The annual Black family New Year's Eve party was just getting started by the time the Traverses arrived for the festivities. Grimmauld Place was bedecked with its usual holiday trimmings: fairy-lit garlands were hung between gaslit lamps, satiny ribbons were curled around portraits, irritating their subjects (Phineas Nigellus was particularly vocal about his masterpiece being ruined by a giant red bow), and mistletoe hung from most doorways. Even the family knife collection was festooned with garland, bows, and lights, making the shiny blades gleam under the lamplights. The whole house seemed to be oozing clove, cinnamon, and orange; it was the scent of family, home, and one too many drunken confessions.
It was one of Dora's favorite places in the world, even down to the collection of severed elf heads that were mounted along the corridor. At this time of year, they were topped with miniature Father Christmas hats, some of which Dora, Sirius, and Regulus had helped dress up with tiny baubles and bells.
Chester, on loan from Grandfather Pollux for the evening, was taking the Traverses' cloaks when Dora heard her mother's voice.
"Nymphadora, should I expect to find you in the playroom with your cousins tonight?"
"Not tonight, Mama. I'm going to be with the girls."
"You mean Bellatrix and Narcissa?" Andromeda's brow went up into her forehead.
"Eunice too," Dora said boldly. "I'm going to be with the big girls."
"Fifi? With the big girls?" Malcolm jeered. He jabbed at the place where Claudius had been standing, but he was already walking away to the grand parlor.
"As long as your sister behaves herself," Byron drawled, as Andromeda took his arm, "she is welcome to engage in polite conversation with other young women."
Dora resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at Malcolm, so she settled with a satisfied smirk. She smoothed out her robes as she saw her mother often do and took her place next to Andromeda.
"Return to me before midnight, darling, and please don't get into any trouble," Andromeda whispered into Dora's ear.
"I'll be good, Mama," Dora whispered back. "I promise."
Andromeda and Byron went off to a table laden with bubbly drinks. Dora spotted the table with frothy Butterbeer, where Sirius and Regulus were. As much as she wanted hot Butterbeer, Dora decided to fix herself a cup of tea, which felt more grown-up than a flagon of Butterbeer. When her tea was ready, she found her older cousins and brothers by the fireplace; they were lounging and laughing, leading Dora to wonder how many nights they spent like this in the Slytherin common room.
However, it wasn't the Slytherin common room. It was their ancestral home and Dora had every right to join them. She was just as much a Black as the others—more so than her brothers or the Lestranges—and that meant she belonged wherever she pleased.
Dora ambled up to the group of young witches and wizards. Some of them were sitting on the floor, so she tucked herself between two armchairs and gazed up at her family's casual elegance.
"Cissy, show everyone what your knife can do now that you're 17," said Bella. "We're family here, there's no need to be shy."
Narcissa grew pink, but with Lucius at her side (Dora begrudgingly accepted that he would be joining the family as Narcissa's future husband), she rolled up her robes just high enough to show off a knife that was tied around her thigh. She unsheathed the knife from its ornately carved leather holster and Dora looked up in awe at it. The handle was pure black, but it had flowers embossed into the handle, and the blade itself was in the shape of a dagger, long enough to pierce the heart if needed.
Narcissa murmured something under her breath and the blade of her dagger slowly changed its shape. Its tip became curved, like a talon. She murmured again and the talon became straight. With each instruction she gave it, the knife became the shape she requested.
"Innocent enough for the potion-maker," she said, smiling sweetly. She gave the blade another instruction and it became longer, with a needle point tip. "Lethal enough for a witch's most pressing needs." Her sweet smile curled into an impish grin.
"Wow," Dora breathed. It was customary for Black witches and wizards to receive a knife when they turned 13; their blades weren't sharp enough to inflict much damage on their victims, but once the witch or wizard turned 17, the blade became lethal. More importantly, the knife would reveal new magic when its owner became of age, though Dora didn't know how the magic worked or how the new magic was decided.
"It's a family tradition to get a knife for your 13th birthday," said Alphard, showing the blade off for Malcolm, Claudius, Lucius, and the Lestrange brothers. He pulled out a handsome pocketknife. At his touch, it opened to reveal a single-bladed knife that Dora was sure could slice individual hairs with ease.
"They're imbued with Black family magic," Bellatrix said, pulling out her own dagger. Like Narcissa's, she carried it around her thigh and its leather holster was elaborately engraved. The dagger's handle was just as ornamental as Narcissa's, but both blades were sharp and deadly.
"Our knives can't hurt anyone with our blood," said Narcissa. She took the edge of her dagger and ran it along Alphard's cheek, which remained unblemished. "The goblins took droplets of Papa's blood to cast the magic. Anyone who doesn't share our blood can be a victim." She grinned at Lucius, whose throat bobbed. Dora clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing at him.
Bella cleared her throat and batted her eyes at Rodolphus. He grunted and rolled up his right sleeve. Dora watched, transfixed, as Bella skimmed the edge of her dagger along a section of his forearm. A bright red line showed up, leaving droplets of blood to drip along his hairy forearm. Rodolphus hissed but Bellatrix waved her wand over the injury and it disappeared as quickly as it had been created, but it left a noticeable red scar.
"My knife always leaves scars." Bellatrix smirked and tucked her dagger back into her holster with practiced ease, while Narcissa took a few moments to re-sheath her own. "I can carve whatever I please into whoever I choose."
Alphard set his knife flat on his left palm. "Mine became a compass when I turned 17. It works as a true compass and points me in the direction of what I want," he said, running his right thumb along the knife's edge. He murmured "point me" at the knife and the blade twisted around, but it didn't turn north.
"Firewhisky?" asked Lucius, following the knife's direction.
"Something like that," Alphard murmured as he rolled his head back and stretched. "It's also the direction where the Wimbourne Wasps play. If I keep up in training and do well at tryouts, I've got a good chance of taking the Chaser position they'll have open."
Dora's eyes grew wide. Having a cousin who played professional Quidditch would be wicked; she would get tickets whenever she wanted, and though she didn't have a favorite team, she would gladly cheer for the Wimbourne Wasps if Alphard played for them.
"What will Sirius's do, do you think?" asked Narcissa, pointing her nose up at the table with the Butterbeer. Sirius and Regulus were still there, with their upper lips covered in froth and their lips curled into mischievous smirks.
"Something that will help him be stealthy," Al replied. "Grandfather says Sirius is more cunning than we give him credit for."
Dora watched Regulus pass something into Sirius's hand; whatever the item was, it slipped into Granny Violetta's handbag and went unnoticed. Sirius and Regulus backed away, their hands covering their laughs, and crouched down just in time for the boom.
Granny Violetta's handbag burst open and the whole party hushed to watch the fallout. A gust of wind blew at Violetta's face, removing her hat, her hairpiece, and even her eyebrows. Dora tucked her face into her elbow and giggled at Violetta's bewildered fury. The hairpiece flew into the fireplace, replacing the warm scent of the parlour with the nasty stench of burning hair, and the silvery eyebrows landed in Uncle Orion's Champagne flute.
"WHO DID THIS?" Walburga thundered. Dora quieted down and took a silent sip of her tea while her aunt went on the warpath.
"The children," Orion said, clipped. "Where are they? Sirius, Regulus, Nymphadora—"
"My daughter was sitting politely with her cousins, Orion," said Byron, his gaze traveling to the spot where Dora sat. "She hasn't left our sight."
"Fifi? Here?" Narcissa whispered, looking down on Dora with incredulity.
"The boys are here, Walburga," drawled Druella. She yanked up Sirius and Regulus by the ear. Their red faces gave them away immediately. "Naughty, naughty boys!"
"They are my responsibility—" Walburga growled, taking her sons away from Druella.
"Allow me, Walburga," said Orion, his eyes glinting with cold fury. "My sons' misbehavior will be better addressed by their father."
Walburga let Sirius and Regulus go, only for Orion to take the boys by the back of their robes and lead them away from the parlour. Everyone was still staring until Cygnus cleared his throat, but Walburga beat him to any announcement.
"As you were," Walburga snarled. She skulked off to help Granny Violetta and Dora chuckled nervously up at her cousins, who apparently hadn't realized she had been sitting with them.
"Hello," Dora said, her awkward chuckle still on her lips. "I heard you talking about knives. I can't wait to get mine."
"Fifi?" Malcolm sneered. "She gets a knife?"
"Of course she gets a knife," Bellatrix snapped. She pointed her dagger at Malcolm, who put his hands up in surrender. "She's a Black. It's her birthright."
"Don't underestimate Fifi," said Al, winking at Dora. "She may be a Hufflepuff, but she was a Black first." Dora sat up and puffed out her chest with pride. It made her happier to see her new Hufflepuff pin gleam on her robes; it was a Christmas gift from her mother, a vintage find for Dora to wear on her school robes.
"She has top marks, you know," Narcissa said, looking down on Malcolm and Claudius, both of whom were visibly unprepared for the Black cousins' committed defense of Dora. "She's one of the best students in her year, as is our cousin Sirius."
"And when our Fifi turns 13, she'll get a knife that suits her," Bellatrix said, her eye twitching at Malcolm. "It will reveal its own magic to her, according to her strengths."
"Perhaps invisibility?" suggested Al. "She's a human chameleon. For her knife to blend in with her disguise . . . that would be appropriate, don't you think?" Dora placed her hand on the ornate carpet below in response. She scrunched her eyes closed and thought hard on the pattern. Gasps of surprise above her indicated she had succeeded.
When she opened her eyes, the skin on her hand and arm matched the pattern exactly. "I did it!" she said excitedly. "I've never been this close before!"
Bellatrix, Alphard, and Narcissa commended Dora on her detailed morphing. She didn't stop the self-satisfied sneer she sent at her brothers; if only she had grown up with Bella, Al, and Cissa, rather than Malcolm and Claudius, or even Sirius and Regulus. When it mattered most, her Black family would always support her.
"Bellatrix, does your knife leave a scar through anything?" asked Claudius, eyeing the blade curiously.
"You want to challenge me?" Bella replied, with a grin as wide as the Cheshire cat's.
"What about tattoos?" Claudius's brow went up and his gaze landed on Rodolphus. "Dark tattoos, to be specific."
"Fifi, I believe it's time for you to go," Al said. He snapped his fingers up at Narcissa and pointed his head at Rodolphus, who was starting to roll up the sleeve on his left forearm.
"I quite agree," said Narcissa. "Fifi, this isn't for your eyes."
Dora didn't move a muscle. "I want to stay, please. Father and Mama said I could sit here."
"Bella—" Narcissa warned, but Rodolphus's sleeve was up. There was a largeish, ugly tattoo taking up most of his forearm. It was of a skull with a snake coming out of its mouth, and the snake appeared to be moving. Dora thought she had seen the image before, perhaps in the Prophet —
"The Dark Mark," Dora gasped. "It's in the sky when the Dark Lord—when he—"
"When enemies are destroyed," Bellatrix said, her words slipping off her tongue, hushed and prayer-like. Al shook his head at Bellatrix and muttered something in Narcissa's ear. She nodded and glanced toward the fireplace, where Andromeda sat with Walburga and Cygnus.
All the hairs on the back of Dora's neck stood still. There was an attack on a Muggleborn Deputy Head from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement just last week; the witch was found dead in her home and the Dark Mark hovered in the sky above.
"Scared, Fifi?"
Dora blinked at Claudius. It was the first time he had spoken directly to her since July.
"N-no?" she replied, swallowing her discomfort. "Why is it a snake?"
"He was a Slytherin, of course," Bella answered. "He's a Parselmouth too . . . rumor has it that the only British Parselmouths are direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin himself."
The morphing on Dora's hand disappeared. She laced her fingers together and thought of her pet project; she would get further if she asked her cousins about the Dark Lord. As Grandfather Pollux had said, Bella was the person to ask about him.
"Will you tell me more about the Dark Lord, Bella?" Dora asked.
"You're interested?" Claudius shook his head and scoffed. "You? "
"Not as hopeless we thought, is she?" Malcolm jeered. Alphard and Narcissa glared at him. Dora even saw Narcissa's hand twitch toward her wand, while Al kept his knife out.
"What do you know about the Dark Lord?" Claudius challenged. All eyes were on her.
"He was a prefect . . . and he is Auntie Burgie's age . . . he was Head Boy, too, and got a special award for services to the school," Dora replied nervously. "He's got followers called Death Eaters, but I don't know why he calls them that. He wants change . . . no more Muggleborns?"
"No more Mudbloods, Fifi," Claudius corrected. "That's not entirely true, is it, Bellatrix?"
"Mudbloods have their place," Bellatrix replied, her fingers toying with the blade in her hand. "They will serve us."
"But . . . what is he like?" Dora asked. "What does he look like? Sometimes the Prophet has stories but they don't have any pictures—"
Rodolphus opened his mouth but Bellatrix shushed him. "The Dark Lord is a private person, little cousin. You won't find his photograph in the Prophet, or Witch Weekly. Any photograph wouldn't be able to capture his . . . brilliance."
Dora stuck out her bottom lip and put her chin in her hand. "Do you know . . . is he a half-blood or a pureblood?"
"The Dark Lord's blood is pure," Bellatrix said, with the same hushed, reverential tone as before. "No wizard has come close to what he has accomplished . . . not even Merlin could deign to touch the Dark Lord."
Dora frowned at the response. It still wasn't clear if the Dark Lord was a half-blood or a pureblood.
"Bella," Narcissa hissed, "Grandmother Ursula is coming."
Rodolphus rolled down his sleeve a moment before the cantankerous matriarch arrived to greet him and Bellatrix.
"I see you're still enjoying Champagne, Bella," said Ursula. "I hope your husband hasn't been faltering in his husbandly duties." She shook her walking stick at a puzzled Rodolphus.
Dora decided it was time to leave the young adults' group. If Ursula was giving out uncomfortable marriage advice, Dora wouldn't be caught dead with her centenarian great-great-grandmother. Dora crawled backwards as Ursula turned to Narcissa and Lucius.
There were better ways to spend the last hours of the year.
The annual Black family New Year's Eve party swirled around Andromeda. With less than a half hour to midnight, she tried to find her daughter, but Nymphadora was nowhere in sight. She had stayed with her older cousins for a while, sparing her from joining Sirius and Regulus in their ill-thought prank, but some time ago, Nymphadora had left the young adults to find her own amusement. Andromeda thought to ask Kreacher or Chester, but the elves were occupied with keeping drinks flowing as the new year approached.
Conversations came in and out of focus as Andromeda began searching the ancestral home. Nymphadora wasn't in the kitchen, pilfering Kreacher's stores for extra sweets or biscuits. She wasn't in the library, with her legs tucked under her as she lost herself in a novel. Nor was she in the playroom, where she often absconded with Sirius and Regulus to play Exploding Snap or chess. There was no sign of a colorful witch anywhere, and Andromeda was beginning to grow worried until she found a heavy door slightly ajar.
"There you are!"
Andromeda spotted her magenta-haired daughter in the tapestry room at Grimmauld Place, with her fingertips roaming over the golden lines and charred marks.
"What are you doing in here, darling?"
"Just looking," replied Nymphadora, shrugging. Her index finger was fixed on her name, the only child borne of the union between Andromeda Black and Byron Travers. "Would you have burned me off if I was a Squib?"
Andromeda glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes remained until midnight.
"This isn't my tapestry," Andromeda replied lightly. "If it were, I wouldn't have burned anyone off."
"Whose tapestry is it?"
"I suppose it's your Uncle Orion's, given this is the house where the Black heir has lived for the last few hundred years."
"Where was it before then? Does everyone have a tapestry like this?"
Andromeda placed her hand on Nymphadora's bright hair. "Why do you ask?"
Nymphadora grew quiet and frowned. "Are we related to the Riddles?"
Andromeda's brow flew up into her forehead. "The Riddles? As in—"
"Tom Riddle," her daughter said evenly. "The . . . Dark Lord."
"Darling," Andromeda said quietly, "why do you want to know about this man?"
Nymphadora bit her lower lip. "For History of Magic?"
"That's not a very good lie." Andromeda put her hands on her hips and looked down at her flushing daughter. "What are you up to?"
Nymphadora proceeded to divulge the most peculiar investigation into the origins of Tom Riddle, the death of a Muggleborn, and a hypothesis that involved a secret monster dwelling in the bowels of the castle.
" . . . maybe it's a dragon like at Gringotts, but a dragon can't kill just one person and how can someone control—"
"Nymphadora," Andromeda said, sighing, "what is the purpose of this?"
"To find out the truth," Nymphadora replied matter-of-factly. "I can't figure out who died and Hagrid—he couldn't have, he wouldn't have, but maybe a dragon—"
"If I find out the name of the student who died, will you set this matter aside for now? It's not . . . darling, it's not good for you to spend your time investigating this man. This isn't an appropriate activity for a girl your age."
"But Mama—"
Andromeda took her daughter's face in her hands. "I will help you find out who died. The Dark Lord is . . . you need to understand that interest in him . . . even if it's innocent curiosity, it can be misinterpreted. I can't forbid you from your activities at school, but you need to know that if the wrong person sees what you're doing, they may think you want to join him."
"And kill Muggleborns?" Nymphadora's jaw dropped in horror. "Never!"
"I know, I know, and please keep your voice down," Andromeda urged quietly. "The Dark Lord is better kept away from Hogwarts and away from you. Please promise me that you'll drop this. I will write to Professor Sprout and Professor Dumbledore if I must."
Nymphadora's face fell. Her mouth twitched and her shoulders rose and fell, but when her hands fell limply at her sides, Andromeda knew the battle was over.
"You promise to tell me who died?" she asked quietly. Andromeda touched the Hufflepuff pin on Nymphadora's chest, a gift from Ted for her for Christmas. It was the same pin he'd worn in his school days, which brought memories back to Andromeda's mind whenever she saw it.
"I promise," Andromeda said, holding Nymphadora's chin up with her hand. "I'll find out who it was, but no more. This kind of investigation is for Aurors, not second-year Hufflepuffs."
Nymphadora huffed unhappily but followed Andromeda out of the tapestry room. Fewer than ten minutes remained until midnight, so they hurried downstairs, past the corridor containing severed elf heads adorned with Father Christmas hats, past the moving portraits that berated Nymphadora's colorful hair, and swept into the grand space where the festivities were becoming more boisterous as the clock approached midnight. Andromeda found Byron at once, relieved when it was clear that he hadn't noticed her absence.
"Stay with us, darling," Andromeda told Nymphadora. "After I kiss your father, I'd like to kiss you too."
Byron rose from his seat when two minutes remained until midnight. He wrapped his arm around Andromeda's waist and said, "I thought you'd slipped away from me, Mrs. Travers."
"I went looking for Nymphadora. She was in the tapestry room, admiring the family tree."
"It's a useful activity to acknowledge one's elders. Perhaps there's hope yet for her maturation, given how well she behaved this evening."
"Perhaps," Andromeda murmured. The countdown began, and she gazed up into her husband's dark eyes. As the seconds disappeared, he drew her closer, holding her flush against his body. At that moment, Andromeda knew it was time to give herself the grace to fall in love again.
The clock chimed twelve.
"Happy New Year, Byron," she said softly.
"Happy New Year, Andromeda."
Their lips met for a kiss. She held onto him for just a moment longer than was strictly proper and nipped at his lower lip, eliciting a surprised, but pleased sound from him. When they parted, she could feel the heat radiating from her cheeks and neck, knowing that several pairs of eyes were on them.
She ignored them all. It was time for her to finally find her happily-ever-after.