Aurora had not often celebrated Easter Sunday. It had always been a solemn occasion, one of the few days a year when Arcturus would insist she attended chapel. Neither of them were particularly religious, which was surprising for Arcturus's age, but she had gotten the impression that he had become rather disillusioned with organised religion as a whole, and certainly the portrayal of God which he had been accustomed to. Nevertheless, Aurora hadn't minded it, and had liked to look at the stained glass windows.

But, until the Easter of her fourth year of school, Aurora had not yet been introduced to the concept of an "Easter egg hunt".

"What do you mean we have to look for the eggs?" she demanded of Potter in the morning when he informed her that her father was out setting it up. "I'm not looking for chocolate before I've even eaten my breakfast."

"Oh my God, you are so…"

"Healthy?"

"I was going to go along the lines of close minded."

"Excuse me?"

"I've never done an Easter egg hunt either," he admitted, then tilted his head, considering. "Well, I guess technically I have, but I was never allowed to win. Dudley would sit on me and eat all the chocolate for himself. I just got whatever was left over and I could pinch from the sitting room."

"That sounds rather awful," Aurora replied, wrinkling her nose. "I hope you don't mind my saying, but your cousin really does sound wretched."

"They were all wretched," Potter told her, shaking his head. "I was lucky if I got a rotten egg for Easter."

Aurora didn't really know what to say to that. Potter did have a habit of saying such things at times, with a tone of nonchalance yet in a rushed voice, like he was determined to play it casual and yet felt a burning desire to let out something that he had always had to keep hidden. She didn't know how to keep up with it or what was the right thing to say, because often he didn't seem to want her to say anything at all. Instead he just needed to say it and get back to the task at hand; which in this case was educating her about Easter traditions.

"Anyway, we have to go out and find as many eggs in the garden as we can, and once they're all found we have to come back and whoever has the most, wind."

"Wins what?"

He frowned. "I'm not sure. Dudley always got all the eggs, so…"

"Well, I'm not giving you any of my chocolate if you win."

"And I'm not giving you any of mine."

They stared at each other for a moment, sizing one another up, until Potter asked with eyebrows raised, "We play for glory?"

"We play for glory," Aurora confirmed, and tried not to smile. "I'm eating breakfast first though. Then I'm going for my morning fly."

"No, we're going for a morning fly," Potter corrected. It had unfortunately become something of a tradition that they flew together at some point in the day, mostly because neither could stand the sight of someone else flying when they were not. "I'm not letting you scope out the grounds before me."

So he wasn't as stupid as she'd hoped in that regard. Aurora scowled playfully. "As if I'd do that."

Her father chose that moment to walk back through the kitchen door, looking utterly bedraggled and like he had started a fight with the local wildlife. Stray leaves fluttered from his hair, and there was a distinct aura of dirt around him. It was like she was taken back to a year ago, watching him stumble out a forest. Both Aurora and Potter stared at him.

"What on earth—"

"The eggs are out for the hunt," he said weakly, "erm, turns out some magpies see things wrapped in silver foil and think it's for them. And don't like when dogs chase them away. Especially if those dogs are… People."

Aurora was sure if she looked at either her father or at Potter she would surely burst into laughter. Instead, she pressed her lips into a thin line and raised her eyebrows, then asked in a rather high, strained voice, "Do you plan on cleaning yourself up before breakfast?"

He shook his head — shaking a leaf out in the process — and waved his wand over his body, saying, "Scourgify."

The dirt lifted but Aurora was still unimpressed. She was hungry, though.

Potter seemed dismayed by the prospect of not having chocolate for breakfast, so she indulged him and agreed to swap over gift eggs at the table — though why they had to give each other chocolate eggs when they were about to try and find more, smaller, chocolate eggs outside, she did not know — and ate some of her own over pancakes, with strawberries. Her father was giddy, in a most disturbing way, nattering on about Easter lunch with the Tonkses, Remus, and Hestia. Aurora only tried to conceal her own excitement about it. Really, she liked the idea. Perhaps it could be something like the family Christmas she had spent with the Tonkses last year, yet even better, because she would have her dad with her, and also wouldn't have to try and put up with any random relatives she had never met before, as Ted's family had made different plans.

Even the Easter egg hunt, she had to admit, was some fun. Her father had insisted they do that as soon as possible, lest the eggs melt in the sun, but had allowed them to take their brooms out. Aurora privately thought of it as a competition between Seekers, but daren't admit such a thing, just in case she ended up losing. As it was, Potter had only one more egg than her, and she declared that it was entirely unfair because his owl, Hedwig, had dove out of a tree to stop her from getting two of the eggs she had rightfully spotted first, and Stella was no good for aerial sabotage.

Once they were getting ready for lunch, though, the post arrived. An ornamental glass egg from the Malfoys, which had bewildered Potter, cards from the Parkinsons, MacMillans, and Gwen, Robin, and Theo. And a letter, the writing on the envelope distinctly Cassius Warrington's.

She opened it with no small measure of trepidation. No matter how she tried to disguise it, her father had noticed her concealment of the letter while Potter showed something Molly Weasley had knitted.

To Aurora, the letter read.

I'm sorry for having to write to you, especially at Easter. You probably don't want to hear from me, especially right now, but I wanted to let you know.

I'm writing this on Saturday, and earlier today there was a trip into Hogsmeade for the sixth and seventh years to see family and friends. On my way back from meeting my sister, I saw Rita Skeeter. I don't know how she's still allowed to hang about, but she is.

Anyway, she recognised me and started asking questions about you and your family. What you're like, if you get up to Dark magic, and she started asking about our— here there was a blot on the page like he had hesitated, not knowing how to phrase his next words — friendship. I told her no comment to everything obviously, other than that you're a brilliant witch and Quidditch player, but she was persistent. Kept asking about your dad, and Harry Potter, too. I think she wanted me to tell her bad things, which of course I didn't.

I'd watch out for her. I know you are already, but she seems to have it in her mind that she's getting a story out of you. I doubt I'm the only person she's approached.

I'm really sorry to write to you about this, especially at Easter and especially since we've not spoken in so long but I couldn't no at least let you know. It felt dishonest of me.

I hope it hasn't spoiled your day. I'm sure there's nothing she can get on you anyway, but you ought to know.

Happy Easter,

Yours,

Cassius.

She was sure she'd stopped breathing at some point while reading. Her father poked her in the arm.

"Who's that one from?"

Potter leaned over ingracefully and smirked. "Says Cassius Warrington."

"Is that right?"

"Shut up," Aurora told them both, "it's not what you think."

"What do I think?" her father asked. "That a boy is writing a heartfelt letter to you at Easter—"

"Rita Skeeter spoke to him." Her voice came out hollow, cold and detached. Her father's face fell, hardened into anger.

"What's this boy said to her?"

"Nothing! Nothing bad anyway, he says, but he wanted to let me know… Bollocks." Her stomach churned. Rita Skeeter would never let her have peace, would she? Would never leave alone until she had a story, just as she had done with Hermione. Aurora curled her hand into a fist around the parchment. Then she turned to Potter, who had a bewildered look on his face. "You know she'll come for you next, right?"

"She already has, a bit."

"It'll get worse. She's poking about for stuff about you too, that's half of why…"

Her voice trailed off. There was something embarrassed in Potter's face that she didn't like; not the sort he had when he had messed up in Potions, or when he felt guilty for saying something wrong. No, this was the embarrassment of his being known. This was an embrasssment where he tried to sink into the furniture as he was doing now, wearing a face of guilt for existing.

"Cassius won't be the only person she's trying to get information out of. He says so himself. He's warning me."

"What will you do?"

"I don't know. Until she writes anything I don't know what grounds I can defy her on, and I don't know what she will write. I just don't trust her with my reputation, and not from how Cass thinks she's trying to spin it."

Something lodged in her chest when she called him that, unthinkingly, the nickname slipping out. Somehow the combination threatened to overwhelm her; the knowledge that Skeeter was out for blood, the knowledge that Cassius had defended her even when he really didn't have to, and that he had slipped away and she had let him and yet here he still was, warning her. As a friend would.

"We have to be prepared," she told Potter, "if she wants a story, she'd better know there are consequences."

Everyone had some grudge held against them, after all.

-*

On Easter Monday, she went to the manor. Potter and her father were spending the day with Dora, the latter likely pestering her with questions about being an Auror again — having been taught by Mad-Eye Moody seemed to have given him a passion for the idea. Her father made her promise that if there were any problems she was to return to Arbrus Hill straight away. She also had to be back before two o'clock. Otherwise he would come and find her.

It wasn't that she didn't want her father there. But her childhood and her life now still felt so separate, and she wasn't sure that her father was entirely ready to bridge this gap yet. Perhaps in the summer.

Today, she wanted to read.

She went to the yew clearing first though. She laid down carnations and lilies and lavender, she spoke softly to the graves and imagined that she could hear the trees whispering in response.

"I'm sorry," she told Arcturus, "that you're not here. But I hope I'm making the right choices. That what I'm doing for the family, for all of us, that it's the right thing to do, the good and honourable thing. I don't know what you'd have done. But I hope you know, that I'm trying to — to do what I think is right. Like you did.

"I know now that I'll never know for sure what you think, what you'd do in my place. That even a painting or a portrait can't bring you back — they're just memories of memories of memories." Yet she knew she would visit the portrait too — she had to. "I miss you, GaGa." She brought herself to chuckle at the old nickname. "Arcturus. I'm doing my best to be Lady Black. And I really hope that's alright."

She knew she only imagined it, but she felt the clearing, with its whispering breeze, was telling her that it was. That the ground beneath her feet agreed. The land still knew her. That had to count for something.

After giving it a few more quiet minutes, to grow to peace with the world, Aurora headed back into the manor itself. She went through the old ballroom; Aurora herself could hardly remember it being used, but for one Christmas, when Arcturus had had what felt at the time like half the entire Wizarding World to the Manor, dancing the night away. She had only been seven at the time, and not many her children her age had been invited; that had been the night Draco and Pansy had introduced her to Theodore Nott, and the former two had convinced her and Theo to run off for a while and play hide and seek with them. They both had wound up in the same part of the library — Theo, Aurora thought, simply found a way to gravitate wherever there were books to interest him — and had argued over who got to hide there so loudly and for so long that Pansy had found them and given them both a great scolding for being so terrible at the game.

Aurora had had to refrain from pointing out that it was only the second time she had ever played it.

The ballroom itself was larger than she recalled from her hazy memories; the walls were white and pale green, the borders of the paper trimmed with silver threads, woven into the paper themselves. They echoed with old magic, and she could hear even now the laughter and music of that night, as her heels clicked on the white marble floor. It was — she thought mercifully — not as dusty as she had anticipated, not quite as cold. She put it down to the spring sun flooding the glass doors and good upkeep on the part of her selves. Perhaps one day, she thought idly, tracing faint footsteps in the flooring, she could relive those old balls, with people she actually cared about. Breathe some life back into her memories.

For now, the library was once again her safe haven. She climbed the grand staircase in the front of the house, and steadfastly avoided looking at the tightly closed door of Arcturus' old room. The library was on the right and down the hall, with grand double doors which opened into it.

As soon as she entered, she could feel magic wrapping around her. It felt like home, here more than anywhere else in the house. This was where she had found herself growing up in the company of books, reading about everything Arcturus had mentioned that day, hoping he would let her into the potions workshop across the hall and help him with his work.

Libraries had always been a safe place. Books helped her even now; she clung to them and the escape that simple words could bring her.

At the front of library there still sat a collection of children's textbooks; some about magic, of course, but also her French textbooks, and her Latin and Greek, and some Old English which she had never gotten around to devoting herself to. Her history books sat there too, beside thick notebooks about politics from the many lessons Arcturus, Lucretia, and Ignatius had given her. There was Madam Davine's Etiquette for Enchanting; beside it, Numeracy or Numerology, and the History of the House of Black. That latter one simply materialised wherever it wanted in any of the houses, it seemed, like an overbearing parent. Aurora regarded them fondly, remembering how she had pored over the pages and scribbled furious notes to keep up with the quick snap of Aunt Lucretia's lessons.

A heavy feeling unfurled in her chest, and she tore her gaze away, striding towards the deep end of the library, where they kept their curse books and old family grimoiries and genealogies. Here, too, the warmth in the air seemed to whisper back to her. It felt like she had hardly left; unnervingly, it was not as cold as it should be.

Some shelves were less dusty than other, but in the way that someone had taken a finger to sweep away dust, or collect a book. The house elves, she thought. She wondered what they read.

At the back of the library, nestled in a bay window which was brightened by noon sunlight, she found the section she was looking for.

The history of the Black family — and the history of blood curses. She would have to look through them both, scour them for any sign of the curse death had alluded to, and whatever might be affecting her, too. It could be centuries old, even a millennium. After all, the family history did not just start when they came to England. It could belong to any one of her less-known or unnamed ancestors, buried in the memory of tenth century Normandy.

With a stack of books in her arms, she took to reading. She balanced parchment on the wooden shelf of the window, leaning back against old, soft cushions warmed by the sun, dipped a quill in a bottle of ink that she had had to bring with her, and started to take down notes.

As a child, Aurora had had to memorise all thirty-nine Lord Blacks, from Hydrus to Arcturus. She knew their stories and their siblings' stories, and could rhyme off various names that had been in her family for generations; Cyphus, Ophelia, Castor. But one could never know every detail of their lives and work, nor, she felt, had she been allowed to learn the darker secrets. It was as Callidora had said, even if she didn't like the way she had said it; there was far too much that she did not know.

As Aurora read, she swore she could feel spirits wrapping tighter around her. There was a case of Lord Antoine I in the early thirteenth century, who had suffered a curse of the combined power of all four of his sons and bled out on the floor of the old Wizengamot courtroom; the fifteenth-century's Elric I who, along with his wife Lady Anette, had allegedly cursed all of his brother's children with infertility out of fear of usurpation; Lord Dionysus, Arcturus' great-great-grandfather, who had cursed his daughter to never be able to slip beyond the veil and to achieve peace in her death, apparently because he did not trust in God's judgment in purgatory.

But nothing that indicated to her any true connection to Death, not in the form that she had. Perhaps the last, but that was confined to one person. A family curse stretching back centuries surely must have found a record somewhere; frustration built in a headache behind her eyes as she set the first book aside, reaching instead for one about the family's role in the Norman Conquest, commissioned by Lord Caius — Cyphus's eldest son — some four decades after the fact. The book itself was rather dog-eared and battered, showing its age in the annotations scribbled many years ago in the margins. But it was one of the earliest full histories that they had, and the man who had written it was a Rosier, at that time close allies of the Blacks. If there were whispers of a curse, he might know — she could only hope he had not seen fit to omit it from the text.

"In the darkest of nights," one passage told her, "Lord Hydrus, that mighty sorcerer of the crown, stole away to a yew clearing with his three sons — Cyphus, the lordling, and Claudius and Julius. Knowing of the battle that was to fall upon them, he had the three swear that as long as they lived they would never allow mortal injury to befall the others. As brothers three, they held exceptional power; though each did lust for more on his own, that wise lord knew that pride and division killed the roots of a family, and so he had the three brothers swear the most solemn vow never to spill blood of their own blood. This was done by blessing and the incantation of ancient words, then a bright green light bore upon them, so bright that it could be seen from the sea. From then it was known that no brother could be harmed by the other. When practicing duelling and sparring, they found that their curses could never take hold, and so pushed one another always until, with their blessing of blood unity, the brothers three surpassed mortal knowledge and overcame all enemies."

It then took a turn to describe in great and dull detail the marriage of Lyra Black to a non-magical cousin of the king, and Aurora flicked through the rest of the next few pages, scanning for anything to find her interest. A cool breeze fluttered in from somewhere, and she swung her hair over one side, distractedly toying with the ends.

"And so it was said by this teller of fortunes that the Black family would live forevermore bound to Death, knowing the blood that they had spilled in service of the crown; that they would hold in their inheritance knowledge of the stars and souls and shadows…" Something about that sent a shiver down her spine. Through an open window she heard a crow calling.

Somewhere she knew there was a collection from Lord Hydrus' letters, and his own grimoire. Arcturus kept it out of the main library, she didn't know where, only that if ever she had seen him with any of the old spellbooks, he had come from the portrait gallery. Yet the thought of entering that room filled her with nerves. Her ancestors would be staring down at her with judgmental eyes and whispers, like they had last time.

But she would only need Arcturus. It would be fine.

Aurora combed through the other books some more with little success, until it became clear that she would have to venture further downstairs. A glance at the clock told her it was now just gone noon — her father would worry if she wasn't back soon. Of course, she could come back, but it was always better to get things out of the way as soon as possible — she hated running late, or feeling like she didn't have suitable time left to accomplish everything that she wanted to. No, she had to much to do.

So she gathered herself and her courage and pushed aside her nerves and creeping doubt and dread and made her way to the downstairs portrait gallery, where the walls whispered with the past and eyes followed her. She didn't remember it having been so eerie before, so utterly disconcerting to feel the gazes and weights of the past falling so suddenly and squarely upon her.

Aurora kept her eyes focused on the grandest painting at the end of the hall, all too aware of the long walk and every step she had to take to get there. When at last the shadows cleared and she was before Arcturus's portrait, her stomach was already tied in knots and her face cool with flush of nerves.

"Arcturus," she addressed him at the same time he said, "Lady Black."

His dark eyes twinkled and that reassured her, somewhat.

"How long has it been now, dear? I'm afraid we're all dreadful at keeping time."

"Eight months," she replied cleanly, then winced. "I had to stay at school over Christmas; there was a ball, which I thought would be an important event."

"Yes, Phineas told us they reinstated the Triwizard Tournament. I thought they never would."

One of the portraits on the right asked casually, "How many have died so far?"

"You can't ask her that, Castor!"

"Father, I'm only curious, you're the one who told me the stories—"

"She is a child."

"I'm sure Lady Black can handle death alright."

They were far down the hall but Aurora managed to wrack her brains and determine who they were; Lord Castor, who had died at twenty-two and been lord for four of those years, apparently immature for his age and a regular nuisance to Henry VIII, which Lucretia had once implied led to the English witch-hunt, though Aurora wasn't entirely sure that she believed that. She could see how he was a nuisance, though.

"No one has died," she told the portraits, bored, "and the organisers have put a dreadful amount of work into ensuring that no one does."

"It's all they talk about," sighed Phineas Nigellus, a few behind her, "on and on and on and they all simply drone on, bores me to sleep most evenings."

Arcturus, she could tell, was trying not to smile. "What did you come to talk to me about, Aurora?"

"Information," she said, before she could let her nerves get the better of her, "about a blood curse."

The room fell silent. The family paintings on the left stopped moving entirely, she was sure; her father, in his, was frozen halfway out the frame, tugging on his pale brother's arm.

"Which one?"

That was not the answer she had wanted to hear.

"Any. But specifically one which might allow me to speak to, and communicate with… Well, Death."

Her words sent another ripple of whispers around the room. Back behind her, someone let out a high wail — rather unnecessarily, she felt. Perhaps she was too accommodated to the thought of him.

"We all can see Death, child," said Phineas Nigellus, sniffing haughtily. "You're not special."

"Hush, Phineas," Arcturus replied, and Aurora swore he was rolling his eyes. "Aurora can do more than you could. I know this; Death has spoken to her himself."

"Many times," Aurora elaborated, "but I've never known why."

"Nor do I," Arcturus told her, "but I know where our oldest books are. The manor's magic may only guide you so far. I could communicate with Death myself, but he was reluctant. Only when we were at our nearest points, when the veil between the living and the dead was at its thinnest."

Aurora shook her head. "It's different for me. I see his shadow and he comes to me whenever he wishes but I can't call him and he's avoiding me."

"Most would argue that Death avoiding them, is a good thing."

"It would be," she said, "if I didn't still feel him circling."

The eyes of Arcturus' portrait shifted, and then he nodded. "I will return in a moment. Do not let the others get too rowdy."

He stepped out of his frame, leaving only a high-backed green chair and grey background. The momentary silence around his departure was broken abruptly by Castor the Third shouting, "You said you've seen Death, girl?"

Aurora turned, staring down the gloomy gallery. "Er, yes?"

"Bah — in my day, we all did necromancy."

"She isn't talking about necromancy, you twit."

"Father, I think I know what the lady means."

"It's not Necromancy," Aurora said, frustrated, "I actually see Death. The… Deity, I suppose."

A rumble around the room. "Lord Hydrus?" she decided to call out, after another moment of silence from Arcturus. She started back down the hall to the very end by the double doors, and heard another voice jostle someone else — presumably Hydrus — out of their snores. "I do have some questions, for you, actually."

"I don't like questions," he said bluntly. "Everyone asks me far too many questions." I'm an old man; I need to sleep."

He closed his eyes again but Cyphus sidled into the frame and snapped his fingers. "You've been sleeping for a week, Father. The girl is Lady Black."

"In my day, she would be no lady."

Cyphus muttered something under his breath and Aurora's stomach squirmed uncomfortably. She wondered if that was the unspoken thought running through everyone's head, and if Cyphus only had some connection to his necklace form that allowed him to stick up for her at all. Still, some medieval queens and ladies had held power on their own. It was not so unthinkable.

"My Lord Hydrus," she said, hoping that the most polite option would win favour. He cracked one reluctant eye open, glared, and then closed his eyes again. "It is you who forged our family's greatest power. If we have any connection to Death, might you know how?"

"Obviously," Hydrus droned, "but I don't have time—"

"Father always liked Necromancy," Cyphus said, "our lord king thought it important to keep him on side. The side which spoke with spirits was, surely, the side which held the power closest to God."

"And his friends wanted me burned for it," Hydrus muttered, "naturally."

Aurora's lips quirked up. "Shocking."

"Do not look so amused, girl. Had I not been allowed at the king's side, he most certainly would not have won his battles and this land would be very different indeed! My knowledge was beyond that of any other, and always shall be. Now, let me sleep. I'm an old man."

"You're a painting," Cyphus replied.

"So are you, son, so please leave mine."

Cyphus grimaced. Aurora wrung her hands together, her annoyance beginning to grow. If this was really what her ancestors were like then it would be no wonder if someone really had cursed them. "You knew how to talk to Death then? Do you know how I can talk to him?"

"Why do you want to talk to Death?"

The question was asked so lightly that it actually gave her pause. Her thoughts spiralled and stomach turned. "Well, he — he disappeared. And I — there's too much I don't understand and I don't understand this ring that I have, and he's always there and I don't like that now he isn't and I don't know how to call him because… Well, that should be something I can do."

"How presumptuous of you."

"I'm not presumptuous. I seek to learn, My Lord, that is all. It is how I might best serve my — our — family."

He opened both of his eyes now, though only with the intention of glaring at her. Aurora felt his irritation burrow beneath her own skin, burning hot. "Death goes as he pleases, child. He will answer your call only when you truly need him. Only he can answer your questions; it is not for mortals to dispense such knowledge upon one another.

"However." A light sparked inside her. "It was I who ensured he would be bound to our family. Death and I share an understanding. In exchange for our prosperity, we would be connected with him. It takes great power to bestow death upon one's enemies with a single curse." Her stomach swooped and then twisted. "Death always visited me. To ensure that I carried on the path he desired. Do not fear it, child."

"I don't."

"You seek to control Death." Hydrus arched his eyebrows. "That is fear. He will come, eventually. He always does. For now, try not to shy from the haunting. It will only make it worse."

No one else spoke and Aurora didn't know what to say to that. After a few seconds, Hydrus closed his eyes again and began to snore within the frame.

Killing with just one curse. It was true, it was said that doing so took immense power and will, and Aurora hoped it was something that she would never have to attempt. But if her family's connection to Death derived from that, it could not make sense. Everyone's family had a murderer in it somewhere. Even Aurora, aware now that her idea of families was somewhat skewed, was confident that in a millennia of history, everyone had spilled blood on their family's hands. Didn't they? What made them different, what sparked Death's obsession, and why was Hydrus so reluctant to discuss it?

Why did no one else speak or prompt any potential answers?

"Aurora." Arcturus's voice called from the end of the hall and she startled. She had been staring at Hydrus's portrait, which was now steadfastly ignoring her. Cyphus's eyes followed her, unblinking, clear grey. "Come."

She hurried down the gallery, to where Arcturus was now restored in his portrait. A faint smile graced his lips. "To my right there is a panel marked at the bottom left corner with a dagaz rune, and at the top right with ansuz. Hold your hands on each of those tunes for ten seconds, until the foundations respond to you. The panels will slip and reveal a staircase. Follow it down until the cellar. Best you keep a note of where you go; it is something of a labyrinth downstairs, I'm afraid."

"A — a labyrinth."

"It means—"

"She knows what it means, Phineas. Go, Aurora. If you truly wish to know all that you can, then go. The house below contains all our family's greatest secrets, the private knowledge of each lord passed down and held within the walls." His eyes, deep brown and wide, held a fear in them that she was unused to seeing, and more than a little afraid of. "I must warn you. You may not like all that you see. There are… Spirits, there, still." His lips quirked up in a sad smile. "But one of them may be happy to see you."

"Spirits? What do you mean?"

"I do not wish to get your hopes up. Not if…" His eyes twinkled. "On you go. I fear Lord Phineas is close to combustion."

Aurora chuckled, but it was half-hearted. Any humour was cooled and quelled by the loud, consuming pounding of her heart, as the nausea came back again. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea. What if she wasn't ready — or worse, what if this led her to another dead end? Portraits were useless, she was beginning to discover. They were only guides, not teachers, and it seemed many of them didn't even want to be the former. Arcturus might allow the door to the underground to open but he could not walk her down the stairs.

She supposed it was the pattern of things, now.

With a last grateful, yet wobbly, smile, Aurora curtsied to Arcturus' portrait and made her way to the wall, doing as he had instructed. The panel swung inwards before her eyes, and though she felt keenly aware of hundreds of eyes, curious or scornful or plotting, she shrugged aside the cold discomfort of uncertainty, the feeling that old eyes had been following her everywhere that day, and slipped into the dark and gloomy stone staircase that had revealed itself.

The panel swung shut behind her and latched, sealing her in with a high click that made her stomach swoop. She clutched her wand, for all the good it would do her. Throwing caution to the wind, she muttered the enlightening enchantment, and held her wand before her, so the tip might light the way. Hopefully the old wards kept the Ministry from detecting her using magic. At least she might be able to reasonably blame it on the constant workings of the house, or if need be, on her father, but there was no way she was walking down an unfamiliar, dark, cobwebbed and frankly creepy staircase without light or the security of knowing she could use her wand if indeed she needed it.

Shivering, and keeping an eye on every step she took, Aurora continued down the steep staircase, her feet terribly loud in the stifled silence of the underground. Each step brushed dust away from beneath her, and sent spiders scurrying into cracks in the ancient stones. She shivered in the stale cold.

Coming to the end of the staircase would have been a relief, had she been able to see anything beyond five feet before her. Instead, Aurora got the feeling of being in a wide, grand space than nevertheless bound tightly around her, leaving her stuck and stranded and half-drowning in gaping darkness.

She said quietly to the shadows, "Hello?"

There was no one she really intended to greet, other than Death, but she was still hardly surprised when he did not reply. She hadn't truly believed he would come here.

Aurora gripped her wand tightly and squinted as she held it up before her, trying to make out any doorways through the gloom. Surely no books could be kept here, for they would have trouble being found and surely could not be read. There, through the gloom she could just make out a silver glint from a door handle in the midst of a light dust.

She hastened towards the door, but her shoulders were braced in fear of something leaping out from the other side. Holding up her wand, Aurora made out an engraved plaque in brass on the door, which read: Hydrus Dominus, Umbrarum Textor. She traced back her Latin lessons; Hydrus the Lord, Weaver of Shadows.

Her heart leapt in her chest, nausea mingling with trepidation but also excitement, curiosity. When she placed a hand on the doorknob, it was cold, and she swallowed hard. Arcturus's portrait wouldn't open the way to somewhere unsafe for her. Nor would this house hurt her. The magic answered to her, her blood.

She took a deep breath, steeled herself, and turned the knob. The door clicked and opened, creaking on ancient hinges, yet surprisingly not as much as she may have anticipated.

It was dark at first but somehow, once she stepped in, the room lit up even more than her wand. Warmth flooded through her, like she had just walked closer to a bonfire, and the feeling was a haze upon her skin. Turning, Aurora took in the large, round room; the stone walls were lined with mahogany bookshelves, ancient books perfectly aligned upon them like they had never been touched. Drawers at the front had minor ink smudges across them and there was, curiously, a single black quill lying atop a small sidetable.

The sight of it sent a shiver up her spine.

Aurora clung to the edges of the room, browsing the shelves and checking titles. Most of the room looked like it hadn't been touched in years, and was perfectly kept. Yet, in one shadowed corner, the second top drawer on a tall chest, had a corner of parchment sticking out the top of it.

Frowning, Aurora went to the drawer, and tried to ease it open. It didn't budge; she tugged again and the handle squeaked, getting stuck.

"Stupid drawer," she muttered, then regretted it; something cold drew about her, an eerie breeze seeping into the room."Sorry," she said again, and it stilled.

Aurora tried the drawer one last time, and it moved just a little, just enough that she could slip her fingers in and ease the parchment out. Everything else was so orderly; this was wrong.

She unfurled the roll of parchment, smoothed the crease that had formed in it, and shivered. There was a spell written upon it, or instructions for one anyway, in dense Latin. The words were crammed tightly together, margins annotated and scribbled in, in a mixture of French and Old and Modern English. Her wand light was nowhere near enough to properly decipher it; nor, frankly, were her rusty language skills. All she could reliably decide upon, in this light and as tired from reading as she was, was the title: benedictio, or blessing.

Aurora tucked it into her pocket, and struggled to open the drawer the whole way. It scraped on the way, an ear-splitting noise, and as she tried to loosen it, something brushed behind her.

Aurora held back a scream, whirling around, but there was nothing there. Just her imagination, just the darkness. But a breeze tickled the back of her neck and she knew that there shouldn't be a breeze down here at all. She wanted to yell, but there was no one to hear her, and she knew better than to alert a would-be attacker to her location.

She heaved in the silence, clutching the scroll tightly in one hand and her wand in the other. The walls seemed to whisper in warning. Dust fluttered over the floor.

After several painful minutes of nothing, she allowed herself, hands shaking, to return to the drawer. Perhaps it was a renewed fear that strengthened her, or perhaps something — or someone — else was helping her along, but this time the drawer came unstuck on the first try.

A spider leapt out and she screamed, stumbling back in fright before regaining herself. The thing scuttled innocently along the top of the drawer, then down the side, disappearing into shadows. Aurora scowled, mostly annoyed with herself for her reaction, but once her heart had calmed she returned to the drawer and shone her light into it.

It caught on various jewels and old silver and gold. There, in this strangest of drawers, was a collection of jewellery; some bracelets and rings, all laden with weighty emeralds and topaz and quartz, but also, in a great number, heavy-looking lockets, shimmering in different colours. It was an odd collection to have down here, and it seemed they had once been used as rather unnecessary paperweights, for the scrolls squashed beneath them.

Those scrolls seemed of little interest though, all records and accounts smudged and faded by centuries so that they were quite illegible. Only the piece on the top had remained mysteriously intact; clearly it was of some importance.

Her fingers brushed over the parchment again and she swore she heard someone whisper. But there was no one. Not even footprints on the floor. It was just a remnant of the past, she told herself, a memory. Perhaps the books were speaking to her, perhaps an ancestor.

But she swore she heard the word, help.

Rattled, she drifted amongst the rest of the books, picking up various titles of interest, ranging from The Raising of the Dead to A Mage's Chronicle. Eventually, Aurora had a stack of books, alongside a couple of the more interesting jewels from the drawer, to take home and pore over later. But she daren't touch the quill on the table. The sight of it made her stomach squirm.

It was nearing one when she emerged out of the portrait gallery again, hurrying towards the kitchen steps so she could return home through the Floo. But something stopped her.

A breeze had followed her from the dark room. It whipped at her ankles, biting and snatching, and wouldn't let go. Help, the Manor walls seemed to whisper, growing tighter and darker around her, as she turned away from the steps and to the dining room instead, where the long mahogany table was still set for a dinner that had never been eaten. The silverware had faded and the china gathered dust.

But there was a piece of parchment in the centre of the table, where a vase of flowers ought to be. The breeze drew her to it, or perhaps it was a morbid fascination, chasing the fear that forced her heart to speed up and her palms to grow clammy around her wand.

The whole room seemed tilted off its axis. It was too warm and then too cold and the sunlight from the windows was faded and too blue for spring.

The parchment was folded over, and she picked it up with shaking hands. The lack of seal rattled and irritated her; any official correspondence first of all should not be here, and otherwise, ought to be more formal. She unfolded the parchment, bile rising in her throat.

There were no words. Only a cluster of dots done in green ink which she soon, after a moment of confusion, recognised as a constellation.

They had been done carefully and precisely, as though they had been copied out and practiced many times before. Her eyes searched the space between the markings, the invisible lines, and she shivered. A lump grew in her throat, terror lurching through her stomach.

The constellation was Orion. The one her father's father had been named for. They had all been named for constellations, or for stars.

But one, she realised, had been marked larger than the others, and it was not Rigel — the brightest star.

She ran through the names of the Orion stars, already knowing the answer with a sense of cold dread in the pit of her stomach. Her fingertips found the largest star of their own accord. However had left this here had wanted her to see it, she knew, and that thought made her head spin. The floor fell away from under her and she gripped the back of a chair, dizzy with terror.

The largest star on the page was a mistake, astronomically, but she knew why. They wanted it to stand out. They were gone now, she knew that they were, but she also wanted to get home as fast as she could, to escape this place that had suddenly been distorted in her memory. She was alone. She would have been warned if she wasn't. Anyway, the person she was afraid of — the person whose face reared itself so suddenly and horribly in her mind — couldn't possible be here.

But her gaze fixed on the constellation again, picking out the largest star, edged with silver. She clutched the chair, trying to force herself to stay standing, to try and breathe and move.

For she knew that star to be Bellatrix.