Aurora stumbled out into the main kitchen of Black Manor, covered in soot from a fireplace which had not been used in far too long. She coughed, and once she landed on the floor, turned sharply to press the small rune Raitho — a symbol like a sharp, jagged letter 'r', meaning journey in the Elder Futhark — which was engraved into the side of the fireplace. The green flames died down and there came the telltale creaking sound of the Floo network shutting off the fireplace.
Now no one could find her.
Her heart still pounded, though she told herself the stinging tears in her eyes were from soot and ash and nothing else.
She hated Potter. Hated him, and was furious at him — but she was furious at herself too. She had made a scene, gotten upset, everything she wasn't supposed to do. Potter shouldn't be allowed to get under her skin like that. No one should.
She paced around the darkened kitchen, wishing there was more light in the dim, stony space.
Going back was not an option, not right now. Her throat tightened to think of how furious her father might be. She had let herself go, had given into her anger in the most undignified way possible. Even thinking about it made her cheeks burn with shame, and she could only imagine how angry he would be. Or disappointed — every time he gave her that disappointed look of his, a part of her withered inside.
The coil of tension inside her grew tighter as she continued her pacing, trying to control her sharp, gasping breaths.
Clear your mind, she told herself, while completely failing to do so. Her thoughts spiralled — what if she went back and her father was too angry, if Potter hated her even more, if they all were forced to acknowledge the glaring truth that she didn't fit. Andromeda would be upset that she wasn't giving it enough of a chance, but she knew the Tonkses would side with her.
She didn't want any of them to have to side with her. Here, in the dark, cold of the manor, she missed more than ever the gentle warmth of her great-grandfather, his kind laughter and encouragement. He would be disappointed in that display too, even given the situation she was in.
Her emotions had to be kept closer to her chest than that. She curled her hands into fists at the thought, and her nails dug sharply into her soft palm. She had to be strong, not weak of will or short of temper.
Even still, the creeping darkness around her was eerie. This place was awash with memory, painful ones for all their wonder. Memories of a family that could never return to her, while she failed to live up to everything they wanted her to be — she had strayed too far, in these years without them, from the memory of her family, because those who had known them had not cared to take her in, and now she was not enough to be one of them.
Grandmother had said she should be strong. Arcturus had said powerful. Lucretia had said dignified.
At that moment, making her way tiredly towards the kitchen door, wrapped in the cold, she felt anything but.
Her footsteps echoed on marbled floors, and she at least had the clarity of mind to appreciate that the house elves had kept the place clean and polished. On the walls, portraits stirred at her entry, ancestors peering out from their frames at the returning lady. Their gazes made her feel sick and frightened, as shame wormed its way beneath her skin again.
Perhaps, she thought, she should stay here forever. The thought of returning to Arbrus Hill and to her father and to Potter, felt so awfully overwhelming. She didn't want to deal with what had happened.
She knew Potter was trying to make amends, but she also knew it wasn't for her sake. He didn't care about how he might have wronged her, nor did he care to understand her, and the fact that one could not simply make friends by throwing oneself at them. Especially not with a history like theirs. Even still, even as annoying and infuriating and awful as he was to her, he was her father's favourite. It was clear and so painfully obvious and she hated it.
She had never intended to want to be anything to her father, and the jealousy she felt towards Potter felt like a betrayal of herself to, of her family who had taught her to hate him.
But she didn't hate him. She was furious at him, but she knew, in the ugly and treacherous part of her, that she did care about her father, greatly, but she couldn't acknowledge it.
Because she couldn't bear to care about another person who might leave her — like Grandmother and Arcturus and Lucretia and Ignatius. Or, one who might simply not want her, might refuse her when she needed them — like Narcissa.
She wanted the Tonkses but knew they would tell her to go back to her father, or make amends, or sort things out and she couldn't bring herself to do that.
So Aurora resigned herself to solitude, creeping out of the front hall of the manor, down the long gravel pathway — its edges overgrown with long grass and wildflowers which had not been kept nearly as well as the interior — towards the long slope down to the water. The Irish Sea glittered before her, its cerulean blue lit by the sun. She could hear gulls soaring overhead in the distance, just make out the shadows of their wings in the clear sky as they soared towards Tintagel.
It was soothing, the sound of the sea coming down upon the shore. Black Manor had with it a small length of sand, closed off to anyone who wasn't permitted within the grounds, and to Muggles was barely visible. If they got close, they would be turned away by magic blamed on the tide, to keep the manor safe and — very importantly once upon a time — to preserve their fish supply from fishers from other parts.
Sea breeze caught Aurora's hair as she made her way down the path between long grasses, onto the dunes. It was peaceful here, familiar and soothing, and as she sat down on a patch of sand with her outer robe down as a blanket, she found herself able to breathe slightly easier, and to consider what had just happened.
It was not entirely a surprise to Aurora that she was not the easiest person in the world to get along with. She had been told as much many times before, and she had never truly intended to be a friend to Potter. What bothered her was how readily her father accepted Potter's dislike of her and not her dislike of him, and that he seemed to side with Potter more often than not.
Maybe Potter and her father were simply more alike. Maybe Potter was just easier to like for most people — not that she could bring herself to understand why or how that might be.
It left her feeling somewhat adrift though, with that familiar yet unwelcome feeling that there was no true place for her, that she did not belong with anyone. This place had been her home, but now she felt untethered — home meant people too.
Maybe she should just go back to the Tonkses, she thought. She told herself Andromeda would listen, and then she wouldn't have to go back to her father. But she wanted to. She hated to admit it to herself, but she wanted to know her father and she wanted him to care for her and she wanted to be his priority, but she wasn't, and it hurt.
She was being jealous, she knew, but felt she had earned it. She had put in the work to find Pettigrew, she had been determined to save her father, and it wasn't fair that Potter just appeared and made everything so easy for himself.
No matter how they spoke, if she thought that sometimes they had an understanding which neither of them wanted anyway, he didn't belong with her. But saying she wanted him out would do nothing to endear her father to her, she knew that.
She curled her knees up to her chest and sighed, leaning her cheek down on her knees, and staring at the water. Focusing on the water, on the steady ebb and flow of the tide, she took a moment to come to, for the lump in her throat to unclog and for her heart to calm enough that she could breathe.
She tried to make herself believe that her father wouldn't hate her for causing a fuss and making a scene. Surely he had done worse at her age. But he would be angry and she didn't want to face that, nor did she want to face the awful alternative of his disappointment.
"Suck it up," she muttered to herself, "stop being so wet."
She stared at the sea and tried to hold herself together. Everything suddenly felt too much, the waves felt like they were crashing down on her instead of on the shore, and nausea wormed its way up her chest into her throat again. Aurora stood up hastily, wobbling on unsteady ground. She couldn't wallow forever, but she still didn't want to go back.
Everything just was far too much. In the past year, everything had changed. Her father was innocent, wanted a life with her, but they weren't managing to make it work. Potter had been worse than ever and now seemed to want to be her friend but that didn't make up for all that had been between them, nor did it make up for the fact that she felt he was stealing her dad away from her. The whole world had tilted on its axis, then flipped around. She and Pansy and Draco had said things wouldn't change, but all of them knew that was false. Draco was changing already and had been for some time, Pansy was drifting and uncertain of their futures, and Aurora... Well Aurora was sure that she had never felt less secure in her own life.
Being back here at least gave her some comfort, but everything was still wrong. As she walked, everything was lower and smaller than she remembered. The flowers were different, the grass wilder, the windows in the distance darker from dust and gloom and ill-use. On her walk back up from the sea, Aurora went round the back, towards the family's private cemetery, some yards away from the main house, closed off by a wide circle of yew trees which only seemed to expand every time she had cause to visit.
She found Arcturus' grave first, buried with all the other lords of the house. She recited their names as she walked, from Hydrus the first Crown Sorcerer, to his eldest son Cyphus, right down to Marius and Phineas and Sirius the third and then to Arcturus. Already there was a space just a few paces from him, and she felt a chill in the air as she avoided the spot carefully, knowing that one day, that would be her own resting place. It was not a particularly pleasant thought, and she eyed it warily — stepping upon one's own grave was certain to make the death a painful one, and she didn't dare step any closer.
In front of Arcturus's grave, though, she knelt. Grass tickled against her robed knees, and her hands shifted through daisies and dandelions. Some of the graves had had magic cast over them to keep new flowers from sprouting, but Arcturus's had been allowed to grow wild. A part of her liked that — the life that was allowed to sprout even above his dead body — though perhaps, she thought, that was also rather morbid a sentiment.
There was another lump in her throat as she sat and stared at the gravestone of land's end granite, carved with the words: LORD ARCTURUS ORION MARIUS BLACK, 1901-1991. TOUJOURS PUR — AD ASTRA PER ASPERA.
The first line was the family motto, of course, burned into the ears and memories of every member of the House of Black. The sight of it now brought a wariness which it never had before, as it became clearer and clearer in her mind that she was not pure. That though she may have once denied such things, and her family avoided the subject, it was time for her to come to terms with herself, with her history and heritage.
The second part, she preferred, the phrase chosen especially by Arcturus, in Latin, as all the epitaphs here were. This one, she liked: it meant through adversity, to the stars, and she realised then, it fit herself too. Perhaps he had known.
After she steadied herself a moment, determined still not to cry, she whispered into the open air, "I miss you."
The magic around her called out in understanding, wrapping warmth around her as the yew trees creaked. "I'm really sorry," she said when she felt tears threaten, and had to wipe them away. "I haven't come to visit. I — I wanted to — I was here at Christmas but I was with Andromeda and Dora and I didn't know how to — how to come and see you with them because I didn't want to get upset in front of anyone, but..." She took in a shallow breath. This was fine, she told herself. She had been emotional enough today, and here, there was no one to watch or scold.
"A lot's happened," she told the headstone. "I know you're not a ghost, and you don't know, or maybe you do, who knows what happens after you die. I'll see your portrait in a bit, but it isn't you and — nothing's you." Bitterness twisted in her chest. "Grandmother's portrait got angry and I don't want... Just, please, don't be upset with me." The gravestone, predictably, said nothing, and she sighed, heart heavy. "My dad — my father's — innocent. Which is a bit crazy." She chuckled weakly and hugged her knees, drawing herself into a ball. "I really care about him, but it's weird. I don't want to love him. Because he hasn't been there and I don't want him as my dad, and I shouldn't but I do, and I hate it. And he likes Harry Potter better and you don't even know about Harry Potter but I hate him. I know you say — said — not to hate people, it's too strong a word, but I do." She sniffled, nose stinging. "Anyway. I've run away, sort of, so maybe I'm more like him than I wanted to be. I'll go back, I think. I'm living with cousin Andromeda. I don't know what you'd think of that, but I like her. I like them all, so I'll go back to them.
"I just miss the way things were. Even though it's unfair, because my father deserves to be free. I just don't know what to be, and I feel rubbish. Potter hates me, my father prefers Potter because he's being nice and I hate it because I know he can't do it because he likes me! He just wants to be my father's favourite and I hate it because I can't be.
"I wish I was better. I wish I had you back, GaGa." Her voice broke over the word. "Everyone wants to talk to me. Rita Skeeter wrote about me in the Daily Prophet last year. Three people have come with marriage proposals and I really, really don't want to get married." The thought made her shudder. "Maybe you'd have told me I should have been nicer, but I am fourteen, and all these lords are creeps. They'd want me to change my name and join their family and I can't, but I can't admit that because it's completely ridiculous of me, but I'm scared. And everything's changing, with Draco and Pansy, and I'm left out of it all and I don't know what's really going on but... Well, I'm not stupid. Something's wrong with their families. Lord Nott and Lord Malfoy both are upset with me, the others are just rude. They look down on me because of my blood, and my gender, and — I wish you'd told me," she said abruptly, "the truth about my mother. Who she was. I understand why you didn't, but I — I think I should have been told who she was because I know you knew and I — I don't want anything that changes you from the person I want you to be. I'm sorry," she added, though it was pointless to apologise to a stone. "I'm just... There's a lot happening and I don't like it. I miss you, and Aunt Lucretia and Uncle Ignatius, and everybody. I miss the way things were. Now they're complicated and I don't know what to do. I know you'd help me. You'd be there for me and then I wouldn't have to worry about living with my father, or about being a blood traitor or dirty-blooded.
"I know you'd make everything better, but I — I also just miss you." The tears were spilling now, but part of her felt like that was alright, because there was no one here but herself, and she could at least be true with herself, even if she had to conceal everything else. The yew trees whispered in response to her sobs and she felt a prickle up the back of her neck. She knew without looking that Death was behind her. "I don't understand what's all happening and I hate it. I hate not — not being in control, and it — it scares me." Admitting it aloud made her feel good, oddly. Like it was a relief even if it made her cry more.
"I promise I'll be a good Lady Black," she told the grave, something she should have told Arcturus long ago, something she wished she could promise properly. "I'll learn how, I will."
The cold landed upon her shoulder.
"Be at ease," Death said.
Aurora sighed, stiffening.
"That is not ease."
"Where have you been?"
He chuckled, "I am Death. I am required in many places."
"Take a day off," she muttered, and the cold feeling hardened to ice. She tensed beneath the touch. "Why are you here?"
"I expected you to return to this place." The trees swayed and whispered. "The yew circle. Fitting, isn't it? This circle has stood for many centuries, expanding and growing. It has caused quite the issue for local geographers. Here, your ancestor summoned me for their new king. All your kind return here soon enough. Though you may not have, I suppose."
If she had died when she was a baby, rather than being saved and taken in. "My father says he sees you too, sometimes."
Death chuckled. "I have awaited him for many years."
That made her angry, made frustration prickle through her. "Don't take him now. Not soon. You can't."
"Only when the time is right," he said, "though you will never understand when that is."
"Why can we all see you?"
When she turned, she could see his faint smile in the long shadows. "I am bound to this family. It is an old curse, or blessing. There is a touch of madness in your blood, you see. All those years your family spent in service of an ungrateful crown... Well, I had my uses, and so did they. Some families are simply more attuned to different magic. The House of Black has withstood so many changes, transitioning between ages." She sucked in a breath; Hermione Granger had said, and she and Dora had agreed, that the powers of Transfiguration were particularly strong in their bloodline. What Death was saying seemed almost to confirm that. Though it still didn't explain him, or why he had an interest in her.
"And Death... Is a transition in itself?"
He nodded, with an indulgent smile. "I do not mind my attachment to your family. It fascinates me how consistently you thwart yourselves." She bristled and he laughed.
"Well, I hope I'm entertaining you."
His eyes glinted. "You certainly are."
Aurora folded her arms, shifting on the grass. Her fingers traced through the waves. "Did my great-grandfather know?"
"He suspected. They all have. It is difficult for your family to see me so consistently, even to converse with me. You, however..." He smiled. "Well, you have more than one curse on your blood."
A shiver went through her. "What do you mean, on my blood? Who cursed me?"
His smile only grew. "I cannot tell of the affairs of mortals."
"You speak to me all the time!" She frowned. "Can't you tell me?"
"I could," he admitted, "but you, Lady Black, have a long future ahead of you." Even coming from him, that did not assure her. "The information will not save you now."
"Why do you want to save me?"
"Because." There was a mocking lilt to his tone. "It would be a waste for you to evade me only once. And I do respect the will of your family's magic, when it seeks to protect its own." He seemed to melt more into the shadows then. "Less so, when it does not."
"You can't leave now," Aurora said, scrambling indignantly.
"I do as I will," he reminded her. "But I will ask one thing of you — when the time comes, bring his body to me. I need to give my respects."
Then he disappeared, leaving her more confused even than before. Were it not for the fact that she was still at Arcturus's graveside, Aurora would have hit something.
As it were, she simply sighed, pulled herself together, and then walked to take three low branches from a nearby yew tree. She shivered when she touched it, feeling Death's magic lingering, and then placed the three branches leaning against Arcturus's grave, crossing over at the top.
"I'm sorry," she told him again, "I — I want to be better. I will be better."
She looked over her shoulder, staring up at the imposing manor again. "I'll speak to you soon. Just not like this."
On her way out of the grave circle, she passed by her grandmother and grandfather's graves, and touched her hand over the top of the stones. By them, there was an empty patch where her Uncle Regulus's body should have been, and she bowed her head in respect as she passed.
The warmth came back into her once she was out of the circle and the dark shadows behind her. Aurora headed up towards the manor, looming in the distance, but when she came to its back entrance by the ballroom, she paused. Through the grand windows, she could see the disuse of the place, once so alive with music, the place where she had first learned to dance. Arcturus had tried to get her to learn violin and piano when she was younger, and to sing, but it was ballet that had always called to her the most.
The door handles were warm beneath her touch and let her in, revealing the ballroom in all its glory before her, from the polished light wood floors to the pale blue walls hung with garlands of flowers that were enchanted never to wither. Their perfume washed over her, heady and floral, sickly sweet, and it turned her stomach suddenly, so that she had to hurry out again into the hallway.
Outside the ballroom doors, on Aurora's left, was the narrow twist of corridors leading to the long portrait gallery. Directly opposite, the hallway led back to the kitchens, pantry, and dining rooms, and on her right was the grand staircase leading up onto the second floor.
Aurora stood for a moment, considering her options in the silent house. She could go upstairs, could look through the library and studies and her old nursery, just beside Arcturus's quarters. Or she could turn left, into the portrait gallery, and confront her ancestors.
Aurora turned right, but it wasn't any less scary.
The deep purple carpeting on the staircase was worn, gathering dust around the edges, though not nearly as much as it could have, were it not for a multitude of enchantments and the house elves. Around her hung ancient tapestries of battles and rituals, one depicting the slow and ceremonial growth of the yew trees by a wizard in deep red robes. Branches twined and wove together, marked out in silver threads upon deep green. She watched it for a moment before continuing on up the stairs, onto the landing, and then to the left where her old rooms were.
The doors were all tightly shut, but like the ballroom, they responded to her touch like they were welcoming her home. It was almost like a hug, she felt, as she took a deep breath and opened the door.
Everything was as she had left it. Most of her important belongings had been moved to Lucretia and Ignatius's home, and the rest to be moved later, but they had never had the chance.
Now, there was still a pale pink duvet and pillows on her bed, still a music box closed on her chest of drawers by the window, still a Holyhead Harpies poster upon the wall. White blankets were piled in a corner, lilac curtains hung limp and brushed the floor, and there, tucked underneath her bed, she could see the shadows of the stuffed toys which Aunt Lucretia had thought her too old to bother to bring with her when she moved.
Feeling self-conscious, and distinctly as though she were about to be told off for doing something she wasn't supposed to, Aurora went to kneel beside her old bed, rooting around for some old books and parchment, for the random bits of embroidery Lucretia had made her do and which she had thrown under her bed to hide because she was embarrassed by them.
There was one white handkerchief which she had embroidered a snake around the edges of; another, pale greyish silver silk with tiny blue flowers, and her initials curled in the corner. She held them carefully, folded them neater than they had been put away, and stowed them in her pockets, before reaching for the soft faux fur of her stuffed toys.
The first she brought out was a tattered unicorn which had once been white, a very long time ago. At her touch, the toy startled, made a very faint neighing noise, and then butted her with its long pale pink horn.
"Yes," Aurora said, wincing as the soft point darted for her eye, "I've been gone for a little while."
The unicorn whinnied and then slumped down, glaring. Aurora sighed and then, stomach flipping nervously, she pulled out her other toy, a fluffy black puppy dog.
Around the neck there was a soft collar, upon which she had had to sew in the name: Pat.
The toy let out a high sort of whine, curling up. Aurora ran her fingertips over the collar and the name, a memory coming back to her viciously, of her crying in the days after losing her grandmother and moving in with Arcturus, in the big draughty house which she only knew from Christmas dinners. He had presented her with a bunch of stuffed toys which he thought might help to comfort her, and she had chosen this one herself, to cuddle into. She had named it Pat. She didn't know why, it had just felt right, but in the light of what she knew now, she wondered if perhaps some sort of her subconscience had remembered her father's dog form, if the sounds of Padfoot had still lingered in her memory, not quite recognisable but still there.
It only made her want to cry more as she held the toy tightly.
She needed a plan. Needed a way to secure herself, make sure that her father favoured her. Unfortunately, she felt, it had to start with being nice to Potter. It didn't have to be genuine, but it had to be something. Enough to be called an 'effort', for now.
She remembered in the early days living with Arcturus for the first time, being confused by all the changes around her. How she had been so quiet and calm, terrified to put a toe out of line and to upset him, because she remembered all of Grandmother's rules and the way she shrieked If Aurora broke them. How she had learned when to be loud and run about, and when to sit nice and eat with good manners and let him read her stories. Her father's rules might not be so clear cut — he didn't strike as the sort of person who set much store by definitive rules anyways, or laws for that matter — but Aurora felt that though he might not want to speak them, they did most certainly exist.
The rules were to get along with Potter, which she didn't want to do — though she felt also that there wasn't so much of an equivalent rule to make Potter genuinely get along with her — to not be too uptight, which she thought was really an awful rule, and to not bring up her father's absence, which was difficult when she did truly want to discuss it and, more importantly, discuss her family in the way that she knew them.
She patted the toy's head absently as soft velvety paws tapped her knee. Her stomach growled — it was becoming late afternoon now, and it wasn't as though she had any plans for tea here.
But she wasn't going to go back just yet.
Getting up, Aurora sifted around the room in search of parchment and one of the anti-leak quills which she had used to write when she was a little girl. Leaning on her dress drawer, she smoothed out the old parchment, placed her music box down on top to keep it flat, and considered trying to come up with a plan, for what she did not know.
It was a long while as she stared at the empty parchment, not knowing what to write. She wondered if it would help her to simply write what she was feeling, her fury at her father and at Potter and at herself, too. Committing such emotions to ink and parchment felt wrong, like it was an admission of weakness, like she was exposing herself for anyone to read.
Instead, she made a list, like the one she had written for herself when she first started Hogwarts, a reminder of her goals and how to achieve them.
1. Ensure you are father's favourite. Talk to him, be honest, explain why you hate Potter. Try to be more civil, for a while, until he stops worrying about it.
2. Make sure Potter knows his place. He is a guest, and should act with due respect.
3. Don't get so emotional. It helps no one and only feeds volatility.
She chewed on her lip, looking over her words. Aurora wasn't really sure how to pretend to be civil when she was so used to being furious with Potter, when there was still so much unsaid, so much that he was unapologetic about. Perhaps, she thought, she should talk to her father about that, too — about how Potter had always assumed the worst of her, how he had refused to back down when he was in the wrong, how she had saved his life and gotten only hatred in return, about how she might not have been the kindest in her words but he had no qualms about speaking back, even starting a fight when he wanted to, and though she had never liked him, she couldn't help but feel that he was the one who had started it all, gloating about his shiny new broom. Yet when she thought of it, it all sounded so stupid.
He was stupid, making such a big deal when he could have just left her alone. No one could expect her to not defend her own cousin, but Potter had been the one to have a go at her, had been the one to always be suspicious even before she had started to retaliate.
She wasn't sure when exactly they had started to hate each other. It had been a slow thing, but the seeds had been on the Hogwarts Express. Had he really decided to hate her based only on her connection to Draco?
She didn't know, and she didn't really want to.
"Pull yourself together," she told herself, and with a sigh forced herself to set the stuffed toy down. Her stomach growled again, but she didn't know what to do.
She couldn't make food herself, and there was nothing in the kitchen to use anyway. But she wasn't going to her father either, nor did she want to go to Andromeda's, where he would surely find her. Perhaps she would ask an elf, if she got too hungry before she was ready to go home. But for now she ignored her growing hunger in favour of a search for the portrait gallery downstairs.
Its doors opened out into a long room which stretched southwards towards the sea gate. On the wall on the right hung portraits of the lords of the manor, some with their ladies or heirs, many alone. Through them she could see the change in artistry over the centuries, in the style and in the magic which enabled their animations, turning them from crude manoeuvres to true remnants. She started at the eleventh century portrait of Hydrus the First — Hydrus le Noir, as he had been known in those days — and bowed her head in reverence. Then she looked to the portrait of his eldest son, Julius, who flicked his tongue and said, "There's the little heiress." The hiss of his voice at the end, echoed around the room. "Finally, in the flesh."
Murmurs went around as Aurora smiled nervously and hurried onward, towards the end of the gallery and the portrait hanging in pride of place, of her great-grandfather Arcturus.
He smiled upon her approach, which was a relief.
"At last," he said, voice deeper than she remembered it. "Lady Black has returned home."
Aurora's face flushed as she smiled back at him. "Hello."
"I believe you have much to tell me."
Some portrait nearby snorted. "That's an understatement for the generation, Archie. Your girl's been getting up to no good at Hogwarts."
"That's untrue," she protested immediately, turning to the portrait of Lord Phineas — the only Slytherin headmaster of Hogwarts — who sneered down at her.
"The philosopher's stone one year, breaking your father out of prison the next."
"I didn't break him out," Aurora said shortly, then remembered herself and muttered, "My Lord."
Laughs went around. "It is Phineas who forgets himself," Arcturus said, frowning. "You are Our Lady now."
Phineas tutted. "And is there a lord going to brought in anytime soon, girl?" She tried not to glare and show how the remark prickled.
"I am fourteen."
He sneered. "Precisely."
"I have no plans as of yet," she said smoothly, "but there is plenty of time." She looked back up at Arcturus. "I came here to speak to Lord Arcturus."
He smiled down at her gently. "I've been waiting, you know. I was worried, from what I'd heard, especially from my grandfather."
"Dreadful," Phineas said, "that school really has gone downhill. Letting Dementors around — now, that never would have happened in my day! And children gallivanting around after dark certainly would not have been rewarded!"
"Yes, yes," sighed Lord Sirius, the third, "we all know you were the best Headmaster Hogwarts ever had, Father, but let the lady speak."
A quiet hush descended. Even the portraits of the ladies and families on the left stilled, watching her.
"Family," Arcturus murmured, eyes twinkling as he nodded towards her right, "annoying in any form."
"Insolent boy," Phineas muttered, and Aurora pressed her lips together to prevent a smile of laughter.
"What do you need, dear?" Arcturus asked, and she could have cried at the gentleness of his tone, missed after so long. In his portrait form, he was soft, stately, an old man indulging his heir.
"I don't know," she said honestly, "I just need you. Family, I suppose." Someone tutted and she ignored them. She shook her head, looking away. Further up the hall, portraits and pictures whispered amongst themselves. She caught sight of the portrait of her father's family, as he scowled out of the frame, Grandmother's hand firmly on his shoulder to silence him, while his brother Regulus waved. They looked young, Aurora thought, and must have been around eleven and nine.
"A lot has changed for our family," she told Arcturus, looking back up at him. "But I do not believe it is all bad. My father has been proven innocent." She waited, quietly, considering Arcturus's reaction.
"He knows, girl," Phineas said, "honestly, your comprehension—"
"Quiet, Phineas," snapped the portrait of Dionysus the Second, glowering down the hall. He clicked his tongue. "Go on, girl."
Aurora wanted to snap that she was not merely a 'girl' but she held her tongue. "I know the truth of what happened to him and my mother. I know who she was."
Arcturus's eyes — deep brown and so like her own — softened. "I am sorry, my child. Had I thought that knowing would be easier for you, I would have told you. But I thought it better — kinder — not to."
Someone laughed further down and it chilled her blood. "Ashamed, he was," called Castor the Third, a lord from the early nineteenth century. "Dirtied blood."
Her cheeks flamed and Arcturus said urgently, "I assure you, I never thought any less of you." It wasn't quite the right thing for her to hear, but she smiled anyway and pretended it made her feel better. "Castor — you mustn't talk down to Lady Aurora. She is a Black through and through."
"She is a child of—"
"I know who I am a child of," Aurora said firmly, her voice cold as she turned to locate the portrait of Lord Castor, partway in the shadows. She noted more of the portraits moving, crowding together in frames closer to the action, and the family portraits on the left wall did the same, gathering around. "I was raised by Lord Arcturus." His smile was faint but proud. "But, Arcturus — my father's out of prison. He's innocent. I've been living with him."
"I know," he said with a small laugh, "we have eyes everywhere, even at Arbrus Hill."
"Of course." She swallowed tightly. "I — I missed you. I mean, I always have but it's difficult now and I wasn't ready.
"I don't know what to do. My father prefers Harry Potter, his godson. I'm not enough. I'm not nice enough or good enough or fun enough and I know I shouldn't care, but I do."
"You are jealous," Arcturus told her with a knowing look, eyebrows raised.
"I know I shouldn't care—"
"It is alright to care," he told her, "I understand. The house must endure. You must keep them all together — for your own sake as much as that of your legacy. This house relies on your happiness, too. As for not being enough — if your father truly thinks that, then he is even more of a fool than I believed." She smiled faintly. "But I am sure that he does not believe such things."
You have to say that, she wanted to tell him, but didn't. "You hated him."
"I did," he said, nodding. "You have not given up your title to him?" She shook her head. "Good. He would not make a good lord. I do hate him, for turning his back on his family, and more importantly, turning his back on you. I do not know the man he may become, but if you care for him — that is alright. You have a right to a family."
"Even if it's him?" she asked, nerves twisting in her chest.
It seemed to pain Arcturus. "You must consider what is best for your happiness now, Aurora. It is you who shall lead this family forward, after all. But be careful — it may take some time to trust him, and that is alright."
"It's not that I don't trust him," she said, but Arcturus had that annoyingly knowing smile again.
Maybe. She trusted him to protect her, to do what he thought was right, to keep her from harm as best she could, and she trusted that, despite everything, he did love her. But she wasn't so sure, then, if she trusted him in every other way, if she trusted that he would not choose Potter over her, if she trusted that he would not turn on her, if she trusted that he would not cause harm to the family, even in inadvertent ways. She did not trust that she had control, she realised; but how could she, when he was her father and a grown man and in any other situation, she would have no control over him at all?
"Your father," Arcturus said, "I believed to have sought to harm you. It was my belief that, having grown weary of your mother and his disgrace, he had sought to redeem himself, offering you to Bellatrix."
That was new. The thought hit her. "I did not know the details of her actions with the most recent Dark Lord. Impartiality was, I believed, better than becoming involved. Forgive me, Aurora, for the mistake I made in not questioning your father's motives or his arrest."
"You thought he — he gave me up to her to be murdered? What, to find a way back in? Or with the Death Eaters?"
"I knew he would never return to his parents, and to the family as a unit. But to his heritage? To protect himself, yes, I thought there was a possibility he might go to Bellatrix, especially if he believed he could find his brother that way. Bellatrix and your father were close once, when he was a child. She took care of him often — her parents thought it best if she learned about children from an early age, so that she could bear an heir, and who better to bond with than an heir of the house itself?"
"You didn't tell me all of this."
"You were a child."
"I needed to know. I had a right to know what you thought, even if it was wrong! I had a right to know who my mother was."
"I believed it best if you did not."
The words were not said cruelly but they were firm enough to quiet her. Someone tutted, and whoever it was, she wanted to slash their portrait to pieces.
"The point remains that your father may be... A marginally better person than I believed him to be."
She chuckled despite herself. "Me too."
"I do not trust him, but if you trust yourself... Do what you must, Aurora."
"It's not just that," she told him softly, though her heart flooded with relief that he thought this Alright, that he was not entirely betrayed. "He still hates the family. He hates when I talk about it, about you, I can tell. I don't know if it's jealousy because he wasn't there—"
"He has no right to make you feel bad about that," Arcturus told her sternly. "Do not."
"I won't," she said quickly, "I think it's his own fault too and I've told him so." His lips quirked into a small smile. "But I — I do want him to like me."
"Like you?" Arcturus raised his eyebrows.
"He gets annoyed that I don't get along with Potter, and that I don't want to do stupid things like bake cakes at nine o'clock. But he doesn't care about the things that are important to me, like the Parkinson Gala, or Merlin's Day Ball, and he doesn't care about my friends." There was a whine in her voice now which she fought to keep out, too aware of her company. "I don't know how to be what he wants me to be."
"Then don't," Arcturus said. "Do not compromise on yourself, certainly not for him. If you do then you will never be happy with yourself, either." The words were, somehow, comforting. "I cannot tell you how to endear yourself to your father. I would rather you had nothing to do with him, still, but I know there are few of our family left now. You need family — everybody does.
"You must remain Lady Black, and you must remain strong."
"I know," she said hurriedly, breathlessly, "I will. I promise."
He smiled. "I know, Aurora."
The words brought a lump to her throat but still they made Aurora feel oddly calm, reassured. It gave her the confidence to ask, "You aren't angry with me? For giving him a chance? For — well, I know he's a blood traitor, and disowned, but after you died and Lucretia and Ignatius, the Malfoys wouldn't take me in and I live with Andromeda and I don't know if you know that but I — I like them. I care about them."
There was a heavy look in his eye. Around her, ancestors muttered amongst themselves, repeating her words and passing judgments which made her skin crawl, but she told herself the only judgment she needed was Arcturus's. And he nodded.
"I am not angry. Not with you, anyway. It is not what I would have chosen, but it is not your fault if Narcissa did not do her duty and take you in — or rather, if her husband talked her out of it." Aurora nodded, a weight lifted slightly, but not entirely. "I can say I am surprised you took so well to them, and wary of what this means — but you are Lady Black now. I will always be here, in this form, to guide you as best I can, but you must be allowed to trust yourself, too. We all were lords, but here, we are but memories, and we are fury-bound to serve you and the house, in whatever way we can." His gaze darted to his frame, where someone was trying to sidle in. "Some would do better to remember that.
"But family is family. People can change, too. So can ideas. Just maintain your position, your reputation. Do not compromise on your ideals, or that of the family. Bow to no one, Aurora, remember this — certainly not your father, or this Potter boy/
"But go back to him. Do what you must, for your own sake, and do not worry about Harry Potter, if he does not worry about you."
"He doesn't," she assured him, and he laughed.
"I trust in you, Aurora," he told her, "you are our future, whether the rest like it or not."
With those words in her heart, she thanked him and left, calmed by his words, his voice, his gaze and simple presence even it was a portrait. It was a reminder of where she came from, but he reminded her that it was okay to grow too. It was okay to care about her father.
It didn't solve the Potter problem. But it gave her more confidence to try.
It was still a while before she could bring herself to leave, but Aurora went to her old rooms and picked up the old stuffed toy called Pat. "Childish," she murmured to herself as she ran her hand over the collar. Then she held it tighter.
A peace offering, perhaps. It would be one thing to endear her to her father, anyway. But when she returned she knew she would have to speak to him properly, tell him what she wanted, what she had to be able to discuss.
Yes, she thought, eyeing her parchment, she could enforce her own rules too.
-*
She stepped through the Floo when the sun was beginning to dip towards the trees, to see her father and Potter both still waiting up. Her dad looked up immediately at the rush of flame, and all but ran over to her, arms outstretched for a hug.
Aurora tensed on instinct as he came closer, trying desperately to avoid looking at Potter. She couldn't do this, especially not with him there — her resolve was wavering, and she wanted for a second to turn right back around and go back through the Floo. But as her father's arms enveloped her, she heard him tell Potter to go and let Tippy know to inform Andromeda that she was back. Guilt lodged in her stomach — she should have thought more, known they would worry, should have gone to them first rather than come back here.
"Where the hell have you been?" her dad asked, holding her close. "We've been worried sick, Aurora."
"I doubt it," she muttered, and felt him wince against her. His hands rubbed her shoulders gently and she ducked away, glaring as she tried to keep the toy behind her hidden.
"I was," he promised. "I'm so sorry for shouting, sweetheart. I never wanted to make you feel unwelcome — this is your home."
She felt her lower lip tremble dangerously. "It's not," she said plainly. "You know this isn't my home." Already she longed for the manor again, for the way it once had been.
"It could be," he whispered. "We could make it work. We've had a few bumps in the road, but that doesn't mean we should give up. It's going to be okay."
She shook her head, feeling her resolve crumble. "I don't know what to do," she whispered, "or how. But I — I went to the Manor." He stiffened. "I spoke to the portraits, to Arcturus, and then I — I brought you something."
Slowly, she stepped out of his grip and brought the toy round from behind her back. "I used to call him Pat," she explained, holding the fake black dog under her arm, "I think, now, it might have been my way of remembering Padfoot? Arcturus let me get him when I was five, after Grandmother... Passed away."
"Oh." Her father's eyes shone silver. "Oh, Aurora."
Once again, he pulled her in for a tight hug, and this time she let herself return it, if not with quite the same level of enthusiasm. "I'm sorry," she told him, "for arguing and for running off and causing a scene and making people worry. I just — I got upset. It won't happen again."
For a moment, her dad didn't say anything and she worried, heart quick, if that had been the wrong thing to say, too. Then he brushed her shoulders and said softly, "It's alright to be upset, Aurora. I'm not angry with you for that — not at all. But we should talk about it. Not like we did earlier, we should talk properly, okay? I know I'm not perfect at the whole dad thing, but I'm trying, and we can only make this better by communicating."
She snorted. "You didn't come up with that line yourself."
He smiled wryly against her hair. "Hestia came over, gave me a bit of a talking to."
"Good old Hestia," Aurora muttered, and he tensed again. "I'm sorry—"
"It's alright," he said softly, "you can get to know her on your own terms. Only if you want to."
"It's important to you, though."
"And so are you. And your happiness. Hestia can cope. You're my priority."
"Am I?" she found herself asking. "Because it doesn't feel like it. It feels like Potter is. And I get it, because you like him more, and he's just nicer and he's what you want a child to be, and I — I'm not, and I can't be. And I'm trying to be nicer but I don't know how! I just — I don't know what to do."
"Aurora, there's no competition between you and Harry—"
"There is," she sniffed, "there always is and always has been. He hates me anyway so it's fine."
"He doesn't hate you," her father told her gently, "he's been worried too, you know. Blamed himself, he felt awful."
"Oh, I bet he did," she scoffed, "I bet he said that, perfect Potter. He doesn't mean it. He doesn't mean any of it."
"Aurora. He did. I know you still don't get along and that's okay. But Harry hasn't had an easy childhood. You know that. His relatives don't treat him how they should. He's never had this kind of relationship before. He's really trying to make it work.
"It's not your fault, sweetheart, and I know that, but I can tell he worries that if he messes up, then he'll be sent back. I know because I've gone through a lot of the same worries, mentally." She drew in on herself, uncomfortable and uncertain and unconsciously holding on to the stuffed toy for comfort. "He's also a lot more compassionate than I think he allows himself to appear to you. You intimidate him."
She scoffed. "Me? Intimidate him? He's fought a troll, a basilisk, and the actual Dark Lord — twice."
Her father smiled wryly. "Its a rather difficult form of intimidation, I'm afraid. He doesn't like that you're a Slytherin. But he is starting to see past it. He is willing to see past it. He knows your position is a lot more secure than his.
"I'm not going to force you two to be friends. That doesn't seem to work, and honestly, if someone had tried to sit myself and Snape down at your age, we would have strangled each other. I should — I should have thought of that a bit more." He should have thought of everything 'a bit more' she thought bitterly. "But I do want you to come to some sort of understanding, not just with each other, but with me. That you know you're both important and that you don't have to compete for my love. It's okay to mess up. You're kids. Both of you seem to forget that at times. I think I might too."
"Still." She sniffled. "Potter doesn't want this to work for us, he only wants it to work for him. And he — he still hates me. Even if he didn't, I was the one who apologised at the end of term. But he never did. He still thinks he was always in the right and he wasn't."
"Wasn't, when?"
"All the time!" She took in a deep breath, knowing that the words she was about to speak, her father would not like to hear. "He decided he hated Draco from the first moment he met him. Draco — I know he wasn't the best, and probably came off rather strongly but Potter already had his mind made up by Weasley and nothing would have ever changed that. And he hated me by extension, until he just grew to hate me. And he does hate me, Dad. I don't care that he does but I hate that you don't see it, you don't care!" She tried to still her breath, lower her pitch and volume which were both rising dangerously.
"Of course I care, sweetheart."
"Then listen. Please."
"Okay." His hands were soft as they held her, cupping her chin. "It's alright, Aurora. Come on, sit."
She allowed herself to be led down to the sofa, and tried to calm herself, to work up the courage to speak. Vulnerability was not something she was used to. Anger was vulnerable in its own way, but it also burned — it felt powerful, gave her a rush, and this, trying to speak and express emotions in a gentle manner, that made her more nervous than she ever wanted to have to admit.
"Potter... I know he's being nicer, I suppose. But he has never really tried to make amends. And it seems to me that you just prefer him. He's easier to get along with. Easier to — to love."
"Please," her father said with a pained look, "don't doubt that I love you, Aurora."
"I know," she told him softly, "but I still — I know you prefer him. And I'm sorry that I can't be what you want me to be, but I — I don't want to have to be someone else."
"You don't, sweetheart—"
"I know you want me to just dive into this whole thing and not look back, but I can't. The way I grew up is important to me and I know you don't like it, but that isn't yours to dislike. It's my family." He opened his mouth as if to argue but closed it, at her icy glare. "They are. Just because you don't like it doesn't mean you can ignore it — especially because I really, really don't want to ignore it."
Her father looked at her for a long moment, considering his words, and Aurora got that awful feeling that she may have misstepped, a feeling which she tried futilely to push aside.
"Alright," he said, but it wasn't enough. "We can talk about it, if that's what you want. But, Aurora, you know it's not... Not something I really... Can be open about. On my side."
"That's okay," she told him, "I understand if you don't want to discuss your childhood, but I want to be able to at least mention mine. We have to talk properly," Aurora said firmly, "I can't just say something or bring them up and then have you make some dismissive comment."
"I don't—"
"You do. What's more, I can't have you taking Potter's side all the time. I — I know you prefer... It's easier," she finished, not bearing to speak the words out loud, "but he hasn't been great to me. I don't know what he's told you and I know I haven't been the nicest back to him. But he doesn't acknowledge his own actions. He thinks he's perfect and he's got you thinking it too, just like he has everyone else."
"I know you two don't get along. You've told me before. But Harry's trying, a lot more than you are."
"Yeah," she scoffed, "by getting in my face and pretending to be nice and ignoring all the years of fighting and arguing and insulting and thinking the absolute worst of me. He had his mind made up for him by Weasley."
"Aurora, you know you didn't make it easy."
She scoffed. "You are so taken with him! I saved his life twice! He repaid me by hating me even more, because he couldn't wrap his stupid head around the fact that I'm not the awful person he thinks I am. And it's not that I'm not trying, but I don't know how to try! I mean, he's Potter! He annoys me, he seems to think I should just change overnight, and I don't know what he wants! I can't just be some sweet... Goody two-shoes like Granger! I'm not even like that with Draco or Pansy. I don't know how to be his friend and he doesn't know how to be mine, and that would be fine were it not for the fact that you're furious with me for it, and me alone! And I'm sick of it, Dad, and I'm really sorry, but I can't force myself to get along with him. Worse than that, I can't get along with him while it's so clear you think so much more highly of him than you do of me."
"Now, that's not true," her father said sharply, "I do think very highly of you. I love you."
"That's not the same thing," she said and he sighed.
"Aurora, I know you're a good person. I think you're wonderful, and please, please don't think that I ever think less of you. I know it's hard, adjusting to a new environment, new people. But what do you want me to do? Ignore Harry? You know he hasn't had it easy."
"You think I have?" She scoffed. "I'm not stupid, I know Potter clearly didn't have a great life with his Muggles, that's why I'm letting him be here. But I was the one who lost all her family and was abandoned by the rest, I'm the one who was eleven and had to hold her great-grandfather's hand as he died! But no, you only care about him, and I get that that's easier for you because you relate to him, and I am so sorry that you do, but you can't just ignore me."
"I'm not ignoring you!" He took in a deep breath but she had seen the anger flash in his eyes already, and drew back, uncertain. She was becoming too emotional, they both were. "I'm sorry, Aurora. I never wanted to give you that impression."
"But you did."
"I know." He winced. "I'm trying to be a dad, Aurora. It isn't easy."
"I know that," she bristled.
"Then we all have to try together. To get along and figure out what's best for all of us. Harry needs to have someone who's there for him. I don't think he's ever known that before. He needs to know that he is secure here, that upsetting you or me once doesn't mean he has to leave, or that he'll be punished."
"He doesn't care about upsetting me. Unless it hurts him."
A pained look shot across his face. "Him worrying about those things doesn't make him a bad person."
"It also doesn't mean I have to act like he's suddenly being my friend for the sake of friendship. Nor does it mean I have to accept him."
Her father nodded and took a deep breath. "And I know you need me to be there for you, too — you need someone to try and understand you. You also need to be able to let me in." She pursed her lips, annoyed by the words, true as they were. "And I need you and Harry both to try and put the past behind you."
"He's not acknowledging there is any past! I don't have to forgive something without apology. I apologised to him for everything and he offered no such reciprocation."
"I'll talk to him."
"He should be able to do it off his own back."
"Alright. Alright." He sighed, eyes closing for a moment, before he managed to speak again. "I'll see what I can do. I think if you two could discuss things, you might get along better, but you both have to give it a shot."
"He needs to. He needs to hear me, because he'll hate that."
Her father bit his lip. "Okay." Then, after a pause, "You should have Pansy and Draco over. Or any of your friends that you want. They're more than welcome, if having them here makes you happy — that's all I want."
It still didn't ring true, but she felt it was as good as she was going to get, for now. A good concession, and she would hold him to his promise of a welcome. So Aurora nodded, still feeling slightly fragile, not liking the sense of vulnerability creeping over her. "I just want you to care. About my friends, my life, and my family." He nodded slowly.
"I do care."
"Then show it. More. Please." A faint sigh, and then a nod.
"I'll do whatever you need me to, Aurora. But I don't want you running out like that — I never want you to feel like you have to, alright? You scared us all."
Good, she wanted to say, but didn't, as her father tucked her into his side, his arm warm around her shoulders. "I don't know how to fit here anymore. Now we've done all we had to do, to Pettigrew."
He nodded, then said, "We'll figure it out. Whatever happens, you're my daughter, and I love you more than anything. I know I'm not perfect, and fuck knows I'm out of practice being a dad."
She laughed weakly. "Fathers aren't really supposed to swear in front of their daughters. You'll set a bad example."
"You swore earlier," he pointed out.
She shrugged. "Blame Dora. Or the Quidditch Team. Possibly Arcturus, turns out old men swear a lot when they're dealing with annoying people and don't think anyone can hear them."
Her father chuckled. "That's fair enough, I reckon." Even those few words made her feel slightly better, at his acknowledgement of Arcturus. "I'll do better, Aurora, I promise. But you need to talk to me, too. I can't read minds, I'm not a Legilimens. I know you don't want to let me in, but I promise I'll listen." He rubbed her shoulder gently. "Okay?"
Aurora nodded, just as her stomach let out another tunnel. She grimaced, embarrassed.
"I assume you didn't make yourself dinner?"
"There was no food! I thought about getting fish, but I wasn't very good at fishing, and to be honest, I don't know how to cook."
Her father grinned, and stood up, still clutching her old stuffed toy. "Come on then. Well teach you how to cook another night. How do you fancy fish and chips? Dora reckons there's somewhere decent in the village."
She pursed her lips, wary at the prospect of entering a Muggle village, but her stomach whined that this would be quicker than the three of them trying to cook something. "Fine then. But you have to deal with the money."
"Deal," her father said, then pulled her in for another tight hug. He asked softly, "Are you alright to face Harry now, or do you want some more time?"
In truth, she still didn't want to face Potter ever again, but she nodded because it was inevitable, and she couldn't show herself as weak if she said no. "Good," he said, and still her doubt crept in. "Come on. You can tell me about exploring the Manor on the way down — only if you want to."
A peace offering on his behalf, too. She smiled faintly — thinking it good that he was giving in somewhat, that he was listening and trying to understand, and that soon she would win him back on side. "Thank you," she said though, "but maybe later, without Pott — Harry?"
He hid his faint annoyance and nodded. "Alright. And give a date to your friends to visit, next time you write your letters. I'd like to meet them."
She smiled, pleased, and straightened. "Thank you," she told him softly, and hoped that whatever understanding they were hesitantly cultivating managed to last.