Lucy doesn’t understand why she finds him so interesting. She shouldn’t. His bigotry should disgust her and his cruelty should terrify her. Instead, she finds herself wondering what it would be like to work alongside someone so obviously brilliant and insane. Andromeda had always complained that he was a mad scientist with no ethics, the worst combination of a Slytherin and Ravenclaw. 

“Alright, then,” Lucy agrees. “I’ll have to let Dumbledore know I’m leaving, but I’ll do it.”

Regulus nods. “Excellent. I’m going to hide away in one of the old Transfiguration wings. With Severus, if you wouldn’t mind accompanying me.”

“Yes, he bloody well would!” Lucy cries. 

“I really wouldn’t,” Severus says. 

Lucy turns to scowl at him. “You’re my friend, not his.”

Severus only stares at her with empty eyes.

“You’d get to leave the school!” Lucy points out. “We could stop and get pizza. You love pizza. And I need someone to watch my back since I can’t duel worth a shit. It would be so fun for you, pizza and a duel.”

“Snape isn’t the only one of us good with a wand, you know.”

Lucy twists around to glare at Evan Rosier. Being the dueling prodigy he is, he’s never been intimidated enough to hide his disdain for her. It’s a different sort of disdain than most Slytherins have. He seems more impatient and apathetic to her mere existence than her blood status. She’d probably like him for it if she had the time to spare him a thought. 

“Why would you help? You don’t like me.”

Rosier raises his brows. His pale green eyes are striking against his dark hair, which is shaved close to his skull in a very non-traditional manner for a pureblood. 

“You’re engaged to my best mate,” he says, crossing his arms. “Might as well get used to each other if we’re going to be stuck together for the rest of our lives.”

Regulus claps him on the shoulder. “Good man, Evan!”

Rosier gives him a supremely unimpressed look. 

“Fine,” Lucy says, fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. “But go act like you’re doing something else for a minute. I don’t want anyone to know you’re going with me just yet.”

Rosier’s expression becomes even more unimpressed. He takes a heavy couple of steps so that he’s glowering down at her. He’s very intimidating to be wearing a school uniform, especially one so wrinkled. 

“I don’t take orders,” he says through his teeth. 

“You’re going to have loads of fun as a Death Eater, then.”

Her words are uncouth and more importantly, unfair. Some of the Dark Lord’s followers truly don’t have a choice. He holds their families against them and then plunders their gold and livelihood. Rosier’s situation is probably worse than the other noncommittal death eaters. Not only does he have the name, the blood, and the wealth, but he’s also been cursed with a prodigious skill of dueling. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “That wasn’t fair of me.”

Rosier’s eerie eyes narrow. He takes a sudden, deep breath before shoving himself out of Regulus’s grip and stalking off to slump down with other members of the quidditch team. 

“How delightfully rude of you,” Regulus says, the corners of his mouth twitching. 

“It was bad form,” she admits. 

His gaze is riveted to where she chews on her lip. It makes her shift on the bench nervously. God, she hates this. He makes her feel like a stupid little girl sometimes. 

“He’ll come around when he realizes you don't mind being ordered around back,” Regulus assures her. He tilts his head and scrutinizes her again, this time in a much more serious manner. Lucy absolutely refuses to let her nerves show. “I think you’d quite like being ordered around.” 

Horror and embarrassment and lust all rise in her gut. She blushes hot enough to feel the heat. She isn’t sure if she wants to hex him or hide or admit it, just to make him feel as wrong-footed as she does. He smiles as if he knows what she’s thinking, then tips his head in farewell. She refuses to admire the way the light catches on his shiny hair. Or appreciate the width of his shoulders, or his absurd height, or the curve of his arse as he walks out of the Great Hall. 

“You’re both disgusting,” Severus declares. 

Lucy is loyal enough not to mention Lily Evans, but Severus is clever enough to know what she’s thinking of anyway and storms off in a billow of black robes. 

Appetite ruined, she turns her attention to the Slytherin table. Normally Violet would be the one to go to for something like this, but she’s still in hospital. Lucy’s had other things to think about than what the rest of the Slytherins are up to. She hadn’t thought they would matter in the grand scheme of things, yet here she is deciding which of them to exploit. 

There’s Shafiq, gossip extraordinaire. Any knowledge that could be extracted from her would be shady at best. She’s as much a bigot as she is a snob and would probably rather let Slytherin sink than work alongside a muggleborn. It isn’t worth the risk. 

There’s also Bev Sharp, a third-generation pureblood in Regulus’s year. Being from such a young family, she’s always sure to keep an ear on the ground. She’d know everyone and everything, but Lucy doesn’t trust her enough to ask for help. Or more accurately, demand it. Slytherins don’t simply tap each other on the shoulder and say they need to know something. They’re a rather unfriendly lot. In fact, Sharp is scowling at someone further down the table. 

A stout, dusky wizard is slicing into his pancakes with more force than necessary. Every once in a while, he will look up long enough to glare at Bev Sharp. He is clearly paying attention to the two girls bracketing him even if he isn’t participating in their conversation. 

Simon Blishwick is the last of the Blishwicks, a family known for their work as historians and their suffering of name-based innuendos. Simon in particular has certainly heard his share over the years. Everything from his doe eyes to his caramel complexion exudes gentleness despite his broad shoulders and hefty frame. Girls fawned over him until he came out as gay and now their eyes follow him with a wistful gaze. 

A gay, orphaned pureblood is ripe for extortion. 

Though she immediately feels guilty for thinking it, the truth cannot be denied. Lucy knows three fertility rituals that work on the first try, one of which doesn’t even require penetration. It's substituted with a nasty sacrifice to make up for it, but that’s neither here nor there. She can’t afford to be distracted. There’s blackmail to be done. 

Blishwick’s friends see Lucy coming first. The black girl with thin curly locs on his right digs her elbow into his ribs. It’s like watching someone go through the stages of grief in less than five seconds. A thousand emotions burn across his eyes until they dim with acceptance. It takes all of Lucy’s self control not to smirk as she climbs over the bench across from them. 

“Hello, Blishwick,” she says. 

“Tonks,” he replies. He dips his chin at an abandoned copy of the Daily Prophet balanced on a bowl of strawberries. “Nasty business.”

“Actually, I could use your help with it.”

Blishwick’s eyes widen the slightest bit. This is the first time Lucy has ever been so close to him. Despite being so tall and broad, he can’t be considered anything other than adorable. His eyelashes in particular are enviously long and thick. The bastard probably doesn’t even use a potion or charm either.

“Of course,” he says, abandoning all pretense of eating. “What can I help you with?”

Lucy feels her brows raise. “Just like that?” 

“Yes, of course.”

“Really?”

“Do we look stupid to you?” The girl on his left demands. She has thick ginger curls and an even thicker northern accent. “You’re bloody terrifying. Only an eejit would deny you.”

The claim is a bit overwhelming. Sure, Lucy’s tried to make herself fearsome but it’s impossible to think of herself as frightening when she’s spent the past seven years haunted by the likes of Tom Riddle and Albus Dumbledore. Then again, hardly any of the students have yet to be brought into the war. Potter and Evan’s reactions of the train incident spoke to that. They don’t know what true fear is. They don’t know what it’s like to fight to the death. One misplaced spell, one slow dodge, and it’s over. 

“What…er, what can we help you with?” Blishwick asks nervously. 

Lucy shakes herself out of her reverie. Her mind’s veered to an image of Mad-Eye Moody screaming ‘CONSTANT VIGILANCE!’ at their breakfast table and she’s grateful for the reprieve. 

“It’s for Regulus, really. He’s writing a piece for the Daily Prophet and asked me to get a photo shoot together. Problem is, I haven’t a clue where to start.”

“Introductions are as good a place as any,” the girl on his right says. She holds her hand out across the table. “I’m Prudence. You already know Simon, and this is Orla Gillies.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Lucy says, shaking her hand.

Orla tosses her orange curls over her shoulder. “None of us is equipped to take photos for the Prophet, but we know which direction to point you in.”

“You’ll want Emmie Webb,” Prudence says. She gestures at the furthest end of the Ravenclaw table. “Webb’s the girl with the hair.”

Although Lucy doesn’t pay much attention to the students of Hogwarts, it is impossible to have not noticed this girl. She would have won the superlative for best hair every year if Hogwarts had that sort of thing. Her afro is a bouncing, majestic, voluminous explosion of curls that fades from brown to blonde as the seasons change. Lucy and most other girls have admired it from afar for its sheer beauty and the amount of care it must take to maintain. 

“Do we, though?” Orla argues. “She’s a muggleborn. We can’t have a muggleborn in the common room.”

“Can’t we?” Lucy drawls. 

A strained silence settles around them. Lucy stares back at the sixth years with a blank expression, relishing in the way their hearts must be pounding, how Simon must be sweating under his jumper and shirt. 

Orla is the one brave enough to speak up. 

“You’re a Slytherin,” she says. “She’s not.”

Simon Blishwick runs a hand through his glossy black hair. It’s more of a brown tone, less raven-black than Sirius and Regulus’s hue.

“This is part of the problem though, isn’t it? This is why everyone hates us,” he says.

“It can’t be left up to us, anyway,” Prudence says. “This requires a vote.”

The last thing Lucy needs is a bunch of hormonal, privileged, pureblood teenagers arguing over muggleborns. It was not in her job description. Regulus asked her to visit Grimmauld Place and set up a photo shoot and that’s what she’ll do. There was no mention of mediating a debate. That being said, it’s probably left to her to kick things into motion in his absence. 

“Right,” she mutters to herself. Louder, she orders, “Tell everyone to go back to the common room after they’re done eating. House meeting.”

Prudence’s brows furrow. “What about classes?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Lucy says, already climbing over the bench. “Just spread the word.”

Hundreds of eyes itch at her back as she makes her way to the staff table, but she pays them no mind. She only cares about two people at the moment: Albus Dumbledore and Horace Slughorn. Both men watch her approach with something indiscernible in their expressions. If she didn’t know any better, she might call it pride. 

“Good morning, Professors,” she says, clasping her hands behind her back. 

“Is it, Miss Tonks?” Professor McGonnagal asks in a dry tone. 

“Not particularly, no.”

Professor Flitwick chuckles darkly in his levitating seat. He shares an unreadable glance with Professor Sprout, who is sitting at his side in her usual frumpy robes. Lucy ignores them both in favor of turning her attention to her head of house. He meets her gaze steadily with greedy eyes. It’s enough to make her stomach writhe in discomfort, but she makes sure to lock it away before he notices. 

“Regulus gave me a task, Professor Slughorn. He’s writing a piece for the Prophet-“

Her announcement is cut off by a chorus of sighs and disgruntled murmurs. She raises her voice slightly to be heard over them. 

“He’s asked me to organize a photo shoot while he works, but the recommended student-“

“My Emmie Webb,” Flitwick finishes in a disparaged tone. 

“A Ravenclaw muggleborn,” Lucy concedes with a curt nod. “Slytherin House has a decision to make today. For that reason, we will not be attending classes.”

“Is that so?” McGonnagal asks, one thin brow raised. 

“As much as I respect your authority and the sanctity of knowledge, this meeting could very well prove to be a determining factor in some of these student’s outlook on the war. Slytherin House has been defamed today. Those children deserve a chance to decide who they want to be in the years to come.”

McGonnagal gives a thoughtful hum, but she doesn’t protest. Instead, she turns to Dumbledore for his verdict. 

“I quite agree, Miss Tonks,” he says. “Inter-house violence has increased significantly since the students have returned from holiday, and it’s been less than a week. If one day out of classes will help solve some of the conflict between the children, I don’t see how it could hurt. So long as Horace is there to ensure that everyone is safe and on task, of course.”

“Wonderful to hear, Headmaster,” Lucy says. “I have more important things to do so I can’t be arsed to hold their hand through it. I was hoping you’d say something like that.”

“I’d have thought politics were your forte, Miss Tonks,” Professor Sprout says. 

Lucy hasn’t had any interaction with the professor since the herbology OWLs two years ago, so she can’t begrudge her for the assumption. It is a logical deduction to make since she’s been dragged into this mess. Regulus just had to waltz into her life looking like he does and grinning like does and generally making a right mess of things. The smarmy little shit. 

“If I could give any abstract idea a tangible form and curse it into oblivion, I’d pick politics over anything.”

Sprout’s lips turn up at the corners. “Not greed? Or poverty? Or violence?”

“Could she curse violence into oblivion if she chose violence to curse into oblivion?” Dumbledore asks, his tone philosophical.  

“Alas, politics are a necessary evil,” Slughorn says, rather hurriedly. He must not have the patience for Dumbledore’s eccentricities today either. “One could perhaps argue that they are ingrained into humanity’s very nature. Either way, it appears I will be up to my elbows in them today. I’ll have to ask that you excuse my students from classes until we’ve had a discussion.”

The other professors all raise their cups in his direction as he rises, like knights sending one of their own off to battle. A rush of affection rushes through Lucy at the sight. It must be unspeakably difficult to educate children in such a political climate, never knowing which of the students would die by another’s hand or become another Tom Riddle and grow to give that order. Lucy certainly doesn’t envy them. 

“Lucille, would you mind accompanying me?” Slughorn asks as he rounds the table. “I could use your assistance in preparing the common room.”

She falls into step with him easily. It is a relatively quiet trek into the dungeons. Both of them know better than to have any sort of serious conversation in such an open environment. He takes the time to offer up his own contacts at the Prophet, a proposition that Lucy readily accepts. Anything to keep away from Walburga. She’ll have to write to Arcturus or Pollux just to be safe, but Old Sluggie is generally reliable when it comes to showing off his network of students. 

A sudden realization hits Lucille as they step through the entrance wall. She wonders if that is his way of coping with Tom Riddle. Maybe it assuages some of his misplaced guilt to see what good his other students have done, to know that he can rely on them to be good. She’s spent so much time thinking about Dumbledore that she forgot about Slughorn, something that was probably engineered by the man in question. What a betrayal it must have been when he realized who Tom became. What a truly humbling deception. 

“Did you know him well, Professor?“ Lucy asks. 

She makes sure to keep her voice low and respectful. He jumps anyway, recovering quickly before any pesky guilt arises. His shoulders slump and he peers out at the round, lake-tinted room with weary eyes. It reminds her of how Arcturus studied it with nostalgic greed. 

A long time passes until Slughorn answers. They watch as a school of fish swims by the nearest window, their scales glinting in the murky light. 

“I thought I did,” he confesses. 

“Do you think he’ll write his own rebuttal?”

The wrinkles around his eyes and mouth tighten as he considers her question. He looks very, very tired. This war will probably be the catalyst for his retirement. 

“No,” he eventually decides. “Manifestos were never his style. His charm was most dangerous in person, not in writing.”

“Not yet, anyway.”

“Not yet, Lucy. Not yet.”

Slughorn goes to turn away, but Lucy won’t let him off this easily. There’s something that has been nagging at her, something she thought only Dumbledore would know. 

“He’s confusing me. I’ve almost inadvertently killed two of his followers, one of which has been by his side since the very beginning, yet I’ve heard no complaint. He’s a madman who shouldn’t take well to someone destroying his toys, but he’s been silent. It worries me. It makes me afraid.”

Dumbledore would no doubt tell her that terrorists prey upon fear in the most unexpected ways. That it is not only violence that one fears, but the dread and fear of violence itself, and Tom is disgustingly good at it. He’d probably get philosophical about it, too. Have something along the lines of ‘We are all talented in a number of questionable subjects and it is what we choose to do with that talent that truly matters’ prepared. 

The only nugget of wisdom Slughorn has to offer is, “You should be afraid.”

It is a very bleak, very grim piece of advice, but it is respectable. It’s what she would say if their positions were reversed.

It is quick work to shrink the furniture and levitate it against the far wall. Slughorn goes so far as to begin conjuring cushions for people to sit on, which Lucy takes as her que to bring out her schoolwork. Not a single one of them would bother to conjure a cushion for her. 

She carves out an area under the leftmost window for herself. A house elf collects her hastily written note to Arcturus and summons the wooden crate she brought to Hogwarts for her latest experiment. Her professor gives her a reproachful look, but the first wave of students has begun to walk through the entrance wall. She magics the first hamster out of its box and settles in for a long day, determinedly not thinking of how convenient AirPods and Spotify would be. 

Her studies go uninterrupted until the same house elf reappears with a message. She thanks him quietly and scans the note. Arcturus has agreed that Slughorn’s contact will pull through, but he’s owled his own just in case. There’s a disappointed air to his words, as though he laments the chance to bully someone into coercion. 

“Who’s that from?” Someone whispers. 

Lucy glances up and is surprised to find herself surrounded by a group of people. Orla, Prudence, and Simon are closest, and the quidditch team has gathered nearby so that Rosier can sit with his boyfriend. 

Rosier casts a notice-me-not and a muffling charm in quick succession. The others immediately stop pretending to listen to the little girl speaking at the front of the room. They turn to Lucy in that unsettling, synchronized way that Slytherins tend to. No wonder the entire school holds a grudge against them. 

“It’s only from Arcturus, confirming that he’s got someone in the Prophet if Slughorn falls through. Which he won’t. I just need plans for my plans or I go mad with worry.”

“Overthinking is a bad habit,” Rosier says. “Hesitation will get you killed.”

His teammates all nod wisely. 

“I’m working on it,” she assures them, a little bewildered by their sudden congeniality. There’s no small amount of wariness growing along with it, either. “It’s why I befriended Sirius last year. I needed to learn how to be foolhardy.”

The mention of Sirius brings a tension into the group that he would find hilarious. She’ll have to tell him about it when she next sees him. 

“So, what are you working on?” Orla asks. 

Lucy might like her if she doesn’t turn out to be prejudiced. She’s bold, apparently, and has customized her uniform with patterned tights. Andromeda has never been into fashion and makeup the way Violet and Coco are. Regulus likes it too, but it isn’t healthy for her entire world to revolve around him, no matter how much she enjoys his company. Besides, it would be nice to have another girl around. Sleepovers with Severus are only so fun. 

“Well, Arcturus inspired the idea. The first time I met-“

“Merlin, it’s weird to hear you call him that,” one of the quidditch players says. Another nods fervently in agreement. 

“Why?” Lucy asks.

“He’s bloody terrifying!” The boy says, shifting around uncomfortably. “Seems almost sacrilegious to call him anything other than Mr. Black.”

Lucy hums in thought. “I found Pollux to be much creepier.”

Interestingly enough, Rosier turns a pale shade of grey. 

“What is it you’re working on, then?” He asks quickly, gesturing at the hamster paralyzed on the stone floor.

She wonders if she can get that story out of Regulus or if that breaks whatever pureblood wizards call the bro code. 

“It’s for NEWTs,” she explains. “I’m doing research papers instead of exams for a few subjects and this-“

“Really?” Prudence interrupts. “Which ones?”  

“Arithmancy, Charms, and Runes.”

Lucy tries her best not to preen when they all look suitably impressed. 

“Are you using the same project for all three?” Simon asks. 

“I probably could, but that would be boring. I’m already sort of cheating for Charms, anyway. I’m writing about how I broke through the wards in Hogwarts for that paper. Runes is going to be a compare, contrast, and implementation of two Roman rituals unearthed by muggles in Vindolanda last year. And for Arithmancy I’m creating my own curse. Or trying to, anyway. I think it might be literally impossible, but that in itself could be my thesis.”

Simon clears his throat nervously. “What curse are you trying to make?”

“A spell to expunge someone’s name.” She sighs down at the stiff rodent with its skinny little legs stuck up in the air. “Severus says it’s too advanced for me but I told him to piss off. I probably should have listened to him. It’s proving to be difficult.”

“Difficult,” the Keeper echoes. 

“Yeah, watch.” Lucy raises her wand and chants, “ Cuando exsculpo cognomun, ego erado animus, itaque exaculpo cognomun Bronze Paperweight!”

The hamster vanishes in a very anticlimactic fashion compared to her dramatic spellwork. Simon reaches out to poke at the air. His countenance turns grim and fearful when he realizes that it’s simply disappeared altogether. 

“But where did it go?”

“I dunno. Watch this.”

A flick of her wand and a hamster and a turtle levitate out of the wooden crate. They squirm as if sensing their fates, but they’re soon frozen by a quick, nonverbal petrificus totalus . She presses her wand to their hearts to formally name them Carpet Fiber, the first ridiculous noun she can think of. She casts her curse again, this time taking care to slash her wand over both animals. 

They both disappear in the same silent way. 

Lucy sighs, tapping her wand against her knee. “I’m afraid to use real names on the off chance that I vanish some poor child’s pet since my house elf and I determined that it does work over a distance. I’m also paranoid that I might vanish some poor child altogether if I try naming them Sarah or Jack. Not that I think it works on humans. Probably because of our complicated biological makeup, but there’s also the matters of souls and intelligence to consider. Which raises a thousand questions on its own. Does a dog have a more substantial soul than a turtle? They’re certainly more intelligent than a turtle. But what about elephants? Dolphins? How is intelligence related to a soul anyway and how does that relate to spellwork?

“And also, why can’t we have a normal dark lord? Why have they all been so mad recently? I would really love to be able to ring Voldemort up and ask him these sorts of questions, but he’d murder me for wasting his time. Whatever happened to the likes of Lady Tofana? She just made poisons and supplied them to women who wanted to rid themselves of their oppressive, abusive husbands in a time when divorce was illegal. I bet if I had questions about potions theory she’d love to answer them.”

Lucy’s audience glances at each other nervously in the aftermath of her diatribe. She hadn’t truly expected an answer, but their silence is nonetheless disheartening. Regulus or Severus would say something sarcastic like, “ Oh, yes, what an excellent reason to become an accessory to murder” , and Ted would roll his eyes and tell her she didn’t need poisons to kill a husband since her morning breath would do the job. 

Up at the front of the room, the girl gives a little bow for whatever speech she just gave. The room applauds and an older boy makes his way through the throng of students to give his own argument. They’re probably no closer to deciding if they want to be prejudiced arseholes than Lucy is to figuring out how to take their names from them. 

“You could ask Mr. Pollux,” Rosier says, breaking through her grim thoughts. 

She turns to him, frowning. “What?”

“Pollux Black is into these sorts of things.”

Lucy scowls and magics another turtle out of the crate. It stretches its thick legs out, exploring the cold dungeon floor with a tentative touch. 

No. She can’t think they’re cute. If she thinks about how cute they are, she won’t be able to murder them. Or whatever it is she’s actually doing to them. 

“Yeah, but he’d actually use it on someone.”

One of the beaters, the white one, gulps. Lucy watches his Adam’s apple contract over his tie. She quite enjoys making them nervous.

“Isn’t that the whole point of this?” He asks.

“Not to use it on innocent people, it isn’t. He’d pick a muggle off the street and try it out on them.”

“Would he really?” Orla asks, more curious than scandalized. 

“Yes, love, he would,” Simon Blishwick answers. He cringes apologetically at Lucille. “My great-aunt has all sorts of stories about the Black cousins. Regulus sounds like a right dream from what I’ve heard.”

“Regulus is a right dream,” Lucy says, a bit embarrassed at how wistfully she’s said it. 

They all lapse into a companionable silence, watching as the other students engage the boy with questions and rebuttals. 

“Merlin, this is going to last forever,” Orla groans. 

“And this Webb girl might even say no,” Lucy points out, to which she subsequently wants to cry. “Shit, I’ve got to line something else up, haven’t I?”

Prudence gives Lucy a puzzled look. “Why would she? This will get her work in the Prophet before she’s even of age.”

“Some people have these nasty little things called principles.”

“You spend too much time around Gryffindors,” Orla argues. “Webb’s a Ravenclaw. She won’t turn this down, if only to satisfy her curiosity.”

“She could be ambitious,” Simon offers. 

“She could be a Tonks who was clever enough to actually make it to Ravenclaw,” Rosier says with a smirk. 

Lucy rolls her eyes at him. 

“Maybe she’s cunning. Maybe she’s cunning enough to work out that curse of yours. Maybe she’s even cunning enough to not let her test subjects escape,” he taunts. 

Sure enough, the turtle is lumbering its way to the nearest wall with surprising speed. Lucy huffs. 

“No wonder he doesn’t bother with killing me,” she grouses to herself. “There’s no point. I’m just an idiot turtle to him.”

Perhaps out of solidarity, she lifts another hamster out of the box instead. 

“That’s morbid, Tonks,” the keeper says. 

“Yeah, well, it's more entertaining than whatever’s going on up there.”

She gestures to the student speaking with a solemn expression. Professor Slughorn is nodding his head along every so often, his eyes watering with pride. 

“We’re going to be here all night,” Orla complains. She elbows Simon in the side until he makes enough room for her to lie her head in his lap. Rosier snorts, muttering something about his boyfriend, but flicks her on the nose fondly. 

Eventually, Lucy switches over to her latest Transfiguration homework. One of the quidditch players bums a price of parchment and a pen to think up plays. Another does the same to sketch the people around them. Lucy finds that he has a habit of adding elaborate facial hair to all of the girls and youngest boys. Oddly enough, it’s the first time she’s felt like a student in ages. 

Finally, well into the afternoon, a decision is made. Slytherin House has made the symbolic decision to not be a cesspit of prejudiced twats. They will publicly accept the help of a muggleborn witch and even allow her access to their exclusive home.

Lucy watches with a faint tinge of amusement as they congratulate themselves. It’s disgusting. They’re so proud of themselves, clapping so enthusiastically and smiling wide enough to crinkle their eyes. It makes her think of the Malfoy’s Christmas party and how the bigotry became even more evident when she was impersonating one of their own.

Evan Rosier is the only one who isn’t either carefully hiding his emotions or exuding that abhorrent valor. He’s watching with an almost disbelieving expression trace with horror. Lucy taps his shoulder to get his attention. 

“I’m making a run for it,” she tells him. “If anyone asks, I’ve gone to arrange everything.”

She casts a disillusionment charm before he can protest, stepping on toes and elbowing ribs as she worms her way through the sea of students.

Unfortunately, Lucy’s break is cut short by none other than Professor Flitwick. He tells her that he will floo Emmie Webb down in an hour’s time, that Lucy had best hurry back to the dungeons, and that though he may be knowledgeable in the subject, he holds no talent for spellcrafting and it is not the time, anyhow.

“You really shouldn’t be out of your common room, Lucille,” he says firmly, though not unkindly. 

Lucy obeys for the most part. She does head back to the dungeons, albeit in her animagus form and at a slow, sedate pace. She toys with the idea of hunting Regulus and Severus down, but ultimately decides to leave them to it. Whatever they’re up to is none of her business. She wouldn’t want them spying if their roles were switched. Instead, she sneaks off to a courtyard on the first floor to tumble around in the snow as a raccoon. She’s exhausted her nerves by the time she returns to the common room. The same can not be said for the other Slytherins. Excitement lingers in the atmosphere, adding to the noise and movement of the room. Students are talking loudly and moving about as if they cannot be still. 

The furniture is back where it once was, even Regulus’s infamous chair. Its broad back is silhouetted ominously by the murky sunlight filtered through miles of lakewater. The sight makes her think of Voldemort. She wonders what sort of chair he favored. Where he liked to hold court. If he liked to look out at soothing water or preferred to study the snakes carved into the mantle.

“Took you long enough,” Rosier mutters as she approaches his party. The quidditch team have claimed their usual sofas near the center of the room. Simon Blishwick and his two friends are casting warm smiles at Lucy from the adjacent armchairs. 

“I was feeling antsy,” she says. 

Rosier scoffs, running a hand over his buzzed hair. “What? Did you run off to set something on fire?”

“No,” Lucy says, her lips twitching. “I’ve never seen the point in playing with fire. Best to nip it in the bud with an Unforgivable and be done with it.”

Her joke falls flat. The others glance over her shoulder to the eastern side of the room, where Gawain Yaxley had once suffered under her wand for an hour. 

“The more I get to know you the more I understand why Regulus is mad for you. You’re just as deranged as he is,” Rosier grumbles. 

Lucy shoots him a saucy grin as she lowers herself onto the edge of the nearest side table, making sure that the hem of her pinafore rises up to reveal her thighs when she crosses her legs. 

“I like to think I’m just as pretty as he is, too,” she says. 

His answering grin is dangerous. “Careful, Tonks, or I’ll have to make Regulus reconsider his notions on sharing.”

“Oh, shut it, you wanker,” Simon says, rolling his eyes at his boyfriend. “You wouldn’t know what to do if Regulus did decide to share. You’re as bent as a butcher’s hook.” 

“Ask him, anyway,” the keeper begs, his eyes alight with mischief. “Please. Next practice, I dare you.” 

“Fuck off, Benson. Why don’t you ask.”

“I like my bollocks where they are, thanks.”

“Boys,” Prudence snaps. “There are ladies present.” 

Rosier turns that bilious shade of gray again. “He’s not joking,” he mutters darkly. “Pollux Black hexed mine off when I was ten years old. It was the most terrifying sixty seconds of my life.”

“What do you mean, hexed them off?” Lucy asks, interest peaked. 

“I’ll not be telling you. What you do to those turtles is bad enough without castrating them.”

“I’ll save that one for the hamsters, then,” she shoots back. 

One of the beaters lets out a strangled laugh while Prudence makes a shocked face. To his credit, Rosier finally looks like he might be fighting off amusement.

Beside them, the mantle suddenly flares with green light. Lucy sucks in a breath, her heart stopping at the interruption. For half a moment she thinks someone’s finally lost it and Avada Kedavra’d someone else. Thankfully, her reaction goes mostly unnoticed. Silence has replaced the rancorous atmosphere. Almost everyone turns towards the fireplace with bated breath. Everyone except Rosier, who is watching Lucy curiously, and a few of the older students who would obviously rather be studying for their OWLs and NEWTs. 

Slughorn comes through first. He beams out at them all as he steps aside for the next arrival. There is nothing except for the crackling green flames until two figures spin into view. One is a familiar enough sight. Professor Flitwick is as genial and professional as ever. The girl at his side is much more of a novelty. She has abandoned her robe in favor of her school jumper and uniform trousers, and a heavy bag is draped across her flat chest. Emmie Webb’s hair makes up most of her presence. She is a very short, very thin witch with excitement etched into her round features. Her dark eyes disregard the crowd surrounding her to take in the slightly vaulted ceiling, the wide windows looking out into the lake, and the chandeliers draped with iron snakes. Her attention lingers on the furniture, too. Lucy doesn’t blame her. While Ravenclaw Tower was just as aesthetic as the Slytherin quarters, it didn’t quite exude the same sumptuousness.

“Hello, Miss Webb! Hello!” Slughorn booms. He gestures around the room with exaggerated, jovial movements. “Welcome! Welcome to Slytherin House!”

A couple of the first years begin to clap, which sets off the entire room. Webb, the poor girl, looks a bit flabbergasted. 

“You are the first outsider to gain entrance to the Slytherin Common Room in centuries! Of course, the same can’t be said for any other house after our Lucy wreaked her havoc!” 

Lucy dips her head in their direction in what she hopes is a graceful yet vaguely threatening gesture that Regulus likes to make. It’s successful, if Webb’s gulping is any indication. 

“Now, come! Come! A small tour is in order, I’d say! Lucy, would you like to do the honors?” 

Lucy never got a tour and she was kicked out just months into her first year. She is the last person in the room capable of giving a tour of the common room. Over here is where I tortured Yaxley, she’d say, and there, do you see that melted stone by that bookshelf? That’s where Lucius Malfoy tried to kill me. 

Shafiq is the one to smooth over the awkwardness. She gives Webb a warm, welcoming smile that betrays no hint of the viper within. 

“I think the younger students would love to help you settle in.” 

Webb gives her a tentative smile back. “Yes, that’d be great, thanks.”

The desi girl with pigtails - Lucy really should learn her name - and a blonde boy scramble up to the front eagerly.

“We’ll start over here,” the girl says, tugging Webb by the hand. “This bookshelf was donated by the twenty-second Minister of Magic. More Ministers of Magic have been from Slytherin than any other house.”

“Shafiq’s good,” Orla whispers.

”Shafiq’s fucking fit is what she is,” the keeper counters.

”She flirted with me when I was wearing Yaxley’s face,” Lucy offers. 

Her addition to the conversation brings about another round of shocked silence. She sighs. At least Violet won’t be able to say she didn’t try her best to expand her network. It’s not her fault they’re all spineless little-

“With Yaxley?” Simon asks, his face portraying the appropriate amount of disgust. “May the gods rest his soul, but Shafiq is stunning. He wasn’t even powerful, the poor man.” 

No, not a man. I’m only seventeen, he’d tried to say, but his uncle had murdered him before he could even finish the sentence. 

“It was how Regulus found me out,” Lucy says, more to distract herself than anything. “I had been admiring her dress in a way that Yaxley wouldn’t have.”

”I was there,” Prudence says. “It was a gorgeous dress and her hijabs are always so coordinated.” 

Lucy turns her attention to the other girl, who wilts back into her chair the slightest bit. 

“Did you see a tall man, pale but absolutely gorgeous with dark hair?”

Prudence frowns as she considers her memories. 

“When I say gorgeous, I mean beautiful. Even more than Sirius. He wore simple robes and a ring. Has the lips of a god and-“

”Ho, ho! What have we here?”

Lucy jumps and turns, startled to find Slughorn hovering over her shoulder. She narrows her eyes at his exuberant jolliness. He must know who she’s talking about. He’s probably been listening in and figured it was time to interrupt.

“It’s wonderful to see you interacting with more Slytherins, Lucille.” 

She hums noncommittally, a habit she’s picked up from Severus. “I like Rosier the best, I think. He’s grumpy.” 

Rosier grumbles and shifts around on his sofa. Slughorn laughs, probably relieved that she’s agreed to change the subject from Tom Riddle. 

“Just as you had Severus, Regulus has had Evan. The similarities are neverending, it seems.”

”Dear God, I hope they are!” Lucy cries, completely serious.

Slughorn, being Slughorn, decides to take it as a joke. He laughs, his hands caressing his bouncing belly. In a rare stroke of luck, the two first years have come full circle with Flitwick and Webb. They are absurdly proud of themselves with their little chests all puffed out. Lucy wants to stab them with something to let the hot air out. 

Jesus Christ, maybe she is like Regulus after all. 

“Are you done? Brilliant, brilliant! Now, this is all up to you, Miss Webb. What can we do to help you?”

Webb squeezes the nylon strap of her bag as she mulls it over. It is very out of place in such an opulent setting. The Slytherin students don’t even wear shoes of a muggle nature. Everything that enters through the passageway is wizarding and austere. The poorer ones learn how to make their belongings look expensive by their third year, or at least make themselves dangerous enough to be above the bullying: no one other than the Marauders had the courage to pick on Severus for good reason. 

“I think candid shots will work best,” Webb eventually says, her confidence rising with each word. “Something that makes you look happy or calm. Something that makes you human to readers. Saanvi and Benjamin have been so welcoming and kind and I really want to try and get that across in the work we do here today. I’ll need one of Black, of course, since he’s writing it. Lucille Tonks and Evan Rosier too, since they’ve been in the papers. Their names will be recognizable. Violet Brown would be as well for her dresses, but as she can’t be here, we’ll have to do without. The lighting…“ 

Lucy lets Webb drone on and turns to Rosier curiously. “What have you been in the papers for?” 

“Dueling tournaments.” 

“Really? Do you know Dorcas Meadowes?”

Rosier gives her a patronizing look. “Of fucking course I know Dorcas Meadowes. She’s bloody terrifying. How do you know her?” 

“I ran into her at the Longbottom’s party,” Lucy fibs. “She was asking me about my warding research. Said she’s a part-time dueling champion.” 

“Part-time dueling champion,” he scoffs disbelievingly. “She’s the one who taught me that muggleborns aren’t the stupid cattle my father always said you were. I’ve seen her do things with a wand that your precious Severus couldn’t dream of. I’ve defeated aurors in friendly duels, but that woman is a force of nature. I watched her take out a Frenchman blindfolded.” 

“What? Really?” 

“Really,” Rosier says, then scowls over at Webb, who has just taken a blinding photo of them. 

“Sorry,” she says quite unapologetically. “The lighting really is awful down here.”

With that, she bustles off to the infamous windows, her hair bouncing with every step. Slughorn chuckles at their bewilderment, then retires back to the fireplace with Flitwick. They watch as Webb circles the room. Every once in a while she will stop to take several photographs, sometimes changing out cameras or flashes. Rarely, she arranges people into a pose. Most of her shots are of people chatting or of interesting bits of architecture. She’s just sent a third or fourth year running up to his dormitory for something when the Baron arrives. He is floating along the entrance passageway, his head tilted down to better hear a frazzled Regulus Black. Severus brings up the rear with his usual dourness. 

Most of the students are too busy crowding Webb to notice their entrance, so crossing the room is quicker than it might have been. Severus immediately conjures a chair and collapses into it, rubbing his temples wearily. Regulus procures a scroll of parchment and copies it with a wave of his wand. One copy floats to Slughorn and another makes it way to Lucy. She snatches hers out of the air eagerly. 

He’s titled it, ‘In Defense of Ambition’. Though it is a firm rebuttal to the Daily Prophet, it isn’t as aggressive as Lucy feared it might be. It paints Slytherin as an actual school organization instead of a plague on humanity. Her favorite bit is something that Severus must have relayed to Regulus, because it is an almost verbatim recount of what she told the muggle parents at St. Mungo’s. 

‘Slytherin has become synonymous with dark lord,’ he writes, ‘but a dark lord is nothing more than a dark wizard who has gained power and a dark wizard is merely a practitioner of dark magic. But what, dear reader, is dark magic?’ He follows up with the legal definitions of dark magic in Britain, Finland, and Japan before following it up with, ‘Whatever dark magic may be, it is not something that eleven and twelve year old children should be harassed over. Ambition is no more inherently evil than magic, which is to say not at all. Ambition can be as grandiose as power over all of of Britain or as subtle as becoming a homemaker. My own cousins, Andromeda Tonks and Narcissa Malfoy, have always been transparent with their own ambitions. They wanted nothing more than to have secure, happy families to their father’s detriment. My fiancee’s dear friend Violet Brown has dreams of starting up her own luxury evening wear brand. Just this week, I counseled a fifth year witch on transfiguration masteries. Are these stories so different from those in any other Hogwarts house?’

He goes on to mention several examples of Slytherins succeeding in their ambitions: Phineas Nigellus Black as Headmaster to Hogwarts, several Ministers of Magic, a handful of businessmen, and none other than Kingsley Shacklebolt. Lucy can’t keep from squealing in delight when she reads ‘auror and former Slytherin’ written after his name. She knew he couldn’t have been anything other than a Slytherin. 

When Lucy finishes reading, she glances up to see Slughorn scribbling away on his own copy. 

“Have you got a spare quill?” She asks Regulus. She’d rather not dig around into her cavernous purse if she doesn’t have to. 

Regulus groans and starts fishing around in his pocket.

“What have you found? I’ve read that over a thousand times since this morning. If there’s another mistake-“

He’s cut off when Lucy uses her borrowed quill to tickle an ink stain on his nose. 

“I haven’t found anything. I just wanted to add something.”

He looks down at her with surprise. “I thought you’d want to keep out of it.” 

“I could be convinced to provide a quote or two.”

”Is that so?” 

“I heard the writer is a right dream, you see-“ 

A sudden bright light explodes across her vision. She blinks rapidly and steps back from Regulus - she hadn’t realized he’d gotten so close- in a vain effort to regain her sight. When she can finally see something more than black spots, it’s Webb smiling from ear to ear and waving her camera triumphantly. 

“I’m off to develop these! I’ll just drop them off at Slughorn’s office in an hour, yeah?”

”Yeah,” Regulus says, staring at her as though she’d just told him Voldemort had declared peace. 

They watch as she jaunts off towards Professor Flitwick, her curls dancing with every step.

“Has she been like that the whole time?” Regulus asks. 

“I dunno. I’ve been making friends.”

He raises his brows and glances behind her to the quidditch team. “Odd choice of friends.” 

“I like Rosier’s sour attitude,” she explains. 

Regulus nods as if that explains everything. “May I ask what you were going to add? We’ve only got an hour, apparently.”

Lucy charms the scroll to hover in front of them. “Here, where you argue that society’s views on dark magic is becoming more progressive?” She begins scribbling in the margins with the battered quill. “I don’t think it’s progressive at all. It’s just that our society is so polarized. The world isn’t black or white and both the Ministry is excluding a large number of the population with such stark philosophies. The way magical beings and dark witches and wizards are criminalized compels them to seek acceptance elsewhere. Like I said at Gringotts, I can always escape into the muggle world. Most beings don’t have that option.” She finishes writing, spells the scroll shut, and hands it back to him. “It might also help pave the way for your own ambitions. The ones you told me about at Gringotts.” 

“Hmm.” His sharp eyes dart from her eyes to her lips and back again. “You’re very attractive when you’re being clever, did you know?”

”And what about when I’m not being clever?” She teases. 

“I still want you then. I want you always.” He reaches in and kisses her cheek chastely, as though he couldn’t stop himself. “I’m going to finish this up. Will you be here?”

”No,” Lucy says. She looks out at the horde of green around them. “I’d rather escape to the kitchens if that’s alright with you.” 

Regulus taps the scroll against the palm of his other hand. “I wish I could come with you.” 

In a rare moment of bravery, Lucys reach up to press a kiss to his mouth.

”Good night, Regulus Black.” 

“Good night, Lucille Tonks.”

Lucy is awoken early Friday morning, at least an hour before her alarm is set to go off. Too tired to actually get out of bed, she flicks her wand at the door without even bothering to turn the lights on. It flashes pink and then opens up to reveal Regulus Black. He has a bundle of newspapers under one arm, a tea tray in one hand, and a basket of food levitating in front of him. 

“Come in,” she says, flopping back into her pillows. 

He closes the door before making himself at home. He magics the lights on to a dim setting, slips his shoes off, and lays their breakfast on the desk that doubles as a nightstand. 

“Budge over,” he orders. 

Lucy grumbles, but she slides over just enough so that he has room to lie down beside her and is disproportionately annoyed when he doesn’t. He sits cross-legged with his back against the mountain of jewel-toned pillows. Vexed, she slides down under the covers so that she doesn’t have to look at him. She hears a huff of amusement and then a newspaper slotted between the sheets, along with a wand. His, not hers. It hums in her hand as she summons a muted ball of witchlight before passing it back. 

Just under the headline, a large picture of Slytherin first years is printed. A massive python is slithering across their shoulders while they giggle in delight. That must have been what the boy was sent up to his dormitory after.

Lucy sleepily scans the front page, then opens up to the next one, which is a tricky feat under the covers. There is a small staff photo of Kingsley inset on one column. The next is interrupted by a photo of the snake chandelier. The largest is near the end. In it, Regulus and Lucy are facing one another. He stands tall and still as she saunters closer to him. She reaches up to swat at him with a quill and his lips tick up and his shoulders round as though trying to keep her close.

Lucy chews on her lip as she watches it replay. She examines her own body language. The look on her face. She hadn’t realized she looks at him like that. She hadn’t realized she was the one going to him, either. She thought he was the one that came to her. 

The duvet and sheet are flipped back without so much as a warning. Lucy flinches at the cold air, but at least he’s dimmed the lights even lower. He curls around her so that he can rake his fingers through her hair. She hums contentedly, basking in the affection and warmth.

“Do you love me?” 

Lucy sucks in a breath. She opens her eyes, full of incredulity, and is surprised to find him watching her curiously. Only he could ask such a blunt, brutal question and have the courage and audacity to watch her struggle with the answer. 

“Regulus, I’ve only really known you for a few months.”

His brows furrow. “And that means you can’t love me?”  

Lucy mirrors his expression as she peers up at him. “It just seems a bit foolish, is all.”

“I think you’re being foolish. I think love might seem foolish to a mind like yours. You prefer structure. Equations, formulas, plans. Love doesn’t have those rules. It just exists.”

She sits up so that she can better focus. It’s a very early time of day to have this sort of conversation.

“It’s a very early time of day to have this sort of conversation,” she tells him. 

He tucks a strand of hair behind her shoulder, his touch lingering on her collarbone. 

“If you say so,” he murmurs. 

Lucy groans. She flops back down on the pillows and sighs up at the ceiling. It takes her a moment to compose her thoughts into something other nonsense. When she’s ready, she grabs his hand and intertwines their fingers. 

“Look, there’s a lot going on for me right now. I would have been skittish about all of this even if the war wasn’t happening. I don’t know if I love you. I might. I know I admire your weird brain and I think you’re annoyingly attractive and I think about you all the time. I think about what you would say or what would you think to something that just happened. I’m sorry if that’s not enough for you, but it’s all I can give you right now.” 

“Okay,” he says. His eyes are soft and one side of his mouth is quirked up as if she’s told him a secret. 

A secret. Of course. A secret will appease him. 

She turns over so quickly that it is embarrassingly ungraceful. His attention is riveted to her cleavage for a moment, but he recovers when she snaps her fingers. 

“I can give you a secret,” she tells him. 

He stills like a wolf that’s caught a scent. 

“A secret?” 

“A secret. Only one other person in the entire world knows.” 

“What other person?” 

“Sirius. And that was only because he had to know. I haven’t even told Ted. Or Severus.” 

Regulus extracts his grip from hers so he can sit up straight, his nose in the air.

“Alright. Tell me your secret.” 

Lucy scrunches up her nose in concentration, calling on her magic, and then her body shrinks in on itself. When she’s finished, Regulus is much larger, his scent is much stronger, and the room is much warmer. She chitters a little in contentment, already thinking about how nice it will be to curl up next to him and take a nap until her alarm goes off. 

That plan all goes to shit, though, when he laughs so hard that he falls off the bed.

Chapter Text

Lord Voldemort gives a very special sort of reply to the Daily Prophet. The author of the first article is found propped up in her editor’s chair with her decapitated head bleeding all over his desk. It marks the beginning of a turn in the war. 

Before, it had been clandestine. There had even been a sense of exclusivity to it, politicians and bureaucrats trading gold and secrets in the shadows. Now Death Eaters are slipping poison into tea shops to kill aurors at lunch. The Ministry has approved the emergency usage of unforgivable curses. Laws and obituaries are created too quick for the papers to keep up with. 

It isn’t until late Febuary, when the savage murders of a senior Wizenmagot member and his family are reported, that Lucy finally loses her patience. She storms into Dumbledore’s office and throws herself down into the visitor’s chair. It takes him several minutes to acknowledge her arrival and even then he does not look up from where he is hunched over the letter he is penning. When he finally does raise his head, his eyebrows shoot up into his frizzy white hair. 

“What a pleasant surprise, Miss Lucille!” He cries and God bless him, he seems to mean it, the fool. “I never expected you to stop by for a chat!”

“Me either,” she mutters. 

She slinks down in her seat and peers around the office curiously. She tries to see what any other student would see. There are the gadgets and the portraits and the phoenix, of course, but there’s also the innumerable books. They are overflowing in their shelves, stacked on various surfaces, and even on display in china cabinets. Magic is even more prominent. It’s as though the furniture itself has been imbued with Dumbledore’s power. 

“Do a lot of students come to hang out with you?”

“Unfortunately not,” he says, lacing his fingers over his chest. “The few interactions I have with my students are the highlight of my week. Messrs Black and Potter occasionally do their homework in my office, though I suppose it’s meant to be a punishment for us both.”

“More like a punishment for society. I dread to think of the ridiculousness you three have wasted your time on.”

“Mister Potter does an excellent job of transfiguring fabric.”

Of that, she has no doubt. Potter’s conjured chairs are always covered in a tropical pattern, complete with parrots and coconuts. It is astounding to consider that three transfiguration experts spend their time creating gaudy fabrics while Voldemort and his experts synthesize curses and positions. It really is a shame that he’s an evil bastard. 

“You mustn’t look so disparaged, Lucille. Everyone needs a bit of fun. If I’m not mistaken, you left the castle last night to have a bit of fun yourself.”

“I dunno what you’re on about.”

She and Regulus had indeed snuck out of the castle. He took her out for tapas and wine, then snogged her senseless when they arrived back at her room. She’s never regretted her abstinence as much as she had last night. 

“Perhaps I should have you do your work with me as punishment,” he says, his eyes twinkling. 

Lucy scoffs. “I’ve been doing it at Regulus’s quidditch practices and believe me, those are punishment enough.” 

A glance at the window reveals a clear sky. The worst of the cold and snow have passed, but Scotland won’t warm up until April. Until then, she’ll have to keep a thermos on hand every Sunday afternoon. Warming charms and knitted scarves can only do so much against the wind. 

“Is there something I can assist you with?” Dumbledore asks. “Unless, of course, you’re looking for an excuse to miss out on quidditch practice. I’m sure we could find a reason to delay your arrival.”

Lucy reaches in her robe’s inner pocket to procure a copy of the morning newspaper. The headline reads, ‘Bramble Family Annihilation: Imperius Curse Results in Another Murder-Suicide’ . 

“I don’t understand it,” she says. “Why would he do this? He could have manipulated public opinion by writing something; explain about his childhood or proclaim himself to be the champion of the outcasts or some rot. But this doesn’t make any sense! There’s no logic in it at all. Instead of spinning this to his advantage, he’s using it to go on a murderous rampage. I don’t understand it.”

“And I hope you never do,“ Dumbledore says solemnly. “You give Tom too much credit. He does not care about public opinion because he thinks himself above it.”

“ ‘Hubris is the folly of man ’,” Lucy quotes, slouching down in the chair. 

Dumbledore takes a candy out of a bowl on his desk. “I believe it was Voltaire who claimed man is rarely proud when he is alone. And Tom has always made himself alone.”

“Why do I always find myself quoting literature with old men?” She grumbles to herself. “First Arcturus, now you. Probably with him . He’s so smart. How can he be so smart and so stupid at once?”

“Insanity, I suppose. You mustn’t be too harsh on yourself, Lucille. Tom is a master manipulator and has years of experience bending others his will.”

“I know that. I thought I was prepared for it.”

“Sometimes that is all we can be.” His gaze darts to the bag resting by her feet. “You seem to be more adept at it than most, Lucille. Your journal must be filled with very interesting preparations.”

“I’m up to eight entries on the disposal of corpses,” she deadpans. 

One side of Dumbledore’s mustache twitches. 

“I’d expect nothing less from the future Mrs. Black. I do hope I’m invited to the wedding?”

Lucy scoffs as she rises to her feet, situating her purse strap so that it doesn’t cut into her shoulder. “Sure thing, Headmaster. I’ll put you on the groom’s side, next to my mother-in-law. I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time.”

“I do love an occasion to dress up,” Dumbledore calls to her retreating figure. 

Despite being utterly useless and boring, the weekly quidditch practices pass quickly for Lucy. She barricades herself behind stacks of books and scribbles away for the allotted two hours. 

The conversation isn’t terrible. Simon Blishwick usually brings one of his girlfriends along, both of whom are interested in muggle pop culture. There’s a seventh-year Ravenclaw engaged to the keeper who enjoys discussing Lucy’s latest research. Best of all, Violet insists on attending when she finally returns to Hogwarts. 

Sometimes, one of the girls will think to bring food from the kitchens. The team always joins them directly after practice on those occasions, so Lucy is careful to never pack a picnic. Violet can huff all she wants. In addition to the practices, Lucy still has to supervise the common room throughout the week. Regulus’s house-wide regulations are no longer in effect, but the students nearly demanded some of the protocols remain in place after they received higher grades on their schoolwork. Slytherin ambition truly knows no bounds. 

Today, Winifred Lee has brought a basket stuffed full of meat pies. Lucy wants to stab her in the eye. Or maybe stab herself in the eye. Or maybe jump off the stands altogether. 

“It’s a lovely day,” Winifred says, an embarrassed grimace taking over her freckled face, “and also Ciaran always wants to go to the kitchens after, but I have a transfiguration essay to finish. If he eats these, he won’t be telling the elves to make him a full Sunday roast.”

“How very cunning of you, Freddie,” Violet teases. 

Winifred rolls her eyes. “Wise, more like.”

Lucy tunes them all out when they begin chatting about their favorite meals. She stares down at her essay, quill tapping out a steady rhythm against the cheap paper. Composition notebooks aren’t accepted for official testing, but they’re so much more portable than a wound up scroll. However, so long as one uses magical ink to write a draft, an enchanted quill can copy the writing onto a final scroll. It’s ridiculous and convoluted, but she supposes even muggle academia has its own quirks. Upholding tradition and all that. Still, it’d have been nice to use a pencil. 

“Luce, you want one?”

Lucy looks up to find Simon Blishwick holding a slice of cottage pie in her direction. Practice must finally be over, because two of the chasers are already stuffing their faces. Behind them, Evan Rosier is climbing off his broom and over the railing in a -rather attractive, though she’ll never admit it- feat of athleticism. 

“No, thanks. I had too much wine last night. I’ll be miserable if I eat something that heavy.”

“Suit yourself,” he says, shrugging. 

“You still working on that curse, then?“ Wardwell, the burliest chaser, asks around a mouthful of food. 

“No,” Lucy says. “I’m still writing a paper on it, though. I had to give it up last week when I realized the equations couldn’t be solved without a soul variable. It was already a dark curse, but soul magic is on another level. And I wasn’t getting anything out of it anyway. I’m curious, but not curious enough to waste my time.”

Winifred gives her a peculiar look. “Hence why you’re in Slytherin and not Ravenclaw.”

“Yep,” Lucy agrees. “Is practice finally over?”

Rosier snorts as he throws himself onto the bench beside his boyfriend. “Not for them it’s not. Got themselves in trouble, the wankers.” 

Out on the pitch, Regulus is hovering above the beaters and the keeper, all of whom look contrite and almost shameful. 

He’ll be a good father one day , Lucy thinks, and she almost screams. 

Why the bloody hell would her brain think that? She doesn’t even want children. At least not for many, many years. And Regulus is insane. Unpredictable. He’d be a nightmare around little magic-wielding demons. 

Hormones. It has to be hormones. That’s the only thing that makes sense. Or maybe Dumbledore’s dottiness rubbed off on her. 

Lucy shakes her head and turns back to her research paper. A good bit of magical theory will do her brain good. It’s obviously lacking any other logic. And the first logical thing she’ll need to do is start on her bibliography. Keeping up with sources is a nightmare without being able to Google which book something came from. 

“Coco,” Lucy calls. 

Today, Coco’s dress is a coral silk embroidered with green and brown vines. The colors bring out the warm nutmeg tones in her otherwise gray skin and call particular attention to her luminous brown eyes. Cunning little minx. She pretends to be so naive and innocent but she wields color theory like a weapon and Lucy will never forget the night she tasted Regulus’s blood. 

“Hello, Coco,” Lucy greets. “How are you?”

“Coco is being well, Mistress Lucy.” She runs a sharp, practiced eye over Lucy’s figure. “I is being more well than you. You be looking odd.”

“Just a lot of wine last night. And a little bit of Dumbledore this morning. And some weird intrusive thoughts today, but mostly just the wine. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

Coco harrumphs. With their positioning, she’s able to peer down at her human with a doubtful gaze. 

“So long as Mistress not be drinking tequila again.”

Lucy cringes. “I thought we agreed to never mention that.”

“Oh, do tell!” Violet cries, twisting around on her bench. “None of us have blackmail on the inscrutable Lucille Tonks. You simply must help us, Coco. It’s a delight to finally meet you, by the way. I love your uniform. Did you do the embroidery yourself?”

Coco’s ears, large even by house elf standards, perk up. The one missing a chunk is slower to respond than the other, unblemished one. Lucy hadn’t noticed that. She’ll have to ask about it when they’re alone next. Coco wouldn’t want anyone thinking her too weak to be a proper house elf. Not that she’s ever been anything other than a friend, but house elves have unsettling standards on friendship and servitude.

“Yes,” Coco says proudly. “And Coco is liking all the dresses you is making for her mistress, Miss Brown.”

Violet’s eyes crinkle with her infectious smile. “Thank you! Maybe we can work together on her wedding gowns?”

“Coco is a loyal and dutiful elf,” Coco says, her demeanor suddenly gone stern. “But I’s be honored to help if my mistress is not being busy.”

Lucy rolls her eyes. “You’ve both thought up a thousand dress each, haven’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Violet says. “You’ll only need three for your big day.”

“Two,” Lucy counters, “and only because the first will be ruined in the ritual.”

Blonde curls bounce as Violet shakes her head. “Oh, of course not. It’s a simple matter of making the blood look as though it was intentionally placed.”

“Speaking of rituals,” Lucy says. Best to get them off the subject before they lose themselves in it. “I’m starting my bibliography, Coco. Could you fetch all the books I used on that curse over the break? Just pop over with them any time before next weekend.”

 “Has you finally stopped that foolishness?”

 Lucy narrows her eyes. “Yes, I suppose I have.”

 “All them poor turtles,” Coco tuts. She shakes her head and sighs. “Is you needing something more?”

“You didn’t say anything about the poor hamsters,” Lucy points out. 

Coco ignores that remark. She turns a warm smile onto Violet instead.

“Coco is glad to meet you, Miss Brown,” she says, and disappears with a snap of her fingers. 

“Oh, how adorable!” Winifred coos. “My elf is a grouchy old bugger with rotting teeth. What I wouldn’t give to have a saucy little thing that likes to embroider!” 

A blonde fifth-year eager to impress the older girls nods in agreement. Lucy hasn’t bothered to learn her name or worked out which beater she’s dating. Truth be told, she thinks of them as the hairy one and the other one. Neither has been consequential enough to turn up in conversation. 

“Awful scars,” the girl says. “Do you know who owned her before? They must have been right prats.”

“Oh, that was me,” Lucy says, thinking fast. “Us mudbloods get a craving for flesh on the new moon.”

“Is that so?“ A male voice drawls. Evan Rosier is leaning forward, his eerie gaze locked onto Lucy’s. “Word is that Sirius Black has new inferi scars.”

“Is it?” She asks softly.

Rosier might be good, but he’s no Tom Riddle. He doesn’t have power seeping off him and polluting everyone around. He doesn’t have the killing curse trapped and poised in his mind, ready to be cast at a moment's notice. In fact, Lucy already knows what makes Rosier tick. He said the most terrifying moment of his life was when Pollux Black vanished his testicles. That’ll be easy enough to replicate. And she doesn’t know how to give them back, so-

“My, my. Is that sexual tension I’m sensing?” 

Regulus is hovering over them on his broom. He gives her a winning smile and swings off, his boots thudding against the wooden bench below Lucy’s.

“I’m an exhibitionist, not a voyeur, darling,” he says, ”and I don’t share.”

“Not even with another girl?” She demands. 

For a moment, she thinks she’s won. Alas, his expression goes from intrigued to contemplative to a full on grimace, and it takes her a heartbeat too long to look away from his pouting lips.

“Not even then. Completely monogamous, I’m afraid.”

“What if I wanted to share you?” 

“Exhibitionist, remember? I’d be more than delighted to put on a-“

Rosier stands abruptly. “I’m out. I don’t want to hear this.”

“I dunno,” the hairy beater, newly arrived, says with nasty leer. “This sounds intriguing.”

Regulus swivels on his heel and the beater takes a wary step backward. 

“I wasn’t aware you were so fond of me, Jenkins,” Regulus purrs. He slinks forward on the bench like a panther. “I’ve never-“

Jenkins cowers down to hide behind Rosier’s shorter frame. “No more laps,” he pleads. “Anything but the laps. You’re going to make this about laps around the pitch somehow and I can’t. My body can’t take it.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised at what your body can-“

“Ew!” Violet cries. She rises and flips her curls over her shoulder, pretty face contorted with disgust. “Boys are so gross.”

The fifth year nods eagerly. Her boyfriend, a pale boy with a patchy blond beard, is gazing at the last meat pie with such longing that even Lucy’s heart gives a twitch. He sighs when his partner pulls him along to the exit. His grumbling complaints can be heard echoing up the wooden stairwell as they all disappear down into the darkness. 

“I think I distracted them enough to forget any implications Evan may have made,” Regulus says, staring after them thoughtfully. “Evan won’t forget them, of course, but he can be reminded to keep his mouth shut.”

“Is that what that was? I thought you were just being you.”

Regulus huffs in amusement as he lowers himself on the seat beside her. They look out onto the quidditch pitch together. Lucy’s never understood the allure of quidditch. It’s got too many rules. Hockey needs to be integrated somehow. It would be much more impressive to watch them beat the shit out of each other with sticks while they fly around at breakneck speed. Seems like something he would like, showy and dangerous.

“You weren’t lying, though,” Lucy says. “That’s your game. You announce little mad facts like that and they never know when you’re being serious or just rambling on about nonsense.”

“That’s why I like you so much. You and Evan are the only ones who can tell when I’m playing the game.”

Lucy rolls her eyes. “You’re always playing the game.”

Regulus rests his chin on the top of her head. He smells like leather and sweat and she hates how tantalizing it is. Hates how it makes her stomach dance. 

“Well you’ll have to find someone else to like if you want to live out your exhibitionist dreams.” She injects her words with just the right amount of cheek to lighten the mood. “I wouldn’t like it.”

His chest vibrates against her shoulder with his responding, thoughtful hum. He moves away long enough to swing his leg over the bench and then his scent and his heat are back again, blocking out the worst of the chilly air.

“Close your eyes,” he orders. 

Lucy looks up at him doubtfully. He’s so very close and so very pretty. His eyelashes, so black and thick, bring out the ring of navy that surrounds his otherwise gray irises. 

“Go on.” A sweet smile flashes her way. She doesn’t fall for it, even if it feels like butterfly wings are beating against her chest. “Close them.”

She huffs, but she finally obeys. The leather of his quidditch gear creaks as he shifts on the bench. 

“Imagine this,” he says. His voice, nearer than she thought, elicits a little jump from her. She can picture the corner of his lips turning up into a smile, just millimeters from her ear. Thin golden hairs dancing in his breath. Little chillbumps rising on her skin. 

“We’re in a warm room. The lights are dim. There’s the sound of soft music and steady voices, but you can’t hear them. You can’t concentrate. You’re too nervous. You’re blindfolded and the not-knowing of it is killing you. 

“But you are a work of art. We are a work of art. They’ll see my fingers dented into the flesh of your thighs and watch your breasts when you arch your back and we will be a Bernini and a Corradini to them. Beautiful and harrowing and untouchable. We will have them in our power, Lucille, and we won’t have even looked their way.”

Lucy licks her lips. Her fingers clench the edge of the bench as she squirms in her seat. 

“See,” he taunts, his voice further away. “Told you you’d like it.”

She opens her eyes. He’s indeed wearing a cheeky little grin, but his shoulders belie his nervousness. They’re rounded in as if to keep her close and arched the slightest bit closer to his ears. Neither of them has made a move beyond their desperate snogging. She snuck her hand up the front of his sweater the night before, but that’s the furthest either of them dare to go. Regulus has no self control. Or so he says. It would be just like him to make her mad with lust and keep holding her off to ensure that they get married. Lucy, for her part, doesn’t go mad with lust and longing, but she doesn’t trust herself. There are too many reasons she deserves what he could give her and it becomes more difficult to talk herself out of it each time. 

“I’d like it,” she admits. She reaches up to push a wild lock of hair behind his ear. From there, her hand traces the strong line of his jaw until she’s cupping his chin. “But not because of the people or the power. I’d like it because you’d like it. I’d be imagining what you looked like all the while.”

Regulus closes his eyes. His forehead drops to hers with a little sigh. She rests her hands on his thigh, cupping the thick leather armor encasing his legs. He’s so much more solid than he appears to be. 

“Please don’t look down at my groin like that,” he pleads. “My usual methods won’t work if you keep at it.”

She leans back to grin up at him. “What usual methods?”

“Oh, you know. Slughorn in ruffled pink knickers.”

“Ew.”

“Dumbledore in lace.”

“Seems more like a-“

A loud crack sounds through the air. Coco has reappeared holding a stack of books that can only be kept upright with magic. She snaps her fingers and they file themselves into Lucy’s purse on the floor. 

“That was quick,” Lucy says. 

“Coco is not wanting her mistress to change her mind.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

“Hello, Coco,” Regulus says. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

“Hello, Master Regulus.” She gives him a curtsey before fixing Lucy with an inscrutable look. “I be leaving now, Miss, but I’s think you be needing this.”

With those ominous words, she disappears with a snap of her fingers. A small black vial taunts them where she stood not a moment before. Regulus reaches it first with his seeker reflexes and holds it up to the light. His lips quirk into a smirk as he gently shakes it.

“What is it?“ Lucy asks hesitantly. 

Regulus's eyes are bloody twinkling as he turns back to Lucy. 

“Contraceptive potion.”

“Oh my god,” Lucy mutters. 

She buries her head in her hands to hide her burning face. Sirius will never let her live this down.

Time passes too quickly for Lucy’s liking. The others in her year seem just as melancholy. Once they might have eagerly anticipated the end of studying and exams and uniforms. Now they’ve naught but the war to look forward to. No matter which side the students are on, they’ve appreciated the thick stone walls and formidable headmaster shielding them from the horrors of war. Usual exam anxieties have increased to the point that nearly every detention is served by brewing calming draughts and pepper-up potions. 

 (Sirius and Peter try to brew a batch preemptively for one of their pranks, but Professor Diaz makes them brew it all again in a room freshly perfumed with dungbombs. Severus’s smile is truly dreadful to behold.)

The end of year signifies something truly petrifying for Lucy- Voldemort’s deadline. She pours herself into her studies with an intensity that she’s never shown with schoolwork. Her potions turn out nearly as good as Lily Evan’s and she no longer pesters Sirius about Transfiguration. She finds herself thinking of the future with regret. She could have done miraculous things with magic if it weren’t for Voldemort. 

More worryingly, she loses herself in Regulus. He becomes more of a friend than an ally or a sweetheart. It’s terrifying. Falling in love at any time is daunting. Falling in love at wartime is dangerous. After much deliberation, Lucy follows the most sensible path of action- she ignores it. She goes on study dates with him, she goes on more romantic dates with him. Some nights they stare out the windows of the Slytherin common room and talk about magic for hours. Some days they sneak off to the Room of Requirement and wander around for hours. 

A voice nags at her when they’re together. ‘ You could be doing this with Severus or Sirius ,’ it says. And, ‘ You’re going to get him killed again.’ He’s too clever not to notice. Maybe it’s a look in her eyes or in the way that she touches him, but he never fails to pull her back in with a kiss or one of his outrageous comments. Anything to get her hooked. 

Violet notices Lucy’s strange moods too. She’s stuck to her noble ideals of being better friends with Lucy and Severus. They like to blame it on her Gryffindor brother. The three of them are rarely seen without one of the others, whether Violet works on boning a corset while Severus brews a complicated potion or Lucy stares cross-eyed at a composition notebook as Violet and Severus go through every charm they know for the practicum. 

One sunny day in June, Violet drags Lucy up from the dungeons and down the long, winding path out of the castle. The students gossip and giggle around them as they make their way to Hogsmeade. At one point, Lucy comes across a rather peaceful looking Remus patrolling on his own. She lets him have his rare moment of solitude despite how much she’d like to befriend him. Violet doesn’t miss that, either. 

“Do you think he’s cute?” she asks curiously. 

Lucy and Violet spent a good hour getting ready together over tea and scones. It was loads of fun, even if she caught herself missing Coco. Their matching outfits are overkill for Hogsmeade, or for anything other than high tea with the Queen really, but it’s all in good fun. Violet is in a pale green robe over a lilac dress while Lucy requested that her colours be inverted. Severus had rolled his eyes when he saw them leave arm in arm. 

“I like his scars,” Lucy admits, “and I find him intriguing. He’s probably one of those people that becomes more attractive the more you get to know him.” 

“I can see that. He must have a wild side if he’s been part of Potter’s gang all these years.” 

Lucy makes a mental note to tell Sirius about that when she next sees him. Wild side, indeed. 

“Anyway, that’s not the boy I brought you here to talk about,” Violet says.

Lucy pinches her arm viciously. “I thought this was a girl’s day.” 

“And girlfriend’s don’t talk about boys?”

 “You’re a lesbian, so I’d imag-”

Violet heaves a great sigh and rolls her eyes to the heavens. “You’re not going to be able to distract me, Lucy. I know you too well.” 

“Wait until we get to Aurora’s Apparel and I’ll distract us both.”

“Not if I get us to the Three Broomsticks first. I could use a strong Witch’s Brew.” She pinches Lucy back, giggling when it causes her to stumble on a loose cobblestone. “Come on, Luce. Best get it over with so we can have the rest of the day without his spirit hovering over us. Where is he, anyway?”

“Detention. Got caught switching out Annette Farthing’s teeth with her fingernails.”

Violet pauses, her face screwed up in shocked horror. Ahead of them, Lupin trips over thin air. Lucy will have to ask Sirius about werewolf hearing. It could explain how Lupin in particular never gets caught in their grand schemes.

“What did she do to deserve that?!”

“Woke him up from a nap in an alcove, apparently.”

Violet purses her lips. “Well. Everyone knows to never interfere with his sleeping. And it is rather rude, seeing as he’s trying to take his NEWTs this year. How do you feel about that, by the way?”

“I’d be creeped out if it had anything to do with me,” Lucy admits with a shrug, “but he’s impatient to take up the family mantle. Hogwarts really has been in the way of all that he’s trying to get done. He missed out on an opportune meeting at Gringotts last week because of a potions exam.”

This time Violet is the one trip over thin air. She digs her long, pink nails into Lucy’s wrist and hisses in her ear to keep a gaggle of curious third-year girls from eavesdropping. 

“Wasn’t there an article in the Prophet about a Goblin king from Italy visiting at Gringotts last week?”

“Why the hell do you know about that?”

“The Italian prime minister was in attendance and the piping on his robes caught my eye. But never you mind! Why the hell is Regulus caught up with Goblin nobility?!”

“Why?” Lucy asks, wiggling her brows. “Do you want me to ask around about any goblin princesses?”

“Oh, piss off,” Violet scoffs. She shoves Daisy into the grass lining the path. They scuffle for a bit until they end up clutching each other and giggling. 

“Did you know Regulus speaks Gobbledegook?”

Violet peers down at her curiously. “No.”

“I asked him to talk dirty to me in it.”

That sets her off into another round of giggles. “And what did he do?”

“Asked me if I was proud of myself for following in Sirius’s footsteps.”

Violet flips her hair with all the sass she can muster, which is quite a lot. “It was no less than you deserved.”

Lucy and Violet have just stepped out Honeyduke’s when they hear a scream. It’s not the playful shriek of a child or the disbelieving cry of a teenage girl. It’s a scream of bone-crawling terror. The sort of scream that’s only heard at the end of a life. 

The girls gape at one another in horror. It might have been a funny image at any other time. Violet has a sugar quill half hanging out of her mouth and a chocolate frog is croaking frantically in Lucy’s tight fist as it tries to escape. Regardless, it only takes half a second for Lucy to make the decision. It isn’t an altruistic decision, as much as she might like it to be. The truth is that she can only think of that wretched article in the Daily Prophet. If she runs, she will be a lying hypocrite and all of her hard work will be for nothing.

Another scream, this one distinctly male, permeates the air. 

Together, almost as one, they spin to face the shop. Lucy manages to get up four wards in the time it takes Violet to raise two. It’s not much, but they can’t spare any more time. They take off running down the street, the stiletto heel of Violet’s boots clacking against the cobbled bricks. 

Others run back towards the castle. More board the windows and doors of their homes and stores. Fewer people run towards the screams. Violet flicks a stunner at a child in red-trimmed robes quick on their heels. He’ll have bruises, but at least he’ll live. Trying to protect a bunch of thirteen and fourteen-year-olds will only make whatever awaits them more difficult. 

They emerge on the southern border of the village. A few students are already there, dressed in jeans and robes alike, all with their wands raised high. Only two villagers have gathered. Lucy feels a surge of remorse and anger. These people have children to look after, families to care for. Mouths to feed. They shouldn’t have to deal with this. 

Down the gentle slope, several wizards in black robes and silver masks loom near the Hogsmeade welcoming sign. The forest looms at their backs, casting shadows over the people sprawled in the grass. Every one of them is in muggle clothes. 

Lucy squeezes the handle of her wand, glaring down at the Death Eaters. They aren’t poised to attack. They’re waiting, she realizes with dread. 

“Ah, Miss Tonks,” a man says in smooth, cultured tones. “You’ve finally arrived.”

Lucy knows that voice. She hates that voice almost as much as Walburga Black’s. 

The students waver, some glancing back at her. Robinson and Jordan, a Gryffindor and Hufflepuff in her year, meet each other’s eyes. Without a word, they break rank to stand at her side. 

Shit , Lucy thinks. Shit. Shit. Shit! She knows better than to wonder at the professors. They are too far away, and when have they ever been of use anyway? This motley collection of residents and students will be the only defense against the Death Eaters, whatever their mission may be. A nasty one if Malfoy is here. He isn’t exactly expendable and he’s good for more than his money. 

“Kind of you to drop in, Lucius,” she answers. “How have you been? I trust Narcissa is doing well.”

Malfoy doesn’t say a thing. Instead, another Death Eater steps forward from the cluster of dark robes. He carries a knife in one and-

Lucy’s heart is pounding, beating fast enough to make her light-headed and hard enough to feel in her teeth. 

“No! YOU PUT HER DOWN !” she screams. 

Coco wriggles in the Death Eater’s firm grip. Her big brown eyes shine with tears and wild terror.

“YOU PUT HER DOWN. SHE IS INNOCENT.”

“She is an animal,” Malfoy corrects. 

Coco whimpers. A Hufflepuff girl chokes out a sob. 

“Put her down! She hasn’t done ANYTHING! She’s INNOCENT of all this!”

The man lifts Coco by the back of her neck. Her long, strange toes dangle a foot off the ground.

“The Dark Lord is wise,” Malfoy purrs. “He predicted your plea. An eye for an eye, he said. A follower for a follower. And a taste for what may come if you refuse-“

He cuts off, wand snapping to attention, as Lucy takes a step forward. Something is buzzing in her ears. The colors are too bright and her heart is beating too loud. It’s driving her mad. 

A soft hand clamps down on her elbow and tugs so hard it nearly rips her arm out of her socket. 

“Just wait, Lucy” Violet hisses. “Keep him talking! Dumbledore is on-“

A scream cuts him off. A scream and a wet slump.

Lucy turns quick enough to break her neck, ponytail smacking Violet across the face. Coco lies on the ground. The light hasn’t quite left her eyes, but a pool of blood and grey intestines are pooled around her little body. 

The world goes very, very silent. There is only the frantic, thick beat of her heart echoing in her ears. 

Lucy raises her wand. 

“AVADA KEDAVRA!”

Pain splices though her chest, rips down her arm and out of her wand in a burst of green light. Lucius Malfoy slumps to the ground. 

 His comrades stare at him for a heartbeat. Everyone stares at him for a long, silent heartbeat.

She waits for the guilt, for the panic. It never comes. There is only the pain in her chest and elation flooding her limbs. 

“LUCY!”

Lucy knows that voice. Knows it better than any almost other. Something feral claws its way up from inside her, talons ripping chunks out of muscle and bone. It wraps itself around her heart and purrs. It is reflexive to deny it. She’s spent years repressing it. Ted and Andy and Sirius were always there to help shove it down deep and throw away the key.

Ted and Andy and Sirius are not here. It is only Lucy and her dead friend and the beast in her chest.  

She raises her wand again and gives herself over to the pain and fury burning inside of her. 

She does not see their masks or hear their spells. The sunlight is glaringly bright, the grass too green, the incessant pounding of her heart too loud. She does not think of anything but the men in front of her, does not care to listen to anything other than their screams. They blur together. Tall shadows and bright lights and breaking bones.

It isn’t until hours or minutes or years later that she realizes, with startling clarity, that she should be dead. 

As if on cue, a crazed laugh sounds at her left. She glances over in time to see Regulus yell out, “ Wrecenwind !”

A gust of wind thunders forward from behind Regulus. Two death eaters are thrown a good three feet back, skin and robe alike shredded from the sheer force of it.

Something bright flashes suddenly in Lucy’s peripheral vision. She hastily levitates the body of a dead student. It absorbs the cruciatius with a twitchy ripple before abruptly crashing to the ground. She quickly slashes her wand and mutters, “Sectumsempra!” 

The Death Eater falls to the ground with a pained wail. 

A quick peek shows no more attackers from the right. She pivots to the left, eager to assist Regulus, but there is no one left except two Death Eaters on their knees. 

“Stop!” The woman sobs. 

“We surrender,” her partner pleads in a thick French accent. “Please, we surr-“

He is interrupted by a rumble deep within the earth. The grass trembles and the trees themselves seem to groan. 

“Dumbledore!” The woman whispers in terror. 

Regulus flicks his wand. She flinches back but the spell only lowers her hood and dissolves her mask. Tears streak her freckled cheeks and teeth worry into her bottom lip. Another flick reveals a weaselly blond man with a thin mustache. 

“ Merde !” He curses. “ Je suis mor- “

“What do you think, Luce?” Regulus cuts in, never breaking eye contact with the cowering wizard. “Leave one for the Dark Lord? Or kill them both?”

There never was another option. There never will be. 

“Kill them,” she says. 

The Death Eaters cry out, the man breaking into a torrent of indistinguishable French while an acrid scent rises from the pleading woman.

Regulus raises his wand and levels it at the wizard’s forehead. Lucy mirrors his stance. The witch has brown eyes. It makes her think of Coco.

“ Avada Kedavra, ” they chant. 

Green light washes the image away, just as the tearing in her chest distracts from the growing emptiness. 

The wizard slumps forward. The witch collapses onto his back. 

”What have you done to yourselves?”

Lucy pivots to face Dumbledore. He looks very tall and very sad as he surveys the battlefield. There were more Death Eaters than she estimated. Five of them are sprawled just around their feet. Dumbledore doesn’t seem to notice those corpses. His gaze lingers on the unseeing students. Lucy very pointedly does not look behind him and to the left, where something long and pink protrudes-

“What you will not,” Regulus says. 

Lucy makes herself look away. She swallows back the sob building in her throat and sidles close enough for her arm to brush against his. She wants nothing more than to grip his hand, but she knows better than to sheathe her wand.

“There is a reason I will not-“

“Because you are afraid that you will follow your lover’s path,” Lucy interrupts. Her voice sounds cold and distant to her own ears. “I hold no such qualms. I do not crave power.”

Regulus glances over at a death eater covered in cursed cuts, where his blood still leaks out into the red grass. The dirt will be ripe for a blackthorn tree. Those thrive best when nurtured by blood and death. It is why wands carved from their limbs and bark are so eager for combat. 

“Only blood,” he murmurs, lips quirking up on one side. 

Dumbledore turns to Lucille, perhaps for a denial, but his face falls at whatever he sees in her expression. Instead, his gaze falls on the person at Regulus’s other side. Lucy startles. She hadn’t noticed anyone else. 

Evan Rosier is stood with a loose wand and bored expression. Their victory suddenly makes a lot more sense. 

“It’s a little too late to play grandfather, Headmaster,” Rosier says. “You’ve had seven years to shield me from the Dark Lord’s cruelty.”

Dumbledore’s shoulders drop. His blue eyes, so expressive, so full, rise to the sky. He heaves a great sigh. 

“I hoped it would never come to this,” he says quietly. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I must ask that you await me in my office. The floo is open if you wish to leave, but I beg you to wait for me.”

“Of course, Headmaster,” Regulus says, already grabbing for Lucy’s wrist. Rosier latches on to his right hand. 

As the world begins to shrink and spin, she just makes out the image of Sirius desperately clutching the ruined body of a house elf.

Chapter Text

The first thing Lucy does upon entering Dumbledore’s office is vomit. She stumbles until her hand steadies against a table and then her stomach upends itself onto the floor. Evan is quick to follow. The sound of his guttural retching sends Lucy into another wave of sickness. Just as she’s about to straighten, she opens her eyes and sees the blood and grass and dirt and body matter plastered against her fine silk dress and the process begins anew. 

When she finally manages to compose herself, her heart is beating faster than a hummingbird and her head feels like it might spin right off her neck. Intermixed with it all is a strangling sense of grief that has latched itself into her very being. It is a horrid beast made all the more terrible by its tangibility- a heavy, cloying parasite that settles deeper into her lungs with every inhale. Lucy cannot cut it away. She cannot curse it from existence. The most she can do is gather it up and shove it deep in the recesses of her mind until she can afford to bargain with it. Yet even as she tries, she knows it is impossible. All she can think is that Coco does not deserve to be shoved away. She should be grieved. The world should know what a miracle she was, how brave and caring and-

 “You sure you’re not hurt?”

Lucy jolts to attention. Evan Rosier’s complexion has gone pallid, made all the worse by smears of blood across his left cheek. His clothes, however, are free of any vomit or grass or…gore. 

“Clean me up,” she demands. 

“I can’t.” He holds up his hands. They are shaking so violently he can hardly keep a grip on his wand. “I’ve never had this happen. Never. That was- that was mad. Mad . Is it always like that?”

The train hadn’t been like that. Nor had the fight with Cassius Nott. Those were duels, not battles. Hogsmeade had been so loud. Screams and incantations and explosions all fighting for dominance, her adrenaline pumping as she filtered through it all to focus on the latest wizard in front of her. The pain. The rage. The desperate need to make them feel what she felt. She’d been too lost in vengeance to experience any nerves or fear. 

“ Accio calming draught!” Regulus calls out. 

Lucy reflexively reaches for her bag at her hip, but it isn’t there. 

“Where’s my purse?”

Did she take it off? Or did someone cut it away? Anyone could steal it, but only the likes of Voldemort could work their way through the curses and runes. Even if he did manage, her journal would burn if anyone other than Sirius tried to learn its secrets. She’d wanted to key Regulus in somehow, but it was impossible to do so without potentially allowing Bellatrix and Narcissa-

Narcissa. Shit , Narcissa. 

And Draco! Draco Malfoy would never exist. 

How much has she changed?! There was the meeting on the train. The ferret incident. Quidditch. The dementor incident the year before. But those had no bearing. 

Think, Lucy, think!

Fifth year…Umbridge. Nothing important. After that, sixth year with the cabinet and Dumbl-

The Elder Wand. 

Fucking shit, the Elder Wand! Who-

“Merlin, Regulus. Should you really be stealing from the headmaster right now? He doesn’t need another reason to expel you.”

Lucy turns to see Regulus standing with a small vial at his lips. His Adam’s apple bobs as he gulps down the potion. He holds up his hand as a reply, triggering a series of incoherent complaints from Evan. Lucy doesn’t pay him any attention; she’s riveted by Regulus. He stands with his head bowed and his eyes closed, the sun silhouetting his broad shoulders against the open window. They rise and fall with the deep, steady breaths he takes. 

A warm hand wraps around Lucy’s wrist, halting the step she hadn’t realized she’d taken. 

“Best not interrupt,” Evan whispers into her ear. “Selfish bastard. Must have been the only one. Where do you think the old codger keeps his tea?”

Lucy is unfortunately familiar enough with the office to know where to find the tea set. She pulls out of Evan’s hold and walks over to the massive desk. To the right is a wooden tea cart against the wall. She sets about filling the kettle, then taps her wand on an ornate box carved with phoenixes. Dozens upon dozens of packets are crammed in. Breakfast teas and Earl Greys fill the left side and the right is packed with outlandish flavors such as tomato mint and unicorn dung. Shaking her head, she rifles through them until she finds a brown package with a chamomile flower drawn on. It isn’t until after she’s placed the bags into the teapot that she notices the blood and dirt streaked over everything she’s touched. 

“Shit,” she murmurs, stepping away. “Shit, shit, shit !”

Her bum knocks into Dumbledore’s desk. She slides down the wood panel and buries her face against her knees, uncaring of what her dress reveals. 

Just as she’s preparing to spiral into the endless loop of despair, a loud pop breaks through her thoughts. Through the maze of furniture and artifacts, Lucy can see Kreacher bending his head back to stare up at his master. From this angle, the fuzz in his ears extends past the lobes in spidery, translucent tentacles that shine in the sun. 

“…to find my brother,” Regulus is saying. “Tell him to fetch the relics and bring them to Dumbledore’s office. He’ll know what you mean. Then find Lucille’s purse and bring it to me- the one I described to you. You musn’t open it, Kreacher. It will not harm you if you carry it, but do not try to reach inside for any reason.”

Kreacher shuffles uneasily, his hands twisting behind his back. “Master’s brother does not obey Kreacher.”

“He will for this, my friend. He understands how important it is.” 

He mumbles something in a doubtful tone, but he disappears with another loud pop all the same.

“Evan,” Regulus calls. 

Lucy lets her head fall back against the desk. Two former headmistresses crammed in a portrait of a rustic kitchen are staring down at her sadly. 

“Go home. You need to rest,” Regulus says.

“Dumbledore-“

“You didn’t cast an Unforgivable.” A worried pause. “Did you?”

Evan’s voice cracks with his reply. “No, but I-I killed those people, Regulus. I killed them. And it was so easy. They fell like wheat before a sickle.” 

A rustle of fabric. Lucy wants to peer around to see if Regulus is cradling his shoulders or holding him tight, but it wouldn’t be right. They deserve what little privacy she can give them. 

“Go home to your grandmother. Rest.” 

“I won’t leave you here alone.”

“I have Lucy and I’ll soon have Sirius.”

“You can’t believe he’ll side with you over Dumbledore. Let me stay.”

“Dumbledore won’t harm one of his students. Go home, Evan. Give mémère my love.” 

Evan sighs, and then there is another rustle of fabric. Footsteps. The clattering of a porcelain lid. A whoosh of flames, followed by a green light that has Lucy flinching in on herself. A call of “ Chateau Rosier ”, and the room falls silent. 

The quiet coats her skin like a balm. Lucy takes the opportunity to center herself. A deep breath in, a slow breath out. In and out, deep and slow, until the chaos in her head gentles into something a bit more manageable. 

“Looks like you could use a quick scourgify .”

Lucy opens her eyes. Regulus is crouched beside her, a sad, sweet smile on his lips. He waves his wand slowly so as not to startle her. The cleaning charm runs a shiver up her spine as it always does, but she feels better. The blood and debris have gone, leaving only a few stains and rips behind. 

Regulus reaches out and cups her cheek softly, his thumb swiping just beside the corner of her mouth. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you the calming draught, but I needed my wits about me. I needed to make a plan.”

She leans into his touch. “I love a good plan .”

“We’ll see,” he says darkly, a hint of something flashing behind his grin. He rises to his full height and extends his hand in invitation. “Have a seat with me and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Regulus arranges two of the visitor’s chairs at Dumbledore’s desk so that they face one another, then lowers Lucy into the rightmost seat. He takes her hands in his after he claims the left. The potion he stole has glazed over the perpetual madness in his eyes just enough to give them an unsettling cast. “You’re not going to like this. I ask that you hear me out before you interrupt.”

Lucy nods. She won’t be angry. She can’t be angry. If she lets even a bit of wayward annoyance out, all of the grief and fury will come out with it. She’ll listen and catalogue everything to be examined later. It’s the best she can do at the moment. 

“We’re getting married as soon as you can get your ritual together. I only knew you were in danger today because Coco tugged on the blood bond I made with her on Christmas. You didn’t have time to use the ring. If we were married, the enchantments may have been strong enough to act on their own, or you may not have needed them at all. The Black family has an abundance of familial spells and rituals that you could have had access to.” He raises her hands to kiss her knuckles. “They could have taken you, Lucille. You could have died.”

“Coco did die.”

Regulus kisses her hands again. “I know, my sweet. I know. I am so dreadfully sorry that happened but I am so, so thankful you are unharmed. More than that, I am so proud of you. You avenged her and yourself today.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“It will. It might take a day or a week or a year, but it will.”

Lucy disentangles their hands to lean back in the chair. His hair is in disarray and there’s a cut near the collar of his shirt. He must have healed the skin underneath, because there isn’t a scratch to be seen. Relatively unharmed, it seems, if a little unstable. 

Well, more unstable than usual.

“What else is there?” She asks. “I know there’s more.”

“You’re moving in with me. Today. My mother can make an extended visit to our cabin in the Alps. I want you behind Grimmauld’s wards.”

“I have safe houses-“

“And I’m sure they’re very safe, but Lucille, we don’t know how they got her. Any of the houses could have been compromised.”

“I’ll stay tonight. We can discuss it tomorrow.”

Regulus sighs. “Very well.”

“What else? I can tell there’s something else.”

“It’s time to tell Dumbledore.”

“What? Why?”

“The cup isn’t there yet.”

“ Fuck .”

“I know.”

“ You trust them?” She demands, shooting to her feet. She paces back and forth, trying to make sense of the sudden reemergence of the storm in her mind. It had finally quietened for a moment, and now this. 

“You’re sure they’re not lying?” 

“I am. In this I am.”

“So it will be more of today for the time being? More destruction and war and death until we-“

“Until Halloween of 1981 at the latest.” He rises to take her hand once again. “Don’t lose hope, Luce. We have everything we need to defeat him. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Time?! There’s too much time! Time’s going to go on and on and people are going to keep dying. Coco’s dead, Regulus. She’s fucking dead and-“

The office door crashes open. Professor McGonnagal strides inside with Dumbledore at her heels. She seems to be arguing with him, but their voices are indiscernible. He, or perhaps someone else, has taken the time to transfigure his robes from that horrid neon orange to a more dour shade of navy. The two professors make a beeline for one of the delicate brass instruments lining the wall. Lucy steps forward to see what it does, but Regulus spins her around to face him.

“ Listen to me, Lucille Tonks.” He cradles her face in his hands and peers down at her earnestly. “You have been glorious. Glorious . Part of the reason I want to tell him is because I’m so proud of you. I want the world to know that my wife was the one to win a war. The Dark Lord was in your mind, he tortured you, while you were stealing a piece of his soul. You are brilliant. Utterly, fantastically brilliant, but you’ve done all that you can do. It is time to pass the mantle.”

“I’m not your wife yet.”

His fierce expression softens in the way that usually makes her inexplicably nervous. At the moment, it’s only serving to piss her off. His timing really could use some work. 

“Do you trust me, Lucy? Do you trust me when I say it’s time? I know you’ve dedicated your entire life-“

“Yes, of course I do,” she snaps, pulling away, but guilt immediately rises in her chest. “I’m sorry, I-“

“It’s alright. You’re doing admirably well, considering the circumstances. If it were Kreacher I-“

“If it were Kreacher you would have already been planning your suicide.”

“Yes, well, I’m a Black. We’re all very theatrical.”

Lucy grimaces and glances over her shoulder. The small brass apparatus has unfolded into a blocky shape with too many sections to count. Each tiny side flares with differing intensity to the others. A long bit of metal near the bottom is flashing quickly and softly while a piece near the top has a steady, bright luminosity. The two professors seem to be arguing over the two areas if McGonagall’s fierce wand jabs are anything to go by. 

“I hope you’ve been practicing your lines,” she murmurs to Regulus. “You’re going to need it.”

Both of the professors look up as though sensing her attention, no doubt a sixth sense every teacher develops. 

“Please take a seat,” Dumbledore says. “I will be with you in a moment.”

“Yes, Professor,” Regulus replies. 

He tugs on Lucy’s arm to nudge her back into her seat. They wait and listen to Dumbledore’s quiet, cryptic conversation. It is information that is evidently not meant for anyone other than the Headmaster and Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts.

“Inform Filius. This cannot bode well. See if the Friar is willing to lend a hand; Helena has always been negligible in her duties. Hagrid may also be of assistance. For all his faults, he is a very kind man. The children should be reminded that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.”

“I shall remind them. And I shall remind you of what I said earlier.”

“And I shall remind you that I needed no reminding.”

McGonagall sniffs disdainfully. “If you say so. Miss Tonks.”

Lucy startles at the sudden address. 

“Yes, Professor?”

“My condolences for your loss. You had a very brave and loyal friend in your house elf.”

“Thank you, Professor. I am…I have often found myself humbled by her. I feel especially small today of all days.”

“Yes, well, I wish you success in your endeavors. Both of you. Rest assured that you will most certainly be hearing from me if either of you receive anything less than an Outstanding on your Transfiguration NEWTs.”

With those curt words, she sweeps out of the office in a flurry of emerald robes. Dumbledore smiles after her fondly, if not a little sadly. He sighs heavily when the door closes, as if he is dreading the conversation before him. Lucy might have found the irony amusing any other day.

“I must confess to burglary, Professor,” Regulus says in a genial tone. “I summoned a calming draught and stole a bit of parchment from your desk.”

Dumbledore hums in response, studying them closely over his spectacles. Distantly, Lucy realizes she’s always admired his long, crooked nose. It adds character to his otherwise plain face, gives a sort of unexpected history to such a respected man. 

After a moment of silence, Dumbledore heaves another sigh and flicks his wand. She very carefully does not look at it. She’s always done her best to not even think of it, a feat made difficult by her earlier ruminations on Draco sodding Makfoy. 

A filing cabinet in the back of the room comes alive and spits out two scrolls of parchment. Regulus catches them neatly when they stop to hover near the desk. 

“These forms will inform Hogwarts of your resignation,” Dumbledore explains as he makes his way over. “I am not so foolish as to believe the Ministry will be able to snap either of your wands or that you will not easily obtain another.”

Regulus picks up the quill he’d pilfered earlier. He doesn’t hesitate to sign his name with a flourish. Lucy does. She should have loved Hogwarts. She shouldn’t feel so relieved to know that she will never have to come back again. It was supposed to be a second home. A metaphor for everything magical. Instead, she can only wonder if resigning years ago might have ended the war earlier. Ted could be back. Coco could be alive. 

“Miss Tonks?” Dumbledore asks quietly. 

“Oh. Sorry.” 

Lucy accepts the quill from Regulus and signs her name. It is as loopy and childish and inappropriate for the gravity of the current situation as it always is. 

“Was Mr. Rosier unharmed?” Dumbledore inquires as he lowers himself into his chair. 

“He seemed to be,” Regulus answers. “I sent him home to rest. Though, Headmaster, he could do with some reassurance that he is welcome back at Hogwarts.”

Lucy passes over both their forms. Dumbledore lays them aside before folding his hands on his desk and holding their gazes with austerity. She throws up her occlumency shields out of habit, but it is unnecessary. There is no prodding against her mind. Only the cutting, unfiltered attention of a wise and powerful man. 

“I cannot allow you to live and study amongst the other students after the magic you have performed today. It would be irresponsible of me as a Headmaster regardless of my sentiments on the matter. The youngest are already frightened enough as it is without sharing the halls of two wizards that have used the killing curse on another human.”

“We understand, Headmaster-“. 

“I almost cast it on Malfoy years ago,” Lucy hears herself interrupt. “He’d set that snake on me and Avada was the only thing that would stop it. I remember thinking,  ‘ It won’t hurt to kill him since he can’t have much more of a soul than that beast ’, but the Baron stopped me. He didn’t want me to shackle myself because of a fit of emotion like he had all those years ago. So I let him stop me. I knew what Malfoy was capable of. I knew and I didn’t do anything because it was the right thing to do, because it was the moral thing to do, and now Coco is dead for it.”

“Lucius Malfoy’s death does not trouble me as much as what I witnessed-“

“What would you have had us do?“ Regulus snaps. “That Frenchman had no business on our soil. He was only here to slake his bloodthirst. Should we have let him return to the Dark Lord, only to kill more students later on?”

“Of course not, but it would have been simple to restrain them both and await the aurors. It is not your place to decide who lives and dies, Mr. Black.”

“That motherfucker just tried to take my Lucy from me. Again. I had to send a message. Lucy had to send a message. He cannot be allowed to continue targeting Lucy without consequence. She is not alone in this anymore.”

That wonderful, cloying aura is spreading from him like it did in Gringotts. This time she closes her eyes and lets herself bask in its depths, allows it to blanket her and swirl in with her own magic. It expels some of the oppressive fog swirling around in her head, shrinks the greedy parasite growing in her lungs. He is a hot bath and silk sheets and the rush of anticipation and power that comes the very instant after casting a spell. 

It makes her think of the leaves rustling and the ground shaking as Dumbledore tore his way into Hogsmeade. If Regulus is the night sky, what is he? A tidal wave of fire? Or an ocean of power, serene and content until he chooses to make it into a force of nature? What is Lucy to that? What could Lucy ever be to a wizard of his caliber? How could she have ever hoped to defeat Voldemort without his help? 

“Albus,” she says softly. Everyone, even the portraits, turns their attention to her. “Call the Order.”

Dumbledore studies her for a moment in the ensuing silence. 

“Lucille,” he finally says, “the people you are requesting have jobs and covers to maintain. It will be very suspicious if they disappear to Hogwarts so soon. Surely whatever it is you have to say can be said to me.”

“It can’t. As much as I respect you, I do not trust you. Not with this.”

The Headmaster dips his chin the slightest bit in aggrieved acknowledgement. 

“I am sorry you feel this way, Ms. Tonks. The only presence I can guarantee is that of Dorcas Meadowes’. Alastor is busy in Hogsmeade and the Ministry is becoming suspicious of his closesness with me. It would be more plausible to summon his partner, Kingsley Shacklebolt. Would that be agreeable?”

“Yes, that’s fine.”

“Take your time,” Regulus says. “We’re waiting on my brother. I don’t know how long he will be. Lucy?”

Lucy smooths out the bottom of her dress for an excuse to look away. Sobs will strangle her throat if she sees their pity. 

“It depends on where they found Coco. If they broke into my flat, Sirius will have quite a bit of wards to puzzle through. I had them hidden in a muggle bank but Sirius convinced me it would be better to hide them with magic. I still don’t know which of us was right.”

“Had what hidden, Miss Tonks?” Dumbledore asks cautiously. 

“What Regulus has convinced me to tell you about.” She wrinkles her nose in distaste of something she’s just realized. “What Sirius has been trying to convince me to tell you about for almost a year. I didn’t realize I was so convince-able.”

“It’s our dastardly good looks,” Regulus says drily. 

“Consider me intrigued,” Dumbledore says with a carefully neutral expression. “Excuse me while I make contact with Dorcas and Kingsley.”

Before he can rise, another loud pop rings through the office. Lucy cringes in on herself, a twitch that has Dumbledore frowning over at her in concern. She scowls at him. It isn’t that his compassion is unwarranted or unwanted; it’s that she cannot allow anything to escape her walls or they will come tumbling down.

Kreacher snarls something and stomps his foot- Lucy is reminded of the way Coco’s bony toes were dangling above the ground, how her guts-…No. No, no, she mustn’t. She can’t think of that. Not now. Not here. Not ever. 

“Kreacher!“ Regulus exclaims loudly, shooting Lucy a worried glance. “I cannot solve the problem if you do not explain it to me. Clearly.”

Kreacher sucks in a deep breath, his wrinkled face still flushed with anger. A scroll in his fist crinkles. 

“The hag’s wart of a boy took Miss Lucy’s purse! Kreacher said Master Regulus is requesting it, but that blood-traitor tosspot takes it and says he is not trusting Kreacher with it and he and his foul werewolf friend be needing it!”

“I-…werewolf?” Regulus says, his head cocked to the side. 

“That’s quite alright, Kreacher,” Lucy says in a rush. “Sirius does probably need it. It was remiss of me not to-“

“Remus Lupin is a werewolf?!” Regulus cries. “What the hell were his parents thinking when they named him?”

“Mr. Black!” Dumbledore snaps. “Young Mr Lupin’s circumstances are neither here nor there.”

“But it all makes so much sense!”

“Regulus, darling, this isn’t the time. Kreacher, is that letter for one of us?”

Kreacher bows his head low. Lucy finds herself flattered and sad all at once. 

“From Sir Arcturus to Master Regulus.”

“Regulus, why don’t you see what he has to say while the Headmaster makes his arrangements?” 

“Of course, darling ,” Regulus purrs. 

Lucy fights the urge to cover her face with her hands. Sirius can’t get here fast enough. 

Chapter Text

I AM NO LONGER LIVING OUT OF AIRBNBS!!!!!

I FINALLY HAVE AN APARTMENT!!!!

THEREFORE YOU CAN EXPECT AN UPDATE BY THE END OF THE MONTH!!!  

🎊🎊🎊🎸🎸🎸🎸🤘🏻🤘🏻🤘🏻🤘🏻🤘🏻🎊🎊🎊🎊 

—————-

longer blurb:

I moved 500 miles to City A. Home life was toxic and I was very, very depressed while waiting to get a job with my degree. Some days I couldn’t get out of bed long enough to brush my teeth. Our dogs legitimately saved my life. One of them would bark and chew on my hands unless I came downstairs to watch him play. 

Then I finally, finally got a job!! But rent in City A was too expensive. I was working and doordashing and I still couldn’t afford an apartment. 

So I took my last paycheck 700 miles to City B!! I didn’t have a job lined up and I only had $1700 to my name. I got a crappy airbnb and kept doordashing until I found another job. I finally got one! It isn’t with my degree but it’s really interesting, so I’m very happy. It will pay my bills while I try to write a book, which is what I’ve wanted to do more than any degree I’ve studied for.

These past few months I’ve been working from 6a-2:30 and then doordashing right after that until 8pm, in order to pay for my airbnb while saving up for an apartment. BUT I FINALLY GOT ONE!!! So I will soon only have one job which means I can be a human being again!!! 

My depression is pretty much gone. I’m stressed but I’m *happy*. I’m going to be hella cheesy and say “it gets better” because it really, really does. Hang in there, my sad/mad dudes. 

(my depression cultivated in a lot of anger so it was kind of funny how every little thing pissed me off) 

Anyway, I wrote a new outline for MoS back in September. I know what’s going to happen and how it ends, etc. I also have snippets of different chapters written too. Now that I have a place and the time to actually sit down and get back into the story, I’ll be back to updating once or twice a month.  

Would anyone be interested in some kind of social media for updates? I can do Twitter, Insta, Discord or Tumblr. Whichever you guys want to use, since it’ll be for you. If not, that’s cool too 😊

Thank you all for all the encouragement and I’m so sorry that I’ve been on such a long hiatus!!!

Chapter Text

Dorcas Meadowes is the first to arrive. She stumbles out of the floo in a satin bonnet and a jumper thrown over a long striped nightdress. In lieu of a greeting, she raises her hand and rushes over to the tea cart. The mess Lucy left doesn’t phase her a bit. She clears it with one flick of her wand and starts the kettle with another. Lucy doesn’t know if that’s because she’s used to being around blood or she’s just too tired to care. She doesn’t know which one is more unsettling. 

Shacklebolt is next. He is as handsome as ever in his auror robes, but there is an almost unsettling tenseness to him. Lucy doesn’t know him well enough to recognize the emotion simmering under the surface of his tight shoulders. He remains stoic and silent beside Fawkes’s empty perch as Dumbledore and Dorcas Meadoes bustle about, rearranging and summoning furniture until it forms a circle in the center of the office.

Lucy refuses to sit on the chaise lounge on principle. It’s too depressing to consider that she has a piece of furniture in Dumbledore’s domain classified as hers. Instead, she chooses a chintz wingback that faces the door. Dorcas Meadows sits on her right and summons another cup of tea. 

“Kings,” Meadowes asks, “what’s happening down there? Albus gave me a summary, but…Hogsmeade! Bloody cowards.”

Shacklebolt runs a hand over his bald head. His golden hoop earring glints in the light. Now that she knows he was a Slytherin, Lucy's damn sure there's at least one charm embedded into it. 

“They were taking witness statements when I left," he says. "Already carted the criticals and casualties off, of course. Six students were killed. Ten - no, eleven were injured, and only three of those were bad enough for St. Mungo’s.”

“ Six ? Six students?! Albus-“

“Oh, Dorcas,” Dumbledore sighs, sinking down into his chair. He looks like a defeated man. “My arrogance has cost the lives of those very people I swore to-“

“Oh, sod off,” Regulus says, scoffing as he lowers onto the dreaded chaise to Lucy’s left. “Don’t be so narcissistic, Headmaster. This was supposed to be a terrorist attack, not a battle. I’m guessing that Malfoy was supposed to deliver the message and flee, but their means of escape was destroyed when they underestimated Lucy yet again.”

Dumbledore’s mustache makes an odd quivering motion. He blinks at Regulus several times. He’s about to speak when something occurs to Lucy. 

“No, six can’t be right. They’d already killed students. There were bodies, muggleborns, already lying on the hill.”

“They were muggles, Lucille,” Shacklebolt explains gently. “Probably murdered just before. We’re handing them over to the proper authorities.”

Lucy’s fingers curl into the chair’s scratchy fabric. ““But why ? Why would he do that? Why would I give a shit if he killed a group of random people? That’s an average Tuesday for him.”

Regulus giggles. He giggles and giggles until it grows into full blown laughter. Kingsley- she may as well refer to them all by their given names if they're going to change the world together- looks at him in concern. 

“Well, Miss Tonks,” Dorcas says, caught somewhere between horror and disappointment. “I’d think it was supposed to intimidate you that they were willing to murder innocent people to deliver a message.”

Lucy scoffs. ”I don't see why. You don’t need magic to do that. Muggle governments do it to each other all the time. Just look at the Iraq War-“

“Vietnam,” Regulus interrupts. “I think you mean the Vietnam War.”

“Yes, of course. My mind is still a bit frazzled. None of you would happen to have a calming draught would you?” 

They all stare at her, faces unreadable. It is Albus who eventually comes to her rescue. He switches out a stray teacup for a potion from the dungeons. As she drinks it, she wonders how long it will be until Sirius arrives. She wants to go hide in bed for a month, to be a coward for once. 

“Do you know where they found Coco?” Lucy asks Kingsley. 

He slips on the same unfeeling yet polite mask that Ted had to learn. It is the “ I’m so sorry, the spell damage was too severe ” mask. It is the face of a man that has to deliver terrible news as succinctly as possible. 

“My colleague received a report of an elf being forcibly taken from Weaver’s Way, off of Diagon. He didn’t expect anything to come of it until he came back to find the auror’s office in disarray. Once he learned what happened, he apparated directly to Hogsmeade to report the abduction. She’d been leaving a fabric shop. We have her purchases on file at the Ministry. Normally, I’d give you instructions on how to retrieve them after the case closes, but I have no problem sending them to you after we’ve wrapped everything up.”

A fucking fabric shop. Had it been a chance encounter? Had someone recognized a scarred elf with brown eyes and alerted Voldemort? Or was it more than that? Had they known Coco? Known how much she loved fashion? Known to-

The door bangs open in a loud clatter of wood on stone. 

Lucy is on her feet with her wand raised, but it is only Sirius. His long, shining hair is unbound, bouncing as he hurries to her. She is quickly wrapped in strong arms and gathered into a warm chest. 

“I’m so sorry, Luce,” Sirius whispers. “I'm so sorry.”

Lucy allows herself to sink into him, but he is replaced with a rush of cool air as soon as she does. What she witnesses next has her stumbling again. 

Sirius has Regulus in a similar embrace, his hands clawed into his hair and lips pressed tight to his brow.

“I love you,” Sirius pulls back to say. Each declaration of love is punctuated by a kiss to his brother's brow or hair. “I love you and I’m sorry and I love you, I love you, I love you.“

“Yes, yes, I heard you the first seven times,” Regulus grouses, but his lips are pulled up at the corners. 

That parasite of grief and anger latched onto her spine removes one of its claws. It starts as one measly whimper and then her face crumples and her knees give out and it feels as though she’s crying so hard that she’ll never be able to cry again. As though something fresh and cleansing comes in with each shuddering breath, as if that horrible beast in her chest might disappear altogether.

“Goddamn it, Sirius,” she manages through sobs. 

Regulus pushes her back into the chair with heartbreaking tenderness. His brother- her brother- lowers himself to his knees in front of them. They look so similar, this close. Different mouths, different eyes. Different shoulders, different…. 

A leather strap is settled onto Sirius’s shoulder. A very familiar leather strap. She reaches for it impatiently. 

“Give me that. I want an actual calming draught, not this watered down nonsense. What is Slughorn doing down there?”

“Probably making sure we're not all stoned out of our minds.”

“Bully for him. This is the perhaps most important conversation of my life and I am going to have it stoned out of my mind.”

Sirius dips his wand in to summon two potions. Glass clinks as they exchange hands. 

“Bottoms up, Luce,” Sirius says. “You’ve earned it.”

Regulus nods and gives her a tight smile. He isn’t looking forward to this horrible converarion any more than she is. 

Lucy tips her head back and swallows both of them one after the other. The effect is almost immediate. Serenity branches out through her veins like frost trailing across a window. Even through her stuffy nose, it feels like every breath she takes is scented with fresh, calming mint. 

“Can you clear my sinuses, please?” She asks.

Regulus pauses in whatever spellwork he’s already busy with to cast a haphazard spell in her direction. Her ears pop and her eyes water, but breathing is much easier. She breathes in deep and lets out a pleased sigh just because she can. 

Merlin, she loves calming draughts. 

“Thank you for your patience,” Regulus says. 

It takes Lucy a moment to remember that they have an audience. Albus, Kingsley, and Dorcas are all wearing kind, patient smiles. Regulus must have cast some sort of privacy charm to keep her dignity intact. 

“Of course, Mr. Black!” Albus exclaims. A handkerchief is poking out of his sleeve, the sentimental fool. “It is so inspiring to see family reunited. I can only hope that my own brother and I might reconcile one day.”

They never got to, did they? But then neither had Sirius or Regulus and here they are. Then again, neither Sirius nor Regulus have accidentally caused the death of a sibling. Lucy can’t imagine forgiving Ted under those circumstances, but the Blacks are a different matter. Kinslaying probably occurs twice before breakfast in their household. 

“Budge up, love,” Regulus murmurs. 

Lucy blinks. She’d been so lost in her nonsensical reverie that she hadn’t noticed him expand the chair. She scoots to the left so that she can lean against the arm and rests her chin in her hand as she surveys the room. 

Sirius basks in the attention of the Order, his chest puffed out and his smirk as proud as ever. He prattles on about something, about “Lucy’s about to inspire the magic right out of you”. He is utterly captivating. Fascinating. It is his ‘beans gave me the shits ’ act turned up to eleven. 

Lucy leans in to whisper in Regulus’s ear. “He’s masking his grief, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” he whispers back. “And giving you time to collect yourself.”

Lucy lets out a deep sigh, another one that comes from somewhere deeper than her lungs. “Oh, Sirius.”

Sirius halts, his hands gesticulating wildly, and turns in her direction. “What?” He asks.

“You never gave me my purse,” she points out, in a rather clever attempt to cover her soppiness. 

“Ah.” 

He slips it off his shoulder and tosses it to her. Regulus catches it neatly. 

“Come, brother,” he says. “Sit with us. This is as much your story as hers.”

Sirius snorts, but obeys. He sprawls out on Regulus’s other side and shoots his brother a knowing look. 

“I’m sitting because I wanted to, not because you manipulated me into listening to you.”

“Don’t be daft,” Lucy says from shoulder deep in her bag. Kingsley Shacklebolt has his pretty lips pressed tight, as if he’s dying to tell her what sort of fine an Undetectable Extension Charm carries. “I would have died at least twice without your help.”

“Love, why don’t you just summon it?” Regulus asks. 

“What? Oh.” 

It should be quick work, but with two overpowered calming draughts and everything horrible that's happened, her spellwork is shoddy. Her mind is clouded too. First she manages to somehow summon all the horcruxes, but rather than simply canceling the spell, she banishes them all into the furthest recesses of the bag. Everyone is surprisingly patient as she struggles. Dumbledore uses the time to conjure a table in the center of their little circle. 

At long last, a warped tiara glitters up at the domed ceiling. Most of the diamonds and sapphires are still intact, but even the goblin-wrought silver is blackened and melted around a gaping hole in the center.

“This is the Diadem of Ravenclaw," Lucy begins.

“The what ?!” Dorcas screeches. She shoves her chair back and rises to her feet as if to somehow rescue the relic from its state of destruction. 

“That isn’t even what makes it interesting.”

"Dorcas," Dumbledore says sharply. He turns an uncharacteristically stern look onto Lucy. "It would be best if you began from the beginning."

“That’s what I’m doing,” Lucy says, puzzled. 

“You can’t begin the story by whipping out a historical artifact that’s been lost so long it’s considered a myth!” Dorcas cries. 

“I don’t see why not. It’s Lord Voldemort! Everything about him is grand. He made sure of it.”

Dorcas's righteous anger falters. She lowers herself back onto her velvet chair and motions for Lucy to continue. 

“Right, well, this was the first one I found. It was sort of a test for myself. Not if I could find it; I knew where they should have been or where they would eventually be, at least. I needed to know if I could keep myself safe from them." She frowns at the diadem as she recalls countless nights slaving over a worktable with the regal, blood-spattered ghost of Slytherin house. “It took us forever to get the whispers to stop, but we did it. An iron box soaked in bamboo water boiled with sage, and a combination of Gaelic and Roman runes carved with a quartz dagger. All things rumored or proved to ward against magic and evil."

"Who helped you back then?" Regulus asks. "You hadn't gone to Sirius yet." 

"The Baron. His knowledge of ancient, or at least older, magic was certainly a boon, but the fact that a ghost was helping was the true source of power. Magic is petty, isn't she?"

Albus shifts closer in his seat. 

"What other artifacts are there?" he asks. 

He already knows what it is, just like he knew when Harry Potter destroyed the diary in the other timeline. He's lying to himself, desperate that it's an anomaly or a coincidence that a specter of death working to silence a method of immortality could be something else. Anything else.

"I enlisted Sirius's help next. It was Professor Flitwick who convinced me I didn't have to do it alone. He didn't know what I was doing, of course. He just saw a student in need and had to help." 

She levitates an ancient ring to rest beside the diadem. Only an expert- maybe even only a goblin- would notice that the black gem in the center has been replaced. 

“This ring is a Peverell family heirloom. Sirius and I stole it from the Gaunt shack.”

Sirius huffs in amusement, and perhaps bitterness. "To think I thought that one was difficult."

"What did you have to do?" Kingsley asks. 

"What I've been trying not to do my whole life. Dark magic." 

As he recants their earliest adventure, Lucy retrieves the next horcrux. It is the most unassuming– and the creepiest, in her opinion, for it. There is nothing so ominous as an empty old journal, especially compared to grand, historical pieces of jewelry. It is smoldered now and the pages have lost their white crispness. The vellum is aging without magic to protect it from time. 

“This was the diary Tom Marvolo Riddle kept during part of his time at Hogwarts," she says when Sirius is finished. "Reggie helped me steal it from Lucius Malfoy’s library at the Christmas party. Voldemort sought me out, so I slipped it into his cloak pocket in case I was killed or searched."

Dorcas hums with interest.  "You imply you would have rather been killed than searched." 

"It would have been catastrophic, and not just for me. If Voldemort found out what I was doing, it would have changed the war for the worse. But he didn't. I kept him out. He tortured me and he went into my mind and I still hid it from him. I'm very proud of that." 

Regulus squeezes her knee and places a gentle kiss on her temple.

"You should be."

Lucy gives him a loopy smile. "I nearly had a panic attack when Regulus brought it back to me the next day. He'd destroyed it and I was afraid Voldemort somehow knew, but it all worked out. I tested the Diadem soon after and there was no response, so I let Sirius have the ring." 

"Very therapeutic," he says, "but that damn necklace would have felt best."

"I don't see why you can't do it now."

In fact, that's why she's been keeping it in one of the dampening boxes. They need tangible proof if they're going to be believed. 

She reaches into her purse for the locket. It is a gaudy, monstrous piece of jewelry that looks out of place next to the slim diadem, classic journal, and elegant ring. Magic bleeds from it in small, inquisitive veins that reach for Lucy. Regulus blasts out a torrent of magic that has the locket retreating into itself with a clatter.

“That belonged to Salazar Slytherin," she explains. "All three of us almost died getting that.”

A shadow passes over Sirius's face, casting his haunting good looks in a sinister cast. She wonders if that is how he looked after Azkaban- a corrupted prince with violence for blood.

"My magic changed that night. I had to do blood magic to get us out of there."

"It wasn't only the blood magic," Regulus says. "It was giving yourself over to family magic, combining it with the sword of Gryffindor. It was the merging of your two selves. Your very soul changed. Your wand likely wouldn't have responded to you even if it hadn't been broken." 

"Why didn't you do it?" Dorcas asks. 

Lucy bristles until she realizes the question was born out of curiosity and not blame. 

"He wasn't there," Sirius says, a defensive bite to his words. "It was Coco who saved us. We couldn't have done it without her. She saved my life twice that night. She blasted the inferi back into the water until I could conjure the Black Flames, then apparated to Hogwarts for help even though she must have been exhausted and scared out of her mind. And I heard she didn't hesitate to come back for me either." 

"She was brave. So very, very brave," Lucy murmurs. 

The room falls into silence. Even the portraits take a moment to think of a tiny house elf in a silk dress defending her friends against the forces of necromancy. Albus waves his wand. Several small glasses of amber liquid materialize out of thin air and float to each wizard in their circle. They all raise their drinks high. 

"To Coco," he toasts. 

"To Coco," they reply, and down their scotch.

Dorcas speaks up a few moments later, after Regulus gives a discreet nod that Lucy doesn't catch. 

“I see why each of these items are valuable and significant, even to the likes of Lord Voldemort, but what are they? Why is it so imperative that they were found and destroyed? Were they weapons of some sort? I sensed it awakening. Coming for you, if that wave of power Regulus released is any indication. Impressive, by the bye. I've heard rumors of the Black family magics, but I've never had the opportunity to have any of them confirmed."

“They all held bits of his soul," Lucy says.

Dorcas's academic curiosity immediately drops into shock and horror. Kingsley looks constipated. Dumbledore has gone worryingly pale. His cheeks have gone a ghastly gray color almost lighter than his beard. 

“His soul ? How is that possible?” Kingsley asks. 

“You don’t want to know.” Sirius says gruffly. “I don’t want to know. If my father considered it too awful for children, then it’s got to be worse than anything we can think of. It was more of a cautionary tale of what magic really is.”

“They’re called horcruxes,” Lucy supplies helpfully. 

“Only a truly desperate and foolish wizard would try to make one,” Regulus says, his posh voice rich with disdain. “To make this many leaves a person without a semblance of sanity. The soul is not meant to be divided. We all know what becomes of a body when it is ravaged by dementors. Quite frankly, I’m impressed he’s managed to lead a rebellion with the state his mind must be in.”

A chill runs down Lucy’s spine. “I got a glimpse inside. It’s not pleasant.”

“You said held," Dorcas says, more than a little frantically. "What do you mean they held pieces of soul? Can you be positively sure you truly destroyed them?”

“She means that she slipped me the diary when the Dark Lord found us in the library and when I got home, it kept whispering all sorts of naughty things in my ear.”

“So how did you destroy it?”

“Fiendfyre,” Albus whispers. 

His voice is hardly more than a croak. Regulus’s answering grin is downright filthy.

“The others aren’t burnt,” Kingsley points out, ever the auror. 

“The basilisk,” Albus answers. He takes off his spectacles and massages his eyes. Lucy wonders if someone should summon another glass of scotch for him. “That's why you were so adamant to go after the basilisk.”

“That and I needed to bankroll my adventures.”

“It was before she married up.”

“We’re not married yet."

"Why haven't you burned this blasted necklace, if you're so adept at fiendfyre?" Dorcas demands. 

"That's rather obvious," Lucy says. "We needed proof." 

"Proof? Of what?!" 

"That they are what I say they are."
Dorcas's mouth drops open. It takes her several moments to put her thoughts into order.

"You foolish girl," she says at last, not unkindly. "How could we not believe you? That table reeked of dark magic before you pulled that locket out. Your stories all align with each other and what little Albus has told me before." 

"I'm afraid the fault rests with me, Dorcas," Albus says. "I have let the past cloud my judgment. I never had the mettle to stand strong against the temptations of power and my arrogance led me to believe that if I could not do it then no one could. It is no wonder she thought it necessary to bring proof, even if the evidence put her in harm's way." 

"I really don't blame you," Lucy says, cringing. "I haven't been the same since I cast the Killing Curse on that snake all those years ago. I couldn't have hurt a fly before then and now…Now I'm someone else. Even Sirius said it. His magic hasn't been the same since he gave himself over it in the cave." 

"And would you ever accuse Sirius of being evil?" 

"Of course not."

"Precisely!" Albus cries, leaning forward in his ridiculous armchair. Passion has returned color to his cheeks. "I must keep a code of strict morality for my own reasons, but I see know that it does not mean that everyone else must follow it to be a good person. You have taught me that. You are a good woman, Lucille Tonks, and the men beside you are good men down to their core. You love one another and it is that love that will keep you strong and good!"

"It's how I kept Voldemort from learning my secrets," she admits. " When he was in my head, I made my thoughts circle back to how much I love Severus and it pushed him out."

"Marvelous," Albus whispers. "Simply marvelous."

Kingsley suddenly breaks in with an testy sigh. "You'll have to forgive me for interrupting, but I'm confused. Obviously it isn't good that bits of Voldemort's soul were scattered around the country, but what is it that they do? How does destroying them help us in the war?" 

"It means he was immortal. He couldn't be killed-" 

"Can't," Regulus corrects. "He is immortal. He can't be killed.”

"Oh, after the locket, of course-" 

Regulus shoots Albus the wolffish grin that Lucy so adores. 

"We didn't bring this to you because we finished with them all." 

The sudden change in atmosphere sends Lucy into a fit of giggles. All three adults emanate the hopelessness and panic that she has carried her entire life. It is petty of her, she knows, but it is so sweet to witness others recognize the world for what it is. Life is trudging uphill through an avalanche of quicksand in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, the people she loves might be safe at the top of the mountain. 

"What are you saying?" Dorcas asks, her hand at her chest. "That you need our help to find the rest? We can help, of course we can help."

Regulus gives her a pitying smile filled with mockery. "Come now, you know it isn't so simple as that."

"Then what is it as simple as? What do we need to do to be finished with him, once and for all?" 

"Time," Lucy says. "Three years of it at the longest." 

"Three years!" Kingsley exclaims. "Three years! Why three years?!"

"The last one wasn't where it will be on Halloween of 1981. It might be moved there two days before then or two days from now. I don't know when it will be put there, only that it will be there in three years."

His mouth drops open in terror or disbelief or perhaps a combination of them both. He stands and begins pacing with his hands on his head. "Three years," can be heard coming from him intermittently. Meanwhile, Albus and Dorcas have slumped in their seats. She is staring at the carpet numbly. His attention is caught on the table. 

"None of us want the Dark Lord to win," Regulus says. "The Order is the best hope of that happening. This information may not help you end the war, but it will change the way you fight it. Hopefully for the better."

"Three years of this," Dorcas says listlessly. 

"Three years," Kingsley echoes. 

"Might not be," Lucy interjects. "He might move it there sooner. I don't know." 

Dorcas frowns at her. "But what's your gut telling you? You're the seer. You know him better than anybody else." 

"That it'll be three years," Lucy concedes, ignoring how the other woman sinks further down into her seat. "Or until something monumental happens, but so far as I know, that won't be until 1981."

Albus steeples his hands, his foreboding gaze still pinned on the table. Merlin, is she glad to not be the center of his ire ever again. It's quite a stressful experience. 

"Dare I ask what is so monumental to spook Tom?" 

"A prophecy. There's a prophecy of his downfall, so he goes to murder the one destined to bring it about." 

"The Potter boy." 

Lucy nods. "Yep. Harry Potter." 

"Not James?" Dorcas asks sharply. When Lucy shakes her head, her gray brows furrow in thought. "Then it must be James's child, who he hasn't had yet. It can't be more than-...Than three, I suppose." 

"A baby," Lucy confirms.

"Disgusting," Kingsley spits. 

Lucy nods again. "I try not to think about it that much. I need the Dark Lord to like me and he won't do that if he knows I'm disgusted by him. Also, it makes it really hard to be around Potter, knowing what happens to a son he doesn't have yet." 

"Tell me about it," Sirius grouses. 

She hasn't asked him about that yet. She's been neglecting him. They'll have to have a chat later. In a few days, preferably. She needs time to grieve and sleep. Sirius must sense her concern, because he turns away to look at a smoke-puffing apparatus on a pedestal against the wall. 

"Where is it? Or rather, where will it be?" Kingsley asks. 

"I can't tell you, and I mean that literally."

He dips his head in acknowledgement and carries on with his pacing. Let him make of that what he will: some ancient, arcane magic that seers are bound by, or a vow she swore to some unknowable entity. The truth is that she would be endangering whatever deal Regulus has with the goblins and she cannot risk it. None of them can, even if they do not know what they would be risking. 

"Thank you, Lucille," Albus says, "for telling us. It will change how we strategize from this moment on. You may have saved many lives today." 

"You'll have to thank Regulus. I would have kept it a secret to my gave if he hadn't been there to pull my head out of my ass." 

"Then thank you, Regulus." 

"You can thank me by excusing our departure. It's been a rather eventful day and Scouring Charms don't work as well as modern plumbing." 

Albus rises to his feet and Regulus pulls Lucy up shortly after. She watches as they shake hands, and when the Headmaster goes to shake hers, she can't bring herself to untwine her fingers from Regulus's. He isn't offended, thank Salazar, and settles for bestowing a gentle smile on her. She's never got one from him before. They are relegated for the likes of Hufflepuffs and the Marauders. She isn't sure she likes it. It makes her uncomfortable, though that could be anything from the newness of it to the Calming Draughts wearing away.

"Would you like me to call for Fawkes?" He asks Regulus. 

"No. I don't know that even a phoenix could make it through unscathed." 

As Dumbledore and Lucy are left to ponder that, he turns to look over his shoulder. 

"Brother, are you coming?”

"Later, maybe. I think I'll stay and take care of that necklace." 

Lucy turns too, and is surprised to see that he is already swinging the Sword of Gryffindor with lazy loops of his wrist. Dorcas Meadowes watches with something between lust and distrust. Even Kingsley is watching with something like appreciation in his eyes. She doesn't know if he likes men or if it's simply Sirius's impossible allure. 

"Very well. Kreacher." 

Kreacher appears in the room with a loud crack. His attention immediately catches on the table of horcruxes. A shiver runs through his stout little body and he steps closer to Regulus's other side. Regulus squeezes his shoulder in greeting and a promise of safety. 

"Would you terribly mind taking us home?"

"Of course not, Master." 

Lucy squeezes Regulus's hand tight in anticipation of the apparition. 

She has no way of knowing she should be anticipating far more than that.

Chapter Text

Spellfire greets Lucy and Regulus upon their apparition into Number Twelve. 

A jet of glaring violet light hurtles from through the foyer. It only crashes into the oak paneling instead of Lucy’s stomach thanks to Regulus’ quick reflexes. He shoves Lucy behind himself in one breath and begins screaming the next. Other shouts rise to meet him - Walburga’s harrowing screech, Arcturus’s deep bellow, Pollux’s breathless shouts. 

Even the portraits make themselves known. Across the hall, a young woman in an elaborate Baroque gown begins protesting loudly. Three old men have squished themselves into a small cherry frame to place bets. The lifesize couple hanging beside the front door shout for Lucy and Narcissa to settle the fight naked, to which the old men heartily and hurriedly agree.

None of them, however, are more forbidding than Narcissa Malfoy neè Black. She is a shining glacier that cuts into the sea, a star churning in and in and in on itself until the precise moment that it will obliterate galaxies. 

Of all the ways to die, Lucy hadn’t anticipated being murdered by Narcissa Malfoy. 

“You should have known better!” Regulus’s sudden half-whisper, half-snarl drags Lucy back to attention. “To underestimate her is to underestimate me ! Did you really believe I could love someone who would not seek revenge, not -?”

“Did you think that I would choose anyone less?!” Narcissa counters, raising her short wand menacingly. 

Arcturus Black slams his cane onto the shining parquet floor.

“You obviously did or we wouldn’t be having this argument!” He yells. "Your husband is dead, Narcissa. Killed by the very person he was meant to kill, the future Lady of House Black! Money and prestige have made you forget your blood, girl.”

“Lucius was cleverer than any of you could hope to be!”

“Jesus Christ,” Lucy mutters to herself. 

Her cursing goes unnoticed by everyone except Kreacher, who peers up at her curiously. He doesn’t seem to be affected by the promise of violence thickening the air. The only sign of anything amiss is how he has maneuvered himself closer to Regulus, cunning little thing that he is. Between the most devoted house elf on the planet and the most unhinged mother in the British Isles, Regulus is guaranteed to live through the night. That’s the only thing Lucy is worried about, so by her reasoning there isn’t a good enough reason to suffer through this sober.

Her last two calming draughts- Where is she going to brew more? Where did Coco store her cauldrons?- hit her almost instantaneously, combining with the vestiges of the previous ones in a heavy haze. Her breathing comes easier, to the point that she stares at the troll leg holding two spindly umbrellas so long that she forgets to breathe altogether. Air expands her lungs in a way that the troll’s never will. In a way that Coco’s never will. 

“... AND YOUR FILTHY WHORE TOOK ANY CHANCE OF A FAMILY WITH LUCIUS AWAY FROM ME .”

“His filthy whore is the only one who can give that to you,” Lucy mumbles to herself. 

She hadn’t meant for anyone to hear. Really, she hadn’t realized that the chaos had died down. Trolls have very ugly toenails. Very thick. Are they like dogs, in that they file themselves down as they go about their lives? Or are they like humans and cats in that they need to groom them?

“Are you proposing necrophilia, Miss Tonks?” Pollux asks delightedly. 

Lucy’s face scrunches up in distaste. It makes her nose itch. 

“Of course not,” she says, rubbing the tip of her nose. “Well. Not technically. Do you think trolls have nail scissors?”
“Are you high ?” Arcturus asks, incredulity etched into his features. 

“Sublimely.”

“How dare you?” Narcissa hisses.

The late Mrs. Malfoy- no, that isn’t right. That would mean Mrs. Malfoy is recently deceased, when she is recently widowed. 

“She’ll do it if you vow to pledge the Malfoy estate to me,” Regulus says hurriedly. 

That declaration begets another round of silence, which is imminently replaced by more screaming. Accusations of betrayal and foolishness are hurled more brutally than any spell could be cast. Narcissa eventually tries to castrate Regulus in a valiant attempt to protect him from the mudblood’s whorish sorcery, ‘“because this is not the same Regulus I used to dote upon. My Reggie would never-“

Walgburga switches sides at the prospect of her ‘only son’ being injured, especially in such a way that would deprive her of grandchildren. Even Pollux, who has surprisingly been the most reasonable- Narcissa must be his favorite- disarms her after that. 

The chaos is more than their voices. Magic is rising and writhing in the foyer. Situations like these must be why the Black family never changed their main residence. A duel in Longbottom Hall or Malfoy Manor would cost millions to repair but fights like these are probably weekly amongst the Blacks rather than generational. 

And Lucy agreed to marry into it. 

“Kreacher,” she whispers. 

Astonishingly, he chooses to answer. He shuffles back to fix Lucy with a gaze flat and politely bored enough to put any pureblood to shame. She gets so preoccupied by his ear hair that it takes several moments to remember why she’s talking to him in the first place.  

What she means to say is, ‘ Would you mind taking me upstairs? If they decide to kill me, they can carry out my death sentence after I’ve had a nice bath.’, but only manages, “The blood’s not there but it's making me feel sticky.”

Kreacher’s ears twitch. It makes his marvelous tufts of hair dance in a way that reveals a clump of green wax matting a section together.

 “Would Mistress like a bath?” he asks quietly.
“Yes,” she whispers back, and holds out her hand. She tries very hard not to notice how aged and calloused his hands are compared to how smooth Coco’s had been. 

A well-lit, stately bathroom materializes around them. Green walls are offset by black and white Victorian floor tiles. A massive clawfoot tub  takes up the nearest wall; the opposite holds a gleaming black sink vanity and the oldest toilet she’s ever laid eyes on. Not even Hogwarts still has toilets with tanks that reach the ceiling. She hopes it is charmed to flush automatically because there’s no chance of her reaching the chain unaided. Not in her current state, anyway.

“Does Miss Tonks require assistance?” Kreacher croaks. 

“Do you have epsom salt? Or any soak for sore muscles?”

“Yes, Miss Tonks.”

He disappears with another pop. 

Lucy disrobes mechanically. The earlier scouring charm has guaranteed clean bath water, but it can’t do anything for her clothes. There’s a scorch mark in the shoulder of her robe and holes riddle the seams of the dress. Her underwear set is unmarred apart from the discomfort of dried sweat. She should burn it all.

They are all discarded in a silk puddle while she begins searching for a hairbrush. She’s hunting through a set of drawers under the sink when a voice croaks, “What does Mistress be nosying around for?”

“A brush or a comb or something.”

Kreacher snaps his fingers and a silver brush clatters onto the sink vanity. Black hairs wind between the bristles like a shadow. 

Foolish little thing. 

Something nefarious must show in her face because Kreacher’s croaking voice warns, “That is being the blood traitor’s hair”, before he vanishes. 

Vindictive little thing

She removes Sirius’s hair and carefully sets it aside to store later.  As she begins working through her tangles in front of a long, ornate wall mirror, she realizes she has been naked for quite a while. Poor Kreacher. Surely it can’t be the worst he’s ever seen? 

What did he see?

What will Regulus see?

Lucy scrutinizes her appearance. Heavy breasts that haven’t yet lost their pertness, a stomach that will never concave between her hips, and thighs riddled with cellulite. Living in a castle has done wonders for her ass, at least. All those stairs were torture, but they meant she didn’t need to do much exercise. Will just dueling be enough? Or will she need to start working out? Better yet, how is one supposed to create a fitness routine in the midst of a civil war? 

“Lookin’ fit, dearie,” a cheery feminine voice says.

Lucy jumps and spins to look behind her. 

“And that arse!”

Of course. An enchanted mirror.

Lucy goes back to combing out her hair with annoyed huff. The brush must be charmed, given how gently and quickly it’s working. 

 “I’m surprised you’re not charmed to entrance me to my death or something,” she tells the mirror.

“I’m only naughty if you ask me to be.”

“How did the likes of you end up here?”

“The dashingest of rogues! The wiliest of wizards! A man with a smile so bright it puts the sun to shame!”

“Let me guess. Sirius Black.”

The mirror squeals in excitement. “Have you met him, my creator? My darling-”

“I have, unfortunately,” Lucy grumbles, as she turns to make her way over to run the bath. 

Only, it’s already filled with steaming water glinting with turquoise crystals. No wonder Regulus is so attached to Kreacher. He is truly a godsend. 

She groans in pleasure as she lowers herself into the tub. Almost predictably, it’s much roomier than it appears to be. The hot water soaks into her sore muscles, but it feels as if it’s soothing her very soul. It feels like a year has passed since she woke and showered this morning. The attack couldn't have been predicted, no matter how many cups of tea she might have drunk or how many  intestines she might have-

No. Not today. 

No, today she’ll have to write a letter to Ted. And Nymph too. She might not understand death, but she’ll still want a letter of her own. She always got jealous when the rest of them received owls, even if it was only the morning paper. 

That’s all after a nap, of course. Her body can’t handle…

Why is she worried about today? Shouldn’t she be still be doped out of her mind? What-…

“ Kreacher .”

No wonder Sirius hates him.

Kreacher appears in front of the bath, as serene as can be. The accompanying crack startles Lucy so bad that she jumps around enough for water to slosh on the floor. It’s cleaned up with an absentminded snap of Kreacher’s spindly fingers. 

“Mistress called?”

Lucy squints at him. He stares back. 

“I didn’t, actually,” she says. “I realized something out loud. Is this you being devious or did you really think I called?”

“Mistress bes in Kreacher’s house. Kreacher can hear all calls in his house. Mistress shoulds be feeding Kreacher her blood if she’s be wanting a stronger bond.”

“Mm. And who in this house ordered you to put a sobering potion in my bath? Or did you come up with it yourself and now you’re pretending to answer a summon I didn’t make?”

“Kreacher thinks this is not the question of a sober person.”

“Lucy thinks there’s a reason Kreacher is one of Regulus’s favorite people and it is because he’s got a wicked mind hiding between his hairy ears.”

“Kreacher thinks the same thing about Lucille Tonks.”

“I don’t have hairy ears.”

Kreacher doesn’t say anything. He continues staring as if to say, ‘Is Mistress positive she doesn’t have hairy ears?’ , or maybe, ‘Maybe it’s the lack of ear hair that makes humans so foolish .’ Merlin. What she wouldn’t give to see Coco interact with him. 

“Oh, Kreacher,” Lucy sighs, resting her cheek on the porcelain rim. She takes a moment to relish the coolness against her flushed skin. “My best friend and my home were taken from me today. I’m so tired. I don’t think I want to be a human anymore.”

When Kreacher finally deigns to reply, it is in a tone of voice that implies that Lucy is very, very stupid.

“Mistress is also a rodent.”

“What?”

“Mistress is a rodent when she wishes to be.” His already wrinkly forehead scrunches further. “Kreacher cannot tell what kind of filthy rat-“

“I’m a raccoon, which is a mammal native to North America. They’re descended from bears , sort of. Do I look like Pettigrew to you?”

“All humans look the same to Kreacher.”

The corner of Lucy’s mouth flutters, and when Kreacher never breaks his impassive eye contact, it forms into a full blown smile. She holds her hand out across the bathroom floor. His blue eyes twitch to the dripping water involuntarily. 

“It’s nice to meet you Kreacher.”

His eyes dart back to her hand. He stares it at long enough for her muscles to waver. 

“Master Pollux is calling,” he says, and disappears as abruptly as he arrived.”

“Well, shit,” Lucy says to the empty room. 

After a long moment of contemplation, she sucks in a deep breath and dives under the water. She doesn’t come back up until her chest is burning.

Lucy picks up her wand from the pile of silk beside the door. With a flick and a whisper, her hair and body are dry.  

A set of women’s pajamas is folded neatly on the toilet. As she unfolds it, she realizes it is strangely familiar. No scent except that of Kreacher’s freshening charm lingers, but Andromeda wears pajamas like these- solid, dark linen with white piping. They might be hers. They might be Narcissa’s. Worse yet, they might belong to Walburga and Lucy would rather wear something of Bellatrix’s than Walburga’s . 

The transformation into her animagus form is smoother than she expected it to be. When she is on four bandy legs and flicking out her long tail agitatedly, she remembers why. Raccoons are playful and inquisitive, but they are also courageous. They do not hesitate to defend themselves. While raccoons may not carry a sense of vengeance, humans do, and human characteristics are known to carry over into their animagus form. 

So for the same reasons Sirius has a barking laugh and Minerva McGonagall moves with extraordinary grace, a bristly raccoon makes its way through Grimmauld place. Voices are coming from down the hall, one nearly irresistible, but it is more concerned with a scent. A shiny black nose twitches scant millimeters from the shining wooden floor as it hops up the stairs and down a hall. Just as it comes to a halt outside a door, the door pops open. The raccoon rubs its paws together worriedly, ears flicking in and out. Eventually, it must deem the room safe, because it scurries in. 

It rushes out a minute later, this time following the voices it ignored earlier. 

“ Je l’aimias, grand-pe`re !”

“Love makes fools of us all,” Pollux says. “You haven’t acted like you were a Black since you were a child, before tonight. The Malfoys have always been charismatic and cunning, but they have never matched us in anything other than wealth.”

“And that mudblood does?”

“Yes.” Arcturus, this time. “What she lacks in breeding, she makes up for in spades.” 

“Can she do it, do you think?”

Lucy walks around the doorframe, leaning against the wall. Regulus’s stormy eyes catch on to her immediately. They linger on his seeker jersey and flannel pants before flicking back to his family. None of the others have noticed her yet. The entire family is centered around Narcissa. The newly widowed witch is curled up under one of Pollux’s arms, her blotchy skin and swollen eyes doing nothing to detract from her beauty. 

“I can,” Lucy answers.

Narcissa stiffens. Pollux runs his hand up and down her arm in caution and comfort. 

“I can perform the ritual, but we are all well aware that I have no control over the result. Magic does what She will and life always carries a heady price. The baby could be stillborn. It could be sickly. It could be a squib. You could end up as a squib. You could die or lose your fertility altogether. It might not even work, though I think it will. A man’s killer impregnating his widow with his own seed? It’s fucked up enough that whatever god watches us will want to see what happens.” 

Silence settles across the room. Lucy finger taps against thigh in a rapid, uneven tempo. Regulus watches it as though entranced. When the pace grows almost frantic, he nudges his cousin’s foot with his own.

“I want to try,” Narcissa tells the floor. 

Lucy dips her chin in acknowledgement. “Alright. Someone will have to collect the sperm from his body. It’s only good for seventy-two hours after the time of death. If someone can take me to a field that grows crops tomorrow afternoon, I can have everything set up by midnight.” She crosses her arms defiantly. “And I want a third party there. I don’t trust you not to slit my throat the moment I begin working.”

”Such a muggle expression,” Narcissa snipes, nose wrinkling. 

“Maybe. But it does feel better when you hurt someone with your own hands instead of hiding behind a wand. Maybe that’s why they had their hands around her neck-“

”Alright,” Regulus interrupts loudly. He stands and stretches his arms above his head, then cracks his neck. “That’s enough. Narcissa, my mother will be over with the contract in the morning. Lucille, wait for me in my room.”

Lucy glares at him, but he glares back. The only reason she deigns to obey is because there is a more pleading nature to his tension rather than an aggressive one. She spins on her heel and goes back to his room as he ordered , the prick, but that’s all she gives him. She shrinks back into a raccoon to curl in a ball on a pile of sheets in the armoire.

An hour later, she awakens with a screech when something lifts her none too gently by the back of her neck. Regulus tosses her on the bed, where she lands with a hiss. The bastard has the audacity to disappear back into the hallway. When he reemerges, he’s freshly showered and dressed for bed. He scoffs at the raccoon lying on the green duvet.

”Coward,” he accuses. 

The raccoon opens one eye before closing it again and pointedly snuggling in on itself. Regulus huffs, perhaps out of amusement more than disdain. He crawls under the covers, then reaches out to pick up the raccoon again. Lucy complains half-heartedly as she is smushed against his chest and tucked under his chin. His warmth, heartbeat, and scent lull her back to sleep before she can muster the energy to run away. 

Lucille wakes alone the next morning. As a human she probably wouldn’t have an appetite after the previous day, but the smell of breakfast sausage and toasted bread has her little black nose wriggling. She fights through the sheets- she must have burrowed under them after Regulus left- and finds a silver platter on the nightstand. She stretches across to grab the food with her paws. After she’s eaten everything, even the crumbs off the platter, she shifts back into Lucille Tonks. 

A black dress is draped over the desk chair, artfully hiding her laundered underwear from yesterday. There is a piece of parchment that reads:

I’ll be sending everything else over tonight with Sirius. The Headmaster has given him leave to stop by. Expect us this weekend. Condolences, Vi and Sev

How amusing. She’d bet her wand arm that Severus said nothing of the sort. He’ll probably have to be bribed into visiting Grimmauld and say something along the lines of ‘She was a very efficient house elf ’.

After Lucy’s dressed, she heads downstairs to try to make herself busy. Maybe she can go over her notes on the ritual she got wrapped into doing, or maybe writing her letters to Ted. A cup of coffee or tea would be nice, but that could mean dealing with Walburga. Lucy hasn’t a clue what the woman’s morning routine could be. It probably involves steeping her earl grey in the blood of innocents. 

“Lucille, is that you?” 

Fuck . 

Lucy leans over the stair railing to try and peer into the hallway below. 

“Yes? Is that you, Pollux?” 

“Yes. Good ear. Take a seat in the tea room, would you? I have a gift. Third door on the left.”

Bloody hell , Lucy thinks, but she complies. 

The tea room is smaller than she expected. It must be one of the few rooms in Grimmauld to not have an expansion charm. The walls are a dark shade of coral that complements the cherry paneling and floors. Lucy perches on a nearby armchair and studies the moving black and white photographs hanging adjacent to her. In most, children with the standard black hair and gray eyes fight their impulses to run amuck while their parents scowl and fidget. In one, an old couple is dancing at a formal event. The witch’s robes glitter in the light, but the man’s attention is lost somewhere in the crowd. 

“Lucille!” 

Pollux Black says something in French and kisses her hand. Thankfully, he seems to have found the tact to at least pretend to be demure. He takes the seat beside hers, his thin limbs tucked in close. 

“How are you this morning?” Lucy asks politely. 

“Afternoon, actually. I’m better off than you, I’d wage. Nasty day you had yesterday.” 

“Yes. It was.” 

Pollux leans closer. Lucy leans back almost subconsciously. If she didn’t know any better, she’d call his smile warm. 

“I was thinking about it and what I could do to make it better, especially after the kindness you’ve shown Narcissa.”

Lucy’s brows raise. “Kindness?”

“Oh, I never liked Lucius. Narcissa was always too good for him. You got rid of him and yet you’re going to give her his child. It’s a great boon you’ve given me, both as a grandfather and a Black.”

“There are no guarantees the ritual will work.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “I trust that you will put forth your best effort, if only to prove that you’re capable.”

“Yes, I plan to. I came down to fetch my journal to go over my notes. I don’t know what I might find here and what I need to buy.”

“Precisely!” He cries, nearly bouncing in his seat. “I thought you might miss having a helping hand, I brought you something. Surprise!”

He waves his right hand with all the flourish of a ringmaster and a house elf appears. 

They are a skinny, brown little thing. Long ears are pinned back flat against their head, and when they tentatively raise their eyes from the floral carpet to Lucy, her stomach drops to the floor. 

“Dobby?” She asks. 

Green tennis ball eyes go unnaturally wide. 

“You already know it?!” Pollux asks incredulously.

 “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Lucy says, burying her head in her hands. She hears bare elf feet scuff against the rug.

“...Is there a problem?”

“Yes, there’s a fucking problem, Pollux!” Lucy yells. She rises to her feet and throws her arms about while she rants. It’s a habit Sirius picked up from James Potter and now she does it. She hates having anything in common with that speccy git. “You brought me a house elf after mine was just slaughtered! Slaughtered by this house elf’s previous owner! And he’s a fucking male! No male of sentience, no matter the species, can help with a woman’s fertility ritual! That’s basic knowledge.”

“Oh, right. I’d forgotten in all the excitement.”

“Merlin’s beard.”

“Shall I…get rid of it?”

Dobby yelps. Lucy sits up hurriedly. 

“No! Don’t kill him!”

Pollux throws his hands up in defeat. “You won’t keep it, you won’t have it killed. Whatever else is there to do with it?” 

“I never said I won’t keep it. I’m just surprised, is all. Very surprised.”

She eyes Dobby wearily, but he’s shaking and staring at his feet. Poor thing better work on waking up that Gryffindor waiting inside his little chest or he’ll never make it.  

“You and Regulus and your house elves,” he mutters. “You’d do better to get a couple of cats.”

“That reminds me. I need to get rid of that blasted owl now.”

“…Can I kill it?”

A strange squeaking noise comes from her left side. It takes a minute for her and Pollux to realize it came from Dobby. 

“No,” Lucy says distractedly. “I’ve already killed one Lucius. Two in one week seems…distasteful.”

“Probably. Well, should I leave you to your bond?” 

“Yes, I suppose so.” 

Just as he’s about to leave, Lucy speaks up again. 

“Thank you, Pollux. It’s just a difficult time for me.”

Pollux’s thin, handsome face contorts into a frightening smirk. 

“Don’t return the favor.”

The door closes behind him with a soft click. An awkward silence fills the room. Well, awkward for Lucy. The poor creature cowering at her knees is probably terrified for his life. She takes a moment to scrutinize him. His tea toga is torn, yet clean. A handful of scraggly hairs stick up every which way on top of his wide head, an observation that James Potter will absolutely be hearing about. Big bulbous eyes gleam with tears in the bright sunlight. 

Thank God they’re not brown. 

Lucy sighs and offers her left palm. His tiny hands tremble as they take her own. He traces a line from pinky to thumb, causing blood to well and drip onto the hardwood floor. It is just as practical and painless as it had been the last time. 

Dobby closes his eyes and holds his own palm out. Lucy stares at him, brow furrowed. 

“What are you doing?” She asks. 

He jumps at the sound of her voice. “Dobby be waiting, Miss.”

“On what?”

“You-you’s to summon your knife.”

“Summon my-…oh dear God.” Lucy takes a deep breath and looks up at the ceiling. “I know I’m supposed to regret taking a life but he fucking deserved it.”

Dobby winces in anticipation of a blow that will never come. 

“Dobby, I’m not going to hurt you. I never will. Not on purpose, anyway.”

He remains silent, his little shoulders rounded in towards his chest. 

“Look, my hand’s going to heal soon. Use your magic on yourself so we can get this over with.”

It takes more coaxing, but eventually they clasp their bloody hands and recite the vows Coco taught her so long ago. Dobby’s overflow with tears halfway through and he’s shivering at the end. Lucy gives him a moment to collect himself before she gets to ruining his life further. 

“Dobby, are you aware that I am a seer?” She asks. 

“N-no, Miss.” 

“Mm. Well, I am one. Of sorts. You are one important little shit, Dobby the Elf. It’s how I knew your name. I’ve seen you die a hero’s death.” 

His mouth drops open and his spine straightens. Fucking Gryffindors. 

“Unfortunately for you, I’d rather not have another house elf die on my watch anytime soon. Voldemort is aware of how useful you little shits are, thanks to me, and he won’t overlook you anymore. You’ll mainly be my personal assistant. I’ll mainly have you fetching and shopping for a multitude of things in the beginning. If I decide you’ve got more than two brain cells to rub together, I might have you help with potions and rituals, if you want. Sound good?”

Dobby twists his ears nervously. “Y-yes, Miss.” 

“Here are my rules: Firstly, you are to never lie or mislead me. Secondly, you are to never knowingly punish yourself, whether physically, mentally, magically, or any other way you can think of. Thirdly, you are to never reveal my secrets or the secrets of House Black or the Tonks family unless I die. If I die, you are allowed to tell them to Regulus, Sirius, Andromeda, or Kingsley Shacklebolt. If they are dead, you may tell Albus Dumbledore. If he is dead, you may tell Pollux or Arcturus Black. If they are dead, you might as well tell them to Voldemort in sonnet form while you light yourself on fire.” 

“Would that not be a punishment, Miss?”

“No. If anything, it’s the opposite. Voldemort would have worse in mind for you than immolation.” 

“Y-yes, Mistress.”

Dobby starts to say something, but he cuts himself off abruptly. He tugs on his ears instead. He looks so uneasy and overwhelmed that Lucy’s stomach twists. Coco would be standing behind him with her hands on her hips, nodding her head at Dobby pointedly. If only because it is what Coco would want, Lucy slides on the floor to her knees so that she is more of a height with Dobby. 

“I’m sorry if I’m being a heartless bitch right now, but I’ve had a tough couple of days. Did you hear about it?” 

Dobby’s voice is very small. “M-master Lucius boasted of his plans many times. Us house elves is hiding in case he picks us one day.” 

“Oh, Dobby.” Lucy goes to place a hand on his shoulder, but thinks better of it when he flinches away. “One day I’ll free you, I’ll vow it if you’d like, but that day might be a long time from now. For both of our sakes. For everyone’s sake. Do you understand?”

“No, Mistress Tonks.”

Well, she did order him to never lie. 

“One day you won’t have to call me that, but I don’t think I could handle it if you started calling me what Coco did. I loved her very much. I don’t think you’re ready for it either, are you?” 

“Dobby is not sure.”

 “That’s okay, Dobby. You can be whatever you need to be. Say, how would you like something to do?” 

He visibly perks up at the prospect of work.

“Now, I want you to go to Hogwarts. Find Sirius Black. Tell him who you are and why you are who you are. You are to follow his orders just as you would mine. He is my brother in all but name. Create a bond with him if you must. Come to think of it, I never asked Coco how that worked…

”Anyway, find Albus Dumbledore next. Tell Albus Dumbledore that you are my new….companion, and how you came to be so. I don’t want him thinking I’m coldhearted enough to take on another house elf so soon. Especially Malfoy’s. Tell him that you are to help serve the Tonks family and so you’ll need to be let in on the secret. My family is hiding under the Fidelious charm and I don’t even know who the secret keeper is. 

“Coco spent her time between them and me. I have a very young niece called Nymphadora. How do you feel about toddlers?”

Dobby stops twisting his ears long enough to shoot her with glossy eyes. Tears well in the innermost corners. 

Lucy considers him a while before she decides there is nothing to do about it except ask. 

“Dobby, I am ordering you to tell me if any of my orders make you uncomfortable. I will explain why I’m doing something and if you still disagree with me, I can find another way. So, please tell me why you are crying. Again.”

“This order is making Dobby uncomfortable because he has never felt so full of hope and it is making him think of the future and not be sad and Dobby has never done that before and that makes him scared.”

Lucy’s chest fills with something heavy. It is just as heavy as her grief, but lacks the burn of anger. She doesn’t know what it is and she doesn’t have the energy for introspection. Not now. 

“What I am going to do with you, Dobby?” 

“Send Dobby to Hogwarts?” 

“Yes, I suppose so. Why don’t you stay with Sirius and his friends for a while? I’m sure you’ll like them.” 

“Yes, Miss-…” Dobby takes a deep, shuddering breath and raises his pencil-like nose in the air. “Yes, Tonks.” 

She dredges up a smile from somewhere, and he tentatively returns it before popping out of existence. Utterly exhausted, Lucy collapses on the floor. 

Fuck today and fuck Lucius Malfoy. 

Two young women lie in a circle of flattened barley. The taller one, the one with hair the color of moonlight, is crying. Her body is bare except for bloody runes and the entrails of animals. The shorter one, the one with hair the color of sunlight, is laughing. Her body is bare except for the dirt on her knees and the blood encrusting her hands. 

“I’d say that worked,” the short one says, her full chest heaving. 

“Yes,” the other agrees quietly. One elegant hand slips underneath a string of lamb guts to press against her lower stomach. She casts an uneasy glance at the woman beside her. “When the magic went through you, I saw…I saw what might have been.”

“It won’t be him. It might not even be a boy.”

“I know.”

The short girl sighs and rises to rest her chin on her knees in a surprisingly fluid motion. She does not notice the taller woman eyeing her breasts with envy, just as the taller woman did not see the shorter one eyeing her long, toned legs earlier in the night. 

“They say a mother’s love is the strongest love there is,” the short one muses. “I hope you get to experience that, if that is what will truly make you happy, Narcissa.”

Narcissa sits upright too, intestines squelching off her skin to land on the ground in a heap. 

“You don’t wish for me to die miserable and alone?” She drawls. 

The woman’s round eyes flick up to the stars. “You are my sister’s sister.”

Narcissa lies back in the blood and the barley. She lets out a heavy sigh, her hand slipping back to rest on her stomach. 

“Should I leave you here?” The shorter woman asks.

“Yes.”

“Alright.” 

The woman rises and holds out her hand, as if waiting for something. Two thin wooden sticks land in her palm and she tosses the shorter of the two to Narcissa. 

“Then goodbye Narcissa. I wish you luck in the war to come.”

She spins on her heel and disappears with a soft pop. 

Narcissa lies in the field, staring up at the stars for hours or minutes or days. At long last, just before she rises to her feet, she sends a plea of forgiveness to the stars.