Beta'd by the polished InsaneScriptist.


Of conspiracy and division

Dorea was not even slightly surprised when a very old, tired and wobbly-winged part-Omen Owl weaved in through the window of her private breakfast room and only just managed to land on one end of the special long perch set up on her right, where two other Omen Owls were already waiting for their messages to be acknowledged. Dorea guessed the new bird to be Errol, which had been Arthur Weasley's Owl since he was a child and which was one of the great grand-chicks of the Omen Owl that had belonged to Great-Aunt Cedrella's father Arcturus Marius Black, who had in turn been the youngest son of the Lord Phineas Nigellus Black at the end of the nineteenth century.

As Omen Owls who left the service of the main family line to watch over a cadet branch did not breed with other Omen Owls –due to the nature of the Loyalty Spells that bound Omen Owls to obey only the Lord and his children– Dorea guessed Errol was barely a quarter Omen Owl; just enough to make him smarter, more stubborn and longer-lived than most. He had probably been formidable in defending his mail in his youth, but no longer. Errol had to be at least thirty-five years old, a truly incredible age for an owl; Omen Owls could reach sixty, but those were the birds belonging to the Lord Blacks. Errol had done remarkably well, all things considered. That the Weasleys had no idea of Errol's lineage did not really surprise Dorea; it was sad, but that was secrecy for you and the Blacks had always kept Omen Owl information very hush-hush indeed. Cedrella probably didn't know about Omen Owls either, as that information was limited to the Lord and his Heir.

Dorea ignored the line-up of fierce-faced Strigidae, concentrating instead on her porridge, toast and tea. Her morning sickness was already in remission, having started tailing off a fortnight previously and Dorea had hopes that by Christmas morning it would be over entirely. She had felt the first quickening, a faint, butterfly-soft sensation of movement within her womb, back on the thirteenth and though that was a full week ago Dorea was still bursting with joy at the novelty of awareness. Her baby was growing!

She also felt much more upbeat and clear-headed than she had been even a month previously and was finally putting on weight properly, something that had prompted the house-elves to back off a bit and fuss less. Then there was the fact that her baby bump was starting to make itself known, which had prompted a frenzy of clothing modification by the elves, with numerous robes of various antiquated cuts being produced from storage so she could decide which shapes appealed to her. Dorea had gravitated towards the simpler gowns with high waists, as they were modest, flattering and attractive without taking too much fuss to get into. It being winter she already had to wrestle with multiple layers, so fiddly clothing was right out.

Her developing figure had driven her Papa and aunts quite doolally; Dorea wasn't quite sure what to think of her father's loud and giddy glee or her aunts' coddling and remarkable permissiveness; she settled on letting it amuse her and went with the flow. Zia Angelique was also very doting whenever she was in the Manor, but she had gone back to Sabina for Christmas and had said she was pursuing 'new lines of inquiry', which Dorea really hoped would prove fruitful. There was still no sign of her husband on any of the lesser Zabini family trees, so Angelique was probably consulting the original one in the Palazzo.

Dorea really, truly missed her husband, and that wasn't just her hormones speaking either.

It had been over four months since her husband had fallen into stasis and she had lost hope of it having been a temporary measure; clearly whoever was responsible intended to keep him like that indefinitely. Dorea had suffered a few crying jags, thrown no less than eight pieces of decorative chinaware at walls and incinerated a whole lot of newspapers, rugs and curtains with the Stormy Flames curled up behind her solar plexus; having her husband's Will inhabiting her body as well as her own made her rather more volatile than usual, even without taking her pregnancy into account.

At least those Flames were usually content to coil around her growing belly, protecting their unborn child. However there were regular flare-ups, which Dorea had managed to partially tame by taking to writing down the various things she intended to do to whoever was responsible for her husband's detainment, interspersed with lists of things she wanted to do with said husband once she recovered him. Both the plotting of inventive and brutal vengeance and the determination to move past the issue at hand soothed the fury that bubbled within, so Dorea alternated while trying to focus more on the positive.

Upon finishing her breakfast, Dorea started working through her mail. A closely written letter from Daphne, containing all the details of the Constellation that were too numerous to speak over the mirrors; a brief missive from Hermione requesting more Law books –the Muggleborn teen had virtuously decided to stay on at Hogwarts for Christmas so that the other students would be able to get hold of a Black in an emergency– a mismatched wad of pages in a variety of hands from all of the rest of her close friends; then finally the Weasley letter.

It was, as Dorea had expected, from William Weasley. It was also very brief and polite, no more than a request as to whether certain of his younger siblings were taking advantage of her hospitality, and if so would it be permissible for him to visit also, to speak with them in person. Which he couldn't do without her permission, because the Black Floo was currently very heavily Warded and required a password. In fact, it required a specially created password that depended on the phase of the moon, month of the year, the identity of the person using it and the personalised security settings of the Lord Black currently in power, and each password was only good for one person, one time.

The bracelets she had made to channel Soulfire were sufficiently secure identifiers that Papa had tweaked the Wards so that people whose Flame signatures were 'keyed in' just needed to channel a little Soulfire with the Floo powder and use a personal weekly password, but that was as lax as the War Wards got.

Needless to say, the Blacks themselves rarely Flooed in. If they wanted to enter the Estate they called an Elf.


Bill ate his thrown-together lunch hurriedly, more unnerved than he wanted to admit by the great grey owl perched on the back of one of the Burrow's battered kitchen chairs and watching him impassively. He'd always adored Errol, the family's own great grey owl, so finding himself intimidated by an almost identical bird was completely irrational. It didn't ease the sense that he was sharing the room with a dangerous predator though.

Mum was in a right mess: she'd been hysterical the previous day, so consumed by her grief that she hadn't watched her tongue at all and Bill had eventually resorted to Dreamless Sleep to get her to rest in the evening. He'd then discovered that the twins and Ginny had all snuck out shortly after lunchtime, meaning he and Ron were the only people in the Burrow other than Mum. As Mum was in a drugged sleep, Bill couldn't leave her and Ron alone, so he limited himself to writing a letter to Dorea Black, as that was who Fred, George and Ginny claimed they were visiting.

Bill didn't know much about the Blacks, but most of what he did know had come from Great-Uncle Iggy, who had been the one to sponsor him at Gringotts when he graduated from Hogwarts. Great-Aunt Lulu was a Black and he regularly exchanged letters with both of them, so he'd picked up quite a bit here and there. He'd also visited Black Manor for Dorea's birthday a few times, where he'd picked up a little more.

What he did know that Blacks took Warding to a whole new level and were not at all reticent about integrating lethal security features at every possible opportunity. The Manor –from what little he had seen– was better protected than many royal tombs and in several different Warding languages. Likely because the former Lord Black had been a Curse-Breaker back when it wasn't an actual profession and was more of 'rich, bored wizards getting richer through grave-robbery'.

Lord Arcturus Black hadn't had the co-workers and security that Bill did now; instead he'd relied on his wits, his Dark Arts Mastery and his observation skills. He had survived too, which most of his fellow amateurs had not. That he had subsequently written most of the currently used textbooks for Curse-Breaking said it all really, as did the goblins' deep-seated respect for the now-dead wizard. Goblins only respected two things, battle-prowess and money, and the previous Lord Black had certainly possessed both in spades.

Bill's morning had not begun well: Mum had got up early to start breakfast as usual, then had a breakdown in the kitchen when it hit home again that Dad was dead. Bill had found her sobbing into the tea-towels and had distracted her by pitching in with breakfast himself, talking about some of the more unusual things he had eaten in Egypt and his various failed attempts at cooking while camping. Mum had been distracted both by the stories and his determined encroachment on her 'territory' and her tears had temporarily been forgotten until Ron staggered downstairs and asked where his other siblings were.

Mum promptly panicked, Bill had needed to share that they'd gone visiting and Mum had them fallen apart again because she hadn't even noticed and she was a bad mother! Calming her down from that had taken several hours and Bill had not been at all pleased with his youngest brother's lack of tact. Then Ron had shrugged off Mum's concerns as to her twin sons' and baby daughter's whereabouts, stating that they were always hanging around Black anyway at school so this wasn't any different. The gangly teenager added that the twins had attached themselves to the Black Heiress when one of them got Petrified three years back and had spent the vast majority of their free time with her ever since, with Ginny following their lead.

Bill hadn't known about any of that, which bothered him slightly. He knew Dorea had left an indelible impression on the twins back before she even entered Hogwarts, but he had expected that to prompt them to avoid her, not decide she was their new favourite person. He knew the twins were growing up –Great-Uncle Iggy wanting to adopt them proved they were more grounded than they acted– but growing away? That he had not expected. That they had taken Ginny with them was less surprising: Ginny had always gotten along better with the twins than any of her other siblings bar Charlie and himself, even though the twins had teased her terribly when she was younger. That the twins' response to Dad dying was to flee the house with their little sister did not actually surprise Bill, but that they had gone to Black Manor rather than Prewett House spoke volumes.

As the new head of their little branch of the Weasley Family, Bill would have to look into that. Unfortunately calming his mother and ensuring his youngest brother would be doing his best to be helpful took up all the time he'd intended to use for research, which was why he was throwing food together and dashing out of the Burrow at two in the afternoon despite having intended to head out at ten in the morning. Mum was lying down again, having exhausted herself, and Bill was starting to worry about what might happen if she didn't get over Dad dying.

Not that Bill was even slightly close to 'getting over' his father's death either, but he fully intended to manage it for his siblings' sake. Granny Prewett however had apparently never been the same after her husband died and Mum was very like her mother indeed. Dad had always said –fondly of course– that Prewetts were all stubborn as pigs, in that upon deciding something they never let go of the idea. Weasleys were considerably more easygoing, but Bill had learnt that Blacks were just as bad as Prewetts in their own way and Grandma Weasley was a Black by blood. Bill may have embodied most of the Weasley traits in preferring not to antagonise people but Charlie and Percy had inherited more than just their looks from Mum's side of the family: upon deciding what they wanted to do, neither of the two older of his younger brothers could be swayed from their course.

The twins' stubborn refusal to take life seriously was another manifestation of that Prewett bull-headedness, though in those two Bill suspected a generous dose of Black humour and cunning was what was really going on. They may not have possessed Grandma's height, but Granddad had always claimed Fred and George had inherited all his beloved wife's best traits. Ginny too, as despite inheriting her mother's short stature her build was as slender as her Grandma's and her fiery temper was considerably more given to holding grudges than Mum's own volcanic but generally forgiving Prewett temper.

Putting thoughts of family temperament aside, Bill spared a moment to hope that Percy would get over himself soon enough to come to the funeral after Christmas, then reached for the Floo powder. He'd been told to come over at any point between nine in the morning and six in the evening, but two fifteen was not the most usual of social hours. Hopefully the Lord Black and his daughter would not hold that against him.


Ginny sat huddled on the large, velvet upholstered chair in the so-called Childrens' Library on the second floor of the Black Manor, staring sightlessly at the printed pages of The Jungle Book that lay open in her lap.

Dad was dead.

She wanted to scream, shout, rage, burn the world to ash and scream that Bill was lying but she didn't. Bill wasn't lying. Dad was dead. Just like Rhea's Great-Aunt Cassiopeia was dead.

Ginny hated the quiet, shameful little voice deep down inside that said that at least Dad dying wasn't her fault. And she hated herself for being relieved that it was right.

Ginny wasn't stupid: she knew a lot about the Department of Mysteries both from listening to Rhea and asking Great-Aunt Lulu. The things in there were heavily protected. So why had Dad been down there, guarding them? He hadn't needed to be; it was stupid and pointless. If he hadn't been down there he wouldn't have died.

The only reason Dad would have gone back to the Ministry after hours and sat guard outside a restricted area when he should have been at home with Mum was if Dumbledore had asked him to.

The Headmaster was the reason Dad was dead. It didn't matter who or what had actually killed him; it was Dumbledore's fault.

Ginny had never hated anybody before, not even Tom who had tried to steal her body and was actually Voldemort. He'd frightened her retrospectively, still disgusted her and she was resolutely supporting Rhea in defeating him, but she didn't hate him. He wasn't worth it. Dumbledore on the other hand, she did hate. He knew better. He had gotten her Daddy killed over nothing and would probably say something trite and slippery as though it was 'a terrible accident' and that he was 'deeply sorry' when he wasn't really. He was letting The Toad run roughshod over everyone at school and obviously didn't care about anything except his image.

Umbridge had to go; she would have to talk to Colin and Edith after Christmas. Colin was one of those who'd been in the Constellation almost from the minute he entered Hogwarts and had been irreversibly corrupted by Rhea's absent-minded blackmail photography habit by the end of his first year. He was still cheerful, excitable and eager to please, but he actually used his smarts for more than just book-work now and Ginny suspected he was still taking pictures of everybody's embarrassing slip-ups for Rhea since she couldn't do it for herself anymore. The Black Owls certainly brought him regular mail to the Gryffindor Common Room…The younger kids all really liked Colin as well, so they talked to him and he remembered everything they told him, which meant that he likely knew all about the various mishaps he hadn't actually seen in person too.

Colin was a Lightning, like Rhea's Rence –everybody in the lower years called him 'Rhea's Rence' and had for years because it was true– and had got himself into detentions four times already this year protecting the younger students from The Toad. If he hadn't been so good at using his Flames to Harden his skin he'd have a nasty scar across his hand by now from that disgusting quill Umbridge was using. As it was Fay and Roger had been getting plenty of practice in at healing wounds with their Sun Flames from all the detentions the younger Gryffindors were getting from back-chatting the Pink Toad –after she, Ethan or one of the other Storms had burned the Curse off the injury that is. The lions couldn't really help it: she rubbed them all the wrong way!

Edith on the other hand was aloof and a shameless pureblood elitist, but she was sharp, well-informed and had an imagination that would make Ginny's twin brothers weep in envy if they knew about it. Edith was the undisputed leader of her year in Slytherin simply because nobody wanted to get on her bad side and find themselves suffering humiliatingly awful 'bad luck' for as long as took for her to either lose interest or for the victim to apologise abjectly and beg for mercy. Generally, the latter was the most likely outcome. Edith was a Mist after all.

Ginny didn't really like Edith much, but could work with the other girl if she had to. Getting shot of The Toad would require teamwork as Ginny knew she couldn't do it alone, so recruiting Edith was a must. Then, once The Toad was out of the way, Ginny could set her sights a little higher. Dumbledore was next.

She missed Dad.

Sniffing, Ginny absently pulled out one of the dainty handkerchiefs that had been laid out for her in her room this morning alongside the dated but very flattering black robes she was currently wearing. Dabbing at her tears and blowing her nose, she shoved the hanky back into a sleeve then tried to read more about Rikki-tikki-tavi.