Chapter 26 – Madam Black
The morning air was brisk, tinged with the moist scent of an overcast sky, as though winter were making a more gentle assertion of its presence over London. The season in the city had a way of nipping at exposed skin, reminding one to keep moving. Daphne Greengrass had dressed sensibly for the weather, her cloak comfortably layered but not overly bulky, the collar turned up just enough to shield her neck from the softer winds. Her boots made a soft, rhythmic click against the cobblestone streets as she made her way toward Gringotts. Accompanying her, wrapped in the same cloak, was Rigel—the captivating black cat with striking blue eyes.
The grand façade of Gringotts rose like a colossal fortress, its towering marble columns and menacing gargoyle statues serving as formidable reminders of the institution's implacability. Even though she was pureblooded, the place had always unnerved her. And Christmas morning was no exception.
Stepping into the bank, Daphne was immediately greeted by the subdued, yellow light that flickered softly from enchanted sconces embedded in the walls. The chandeliers above held a mystical glow, casting mottled shadows on the lavish crimson carpeting. The room was nearly empty, its silence punctuated by the hushed scribbling of quills and the muted clinking of coins from behind the tall, reinforced counters.
Her eyes met those of the goblins—sharp, intelligent, distrustful. Their gazes seemed to bore through her, adding a weight to the air. Daphne couldn't shake off a lingering sense of anxiety. She held Rigel closer to her chest, seeking the reassuring comfort and warmth he provided.
Taking measured steps, Daphne approached one of the counters. The goblin teller, with a quill poised over a ledger, lifted his eyes to examine her. His gaze was as piercing as a hawk's, and for a moment, she hesitated. Then, reminding herself why she was here, she spoke.
"I have a meeting with Madam Black," she said, her voice softer than she had intended. Her fingers tightened around the soft fur of Rigel, who emitted a low purr, as though whispering courage back into her.
The goblin's eyes narrowed momentarily, then flicked towards a timepiece hanging on the wall behind him. "You are a bit early, Miss Greengrass," he said, his voice tinged with a subtle disdain that only someone well-versed in the nuances of high society would detect.
"Yes, well, better early than late," Daphne replied, striving for an aloof tone she didn't truly feel. She pulled her cloak tighter around her and Rigel, as though it could also shield her from the judging eyes that surrounded her.
The goblin made a mark in his ledger. "Very well. Please take a seat. Someone will escort you shortly."
And so, Daphne stepped away from the counter, taking a seat on one of the ornate wooden benches that lined the hall. She kept Rigel in her arms, both a comfort and a confidant, as she waited for what she knew would be a meeting that could very well alter the course of their lives.
A silent pulse of reassurance flowed through the invisible tether that connected Daphne and Rigel. "Don't fret," his voice echoed softly in her mind, a comforting ripple amid her turbulent thoughts. "We've got this, Daphne."
She let out a barely audible sigh, feeling her shoulders drop just a fraction as she leaned back against the bench's ornate wooden frame. Rigel's confidence had a grounding effect on her, the emotional touchstone she often needed when navigating the treacherous waters of her life. He nuzzled her hand, and she stroked his sleek fur, the smooth strands slipping through her fingers like strands of night.
Roughly five minutes had passed—an eternity and yet a heartbeat—when a goblin appeared beside her, his form emerging from the maze of hallways that stretched out like tendrils behind the grand entrance hall. "Miss Greengrass," he announced curtly, "Madam Black is ready to see you now."
Nodding her thanks, she rose, clutching Rigel to her chest as if he were a talisman. The goblin led her down a dim corridor, past numerous doors with inscriptions of languages long forgotten. Finally, they stopped before an ornate door made of what appeared to be mahogany, accented with engravings of mythical creatures locked in eternal battles. The goblin opened the door and gestured for her to enter.
As she stepped into the room, her eyes immediately locked onto Madam Black. She sat behind a lavish desk, the antique wood reflecting the amber glow of a magical lamp. A parchment was spread out before her, its contents hidden from view. But it was her eyes, deep-set and so dark they seemed black, that held Daphne's gaze. They were eyes that had seen too much, understood too much, yet revealed nothing.
"You have an hour," the goblin said tersely to Madam Black. "After that, I'll need my office back." He cast a final, lingering glance at Daphne and Rigel before closing the door, leaving her alone with the formidable woman.
"Please, have a seat," Madam Black said, her voice low but laced with an authority that made the words more of a command than a suggestion.
Daphne complied, settling herself on the leather chair opposite the desk, taking pains to hide the flicker of intimidation she felt under the older woman's scrutiny. She delicately placed Rigel on the table between them, his blue eyes twinkling like twin sapphires.
"Ah, the reason for our meeting," Madam Black said, finally shifting her gaze to Rigel, who sat regally on the table, as if fully aware of the gravity of this encounter. "I trust, Miss Greengrass, that you understand the importance of what we're about to discuss."
Daphne nodded, her fingers lightly touching Rigel's back. He purred softly, filling the air with a sound that was almost, almost, like a note of music in a room thick with silent tension. And for the first time since entering Gringotts, Daphne felt that perhaps they really did have a fighting chance.
Madam Black reached into her robes and pulled out a small velvet box. As she flicked it open, the room seemed to grow quieter, as if the very air held its breath. Nestled in the luxurious lining was a ring—gold, ornate, a single onyx gem in the centre. House sigils were etched into the band, miniature works of art that glistened in the low light.
"Do you know what this is, Miss Greengrass?" Madam Black asked, her dark eyes lifting to gauge Daphne's reaction.
Studying the ring carefully, a spark of recognition lit up Daphne's eyes. "It's a family ring—a Black family ring, to be precise," she said cautiously, aware of the weight of the moment.
Madam Black's lips curled into a slight smile, almost approvingly. "Very good. This ring," she gestured, "is enchanted to recognise members of the Black family. It will validate or refute your claim that this cat is, in fact, Rigel Sirius Black."
Daphne's heart seemed to lodge itself in her throat as she watched Madam Black's fingers delicately lift Rigel's front paw. The room was so quiet that she could hear the whisper of Rigel's fur against the cool wood of the desk. Madam Black positioned the ring in front of his small wrist, and as if activated by some unseen mechanism, the ring stretched and reshaped itself. It wrapped elegantly around Rigel's wrist like an armband, settling into place as though it had always been meant to be there.
A radiant smile broke through Madam Black's usually stern visage. It was a look of pure elation, as if years of puzzle pieces had suddenly fallen into place. "It seems," she said, her voice imbued with something that sounded like awe, "that the ring confirms what Kreacher told me. This is indeed Rigel Black. But how, may I ask, did he end up like this?"
Daphne felt a sense of validation flood her veins, and for the first time, she relaxed into her seat. "It happened on Halloween, in 1981," she began. "As far as Rigel and I have pieced together, he and the Potter family's cat, Jingles, were caught in the crossfire when Voldemort attacked the Potters. The Killing Curse that should have ended their lives seems to have triggered something else. Rigel's soul, or his essence, moved to inhabit Jingles' body. It's a working theory, but the evidence supports it."
Madam Black listened intently, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully as Daphne spoke. "That is an extraordinary tale," she finally said. "It borders on the unbelievable. Yet here we are, and the ring acknowledges him. I am therefore inclined to believe you, Miss Greengrass."
"Very well," Daphne hesitated, her fingers lightly stroking Rigel's soft fur for comfort as she searched for the right words. "Now that we know this is Rigel, what's the next step?"
Madam Black leaned back in her leather chair, a soft creak echoing in the silence as she studied Daphne. "Ah, next steps. Firstly, a reward is in order for bringing the lost heir of the Black family back into the fold, wouldn't you agree?"
Daphne's eyes widened, and she felt a swell of anxious energy within her. "Actually, there's something I was hoping you could help with," she stammered.
Madam Black's eyebrows arched, her dark eyes gleaming with intrigue. "My dear, you should know that I possess sufficient power and resources to make almost anything a reality. Name it, and it shall be done."
Gathering her thoughts, Daphne took a deep breath. "Both my friend Harry Potter and I live with families that are, to put it mildly, abusive. I was hoping you might have the means to help us escape those circumstances."
For a moment, Madam Black looked thoughtful, her eyes narrowing as if contemplating some intricate puzzle. "For Harry Potter, the simplest course of action would be to clear the name of Sirius Black. As his Godfather, he could claim guardianship, thereby removing the boy from his less-than-ideal living conditions."
A surge of anger and bitterness emanated from Rigel through their connection, filling Daphne with an unsettling jolt of emotion.
"That won't do," Daphne said, her voice taking on an unexpected edge. "I can't bear the thought of Harry living with a convicted serial killer."
Madam Black's laughter rang out, a clattering, discordant sound that cut through the room's stifling atmosphere. "A serial killer? My son's only crime was turning his back on his family. Do you truly believe he's guilty?"
Daphne's mind reeled, momentarily thrown off balance. She remembered something Astoria had told her—how their parents had spoken of Sirius Black in hushed tones after he'd broken out of Azkaban. She'd thought little of it then, but now, as she met Madam Black's gaze, a new understanding dawned on her.
"Perhaps you're telling the truth," Daphne mused, her eyes meeting Madam Black's with newfound clarity. "My parents did talk about him, and they seemed quite angry when the news broke of his escape from Azkaban. It felt like they were afraid or threatened, which is odd given that Sirius is said to be a high ranking Death Eater."
Madam Black leaned back in her chair, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully before glimmering with a flicker of inner fire. "Ah, yes, that would make sense. You see, my dear, the upper echelon of Death Eaters always knew Sirius to be innocent. The fact that your parents appeared agitated when he escaped falls in line with that knowledge. He's a wild card they can't control, which makes him a danger to them. Then, Miss Greengrass, it seems we have much to discuss and even more to set in motion."
Madam Black clasped her hands together, her nails resembling delicate, polished talons as they rested on the gleaming desk. "Allow me to clarify, Miss Greengrass. Sirius is innocent of the crimes he's been accused of," she began, a wistful air settling over her features. "I would've struck his name off our family tapestry long ago for abandoning our traditions and principles, but Orion—my late husband—counselled against it. He considered it a form of insurance, suggested we wait until after the war. Wisdom, as it turns out, for few of us Blacks survived the devastation."
Daphne listened intently, feeling the weight of history, regret, and yet a shred of hope in Madam Black's words. Rigel nudged her hand softly, as if reassuring her they were on the right path.
"Regarding Harry Potter," Madam Black continued, her eyes locking onto Daphne's, "I'll see to it that Sirius is granted a fair trial, where he will undoubtedly be acquitted. However, it's imperative that he turn himself in willingly. Resisting arrest would only complicate matters."
A ripple of understanding flowed through Daphne, her eyes brightening. "And you believe Sirius will try to contact Harry soon?"
Madam Black chuckled softly, a sound like rustling silk. "If I know my son, and despite his errant ways, I believe I do, he won't be able to resist reaching out to his godson. When that happens," she leaned forward slightly, emphasising her point, "you must convince him to surrender to the authorities. Can you do that?"
Daphne paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she considered another facet of the situation. "What about the 'kiss on sight' order for Sirius Black? If he were to turn himself in under the current conditions, wouldn't he be subject to the Dementor's Kiss?"
Madam Black steepled her fingers, a wry smile crossing her lips. "Ah, astute as ever, my dear. You are correct; as it stands, Sirius would be in considerable peril. However, it will take me but a few days, a couple of weeks at most, to call in favours and place the appropriate bribes to have that order rescinded. I can ensure that he will be afforded a fair trial."
Reassured by this, Daphne nodded, her eyes meeting Madam Black's with a steadfast resolve. "I understand, and I agree with your plan. When Sirius shows up, we'll make sure he does the right thing."
Madam Black nodded approvingly, her face reflecting a mix of satisfaction and relief. "Excellent. Then we have ourselves an agreement, and a course of action to embark upon."
Daphne felt the anxiety that had gripped her since she entered Gringotts begin to wane.
A contemplative sigh escaped Madam Black's lips, breaking the silence that had settled between them. "Your situation, Miss Greengrass, is rather more delicate," she began, her gaze falling upon the carefully arranged stacks of parchment on her desk. "Harry is living with Muggles, and his godfather is soon to be exonerated. But you— you are a pureblood, a member of the Sacred Twenty-eight no less. I can't merely waltz in and ask your parents for guardianship without arousing significant suspicion."
Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully, as if she were searching through a labyrinthine library of ideas within her own mind. After a moment that felt like an eternity to Daphne, she finally spoke. "I have a proposition, but whether or not you'll find it agreeable is another matter entirely."
Curiosity piqued, Daphne leaned forward slightly. "What is your idea, Madam Black?"
The matriarch of the Black family gestured toward Rigel, who was looking back and forth between them with an intuitive awareness only animals—or perhaps humans trapped in animal bodies—could possess. "My primary objective is to restore my grandson to his human form. I will employ every resource, every spell, and every potion until we achieve that end."
As Madam Black spoke, Daphne could feel a surge of hope emanate from Rigel through their emotional connection. It was a warm, uplifting sensation, like sunlight breaking through clouds on a gloomy day.
"Once that goal is achieved," Madam Black continued, her eyes narrowing into slits of calculated intent, "extracting you from your family would become rather straightforward."
Understanding dawned on both Daphne and Rigel simultaneously, like a bolt of lightning illuminating a dark sky.
Madam Black's lips curled into a sly grin. "Rigel will inherit the title of Lord Black. It is crucial for the continued legacy of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black that he has an appropriate wife. Someone like you, Miss Greengrass— pure for generations, part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, beautiful and delicate as a rare flower. You would be a most suitable match."
"So, you're suggesting a betrothal contract between Rigel and me?" Daphne's voice trembled just a touch, betraying her mix of apprehension and curiosity.
"Precisely," Madam Black affirmed, her eyes gleaming like dark jewels. "A contract drawn so tightly, with a dowry so substantial, that even your parents would find it irresistible. The terms would require me to serve as your guardian, and for you and Rigel to cohabit— to get to know each other better, of course. I would ensure the contract is ironclad, unbreakable by any magical means."
Daphne felt the full weight of Madam Black's words settle around her, a mixture of daring hope and formidable responsibility. It was an audacious plan, a gamble of sorts, but one that might offer her and Rigel—and even Harry—a real chance at a better life.
Rigel's thoughts rippled through their mental connection, as immediate and palpable as the air around them. "You don't have to agree to this, Daphne. Don't feel pressured."
She offered Rigel a slight nod, her eyes meeting his for a brief but poignant moment before turning back to Madam Black. "Your plan is intriguing and, frankly, it could work. But it's a significant decision for both of us. I would like to discuss it with Rigel before making a final choice."
Madam Black's eyes softened a notch, as if she were considering the weight of Daphne's request. "Very well. But I would like to take Rigel with me immediately. Time is of the essence if we are to restore his human form."
At this, Rigel let out an unmistakable hiss, his tail flicking in discontent. Daphne hastily interjected, "We'd rather not be separated. Before jumping into any experiments, perhaps you should focus on research. Come summer, if you've found a promising lead, I can bring Rigel over then."
Madam Black chuckled—a sound that came out as both amused and admiring. "You're rather bold, Miss Greengrass. Very well, considering my grandson's evident reluctance, I shall proceed with research for the time being."
She snapped her fingers, and the air shimmered before Kreacher materialised. "Kreacher, you will answer to Miss Greengrass for now. You shall assist her in matters concerning Rigel."
The house-elf bowed deeply, "Yes, Mistress." He said, before popping away again.
"Consider using Kreacher as a means of rapid communication, much swifter than owls," Madam Black added, turning her gaze back to Daphne.
Daphne nodded. It was a generous offer, and the house-elf could be invaluable in the days to come.
Madam Black glanced at the ornate clock on the desk, its hands whispering the passage of time. "Our time is nearly at an end," she said, her eyes meeting Daphne's. "I believe my account manager will be wanting his office back shortly. It's best we vacate."
Daphne felt the weight of the moment but also sensed an unanswered question lingering in the air. "Before we go," she interjected, feeling Rigel's small body shift inquisitively on her lap, "may I ask one last quick question about Rigel?"
Madam Black looked pleased at the inquiry. "Of course, my dear. What would you like to know?"
Daphne hesitated for just a moment, searching the older woman's eyes. "When is Rigel's birthday?"
A flick of Madam Black's wrist summoned Kreacher, the house-elf appearing almost instantaneously by her side. "Kreacher," she ordered, "fetch me Rigel's birth certificate."
With a dutiful bow, the house-elf popped away and returned mere moments later, cradling a parchment sealed with the ornate Black family crest. Madam Black took it from him and unfurled it delicately, her eyes scanning the lines of ink. "Ah, here it is," she announced, her gaze lifting to meet Daphne's. "Rigel was born on the 27th of January, 1978."
Gratitude warmed Daphne from within. This small yet significant detail felt like another piece falling into place. "Thank you, Madam Black. That means a lot to me."
With a soft smile, Daphne rose gracefully from her seat. Rigel leapt onto her shoulder, his body language exuding a feline form of gratitude. "Goodbye, Madam Black, and thank you for everything," Daphne said, locking eyes with the matron one last time. "We shall be in touch soon."
"And I shall eagerly await your decision," Madam Black replied, her eyes lingering on them as they departed.
Daphne exited Gringotts, her heart pounding with a blend of exhilaration and apprehension. As she made her way toward the Leaky Cauldron, the early morning light felt brighter, the air fresher, as if the world itself sensed the precipice of change she now stood upon.
With Rigel securely on her shoulder, she stepped into the magical pub, ready to floo her way back to Tracey's home. She couldn't help but feel that the year ahead was going to be unlike any other, and in that moment, both she and Rigel braced themselves for the uncertainty—and the hope—that lay ahead.
~~~o~~~
Harry awoke in the sepulchral silence of Hogwarts' Gryffindor Tower, enveloped by the profound stillness that pervaded the castle during the winter holidays. Sunlight streamed through frost-rimed windowpanes, leaving dappling patterns on the polished wooden floor and casting a soft radiance over the otherwise vacant dormitory. Hermione, Neville, Tracey, Daphne, and even Rigel, the enigmatic feline, had all left for the holidays. The vast castle, a repository of magic and history, felt almost like a beautiful but empty mausoleum during these times.
Pushing off the covers and yawning, Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed, slid into his socks, and ambled down to the Gryffindor common room. When he reached the bottom of the staircase, he was greeted by the twinkling lights of a Christmas tree, its branches festooned with magical ornaments that hovered, pirouetted, and blinked intermittently. Although he had never experienced the warmth of a familial Christmas celebration—thanks to the Dursleys—Hogwarts had always managed to fill some of that emptiness. But now, he noticed something that genuinely surprised him: a golden-wrapped package, shaped suspiciously like a broom, lying under the tree, adorned with a tag bearing his name.
Curiosity kindled within him. He and his friends had agreed to exchange gifts in person after the holidays. None of them had mentioned sending anything ahead of time.
He knelt beside the package, his fingers delicately pulling at the golden paper. The wrappings fell away to reveal a Firebolt, the pinnacle of broomstick engineering. Its handle was polished to a gleaming finish, and the twigs at its base were of the finest, most aerodynamically perfect quality. His heart soared at the sight of it; he had been reluctant to invest in a new broom after the demoralising loss of his Nimbus 2000 earlier in the year.
Eager for some hint of the sender, Harry searched the vacated wrappings and package, but there was no note, no clue as to who could have given him this wondrous gift.
Harry's eyes roved the common room, taking in the red and gold decor, the flickering embers in the fireplace, the inviting armchairs that sat empty, waiting for occupants who wouldn't return until the term resumed. Despite the questions that fogged his mind, a spark of hope ignited within him. It was as if some unseen benefactor had known precisely what he needed, and when he needed it most.
He ran his fingers over the smooth, cool surface of the Firebolt's handle, already imagining himself soaring over the Quidditch pitch, feeling the wind against his face, reclaiming a piece of joy that had been ripped away. And in that solitary moment, in the near-silence of a nearly deserted castle, Harry felt a profound sense of gratitude. Whoever had sent this had given him more than just a broom; they had given him a piece of hope, a fragment of belonging, a magical whisper that told him he was not entirely alone.
~~~o~~~
Days drifted by like wisps of snow carried on a winter wind, each settling into the silent corridors of Hogwarts and dissipating before Harry could mark them. The parchment and quill on his bedside table became his best company, scrawling replies to the letters that arrived from his friends.
From Hermione, a long, winding tale of a cosy Muggle Christmas complete with an in-depth explanation of various traditions—Christmas crackers, figgy pudding, and all. Neville's letter talked of his grandmother's stern but strangely comforting celebrations, where magical plants like Snargaluff and Mimbulus mimbletonia occupied places of honour among traditional decorations.
A letter came from Tracey, its handwriting neat and cursive, recounting a very different sort of Christmas. She wrote of her time with Daphne and Rigel: how they had brewed their own batch of magical eggnog, with Rigel effortlessly controlling a spoon with a flicker of his magic to stir the pot. The Davis estate, it seemed, was both grand and enchanting, a backdrop of opulence where laughter rang out against crystal chandeliers, and twinkling fairy lights danced across the faces of ornate portraits. They'd exchanged gifts under a towering spruce tree, and though Tracey was light on specifics, she mentioned Daphne was "otherwise engaged" for part of the holiday and that there was much to discuss when they returned.
Daphne's own letter was terse and somewhat evasive on details, a touch of mystery clouding her words. She confirmed that she had a very important meeting but said she would only talk about it when they met in person. Harry felt a prickle of curiosity, but decided to respect her request for the moment.
With New Year's Eve approaching, even the nearly deserted castle could not ignore the promise of a new beginning. The few students and faculty who remained were privy to a Hogwarts tradition—celebrating the occasion with a spectacle in the Great Hall. Professors animatedly discussed their plans in hushed tones in the corridors, and by the time the clock hands touched the stroke of midnight, the Great Hall had transformed.
The enchanted ceiling, often a mimicry of the sky outside, now erupted in a symphony of lights and colours. Magical fireworks, intricately woven by the staff, burst forth in blooms of orange, red, and gold, their sparks trailing down like twinkling stars, cascading over the heads of the audience. Blue and green flames danced, intermingling with the traditional hues, each explosion sending ripples of awe through the Great Hall.
The sprawling tables were laden with an array of delicacies that looked like they'd been conjured from dreams: shimmering goblets of sparkling apple cider, platters of roasted meats that seemed to glisten under the lights, and cakes that frosted themselves with the wave of a wand. For that fleeting moment, the Great Hall was a capsule of joy and anticipation, holding within its walls the hopes and aspirations of a new year, a turning page in the intricate tapestry of time.
As Harry watched the vibrant spectacle above him, surrounded by a scant crowd of students and faculty, he couldn't help but think about the coming term. Daphne's cryptic messages, Hermione's endless curiosity, Neville's growing confidence, and the unique mystery that was Rigel—each added a layer to the intricate puzzle of his life. And while he had no way of knowing what the new year would bring, at that moment, enveloped in the brilliance of magical fireworks, Harry felt that anything was possible. A kaleidoscope of possibilities swirled through his mind as the last firework fizzled out, leaving behind a soft glow that slowly faded into the enchanted night sky. But the sense of hope, as effervescent as the bursting lights above, lingered on.
On New Year's Day, the first rays of morning light filtered through the frost-laden windowpanes of Harry's lonely dorm room. He sat on the edge of his bed, parchment unfurling between his hands, and began to read. Tracey's penmanship danced across the page in elegant loops and swirls, each stroke tinged with the sort of mischief he had come to associate with her.
The letter was full of descriptions of the New Year celebrations at the Davis Estate, replete with magical fireworks and enchanted snowflakes that melted into champagne as they touched your lips. But Tracey quickly moved beyond the decorous formalities. She taunted him about how much she missed him, how the castle must be dreary without her to "spice things up."
Harry felt his cheeks warm at her next paragraph. "I hope you'll think to gift me another bottle of that bath potion you gave me for my birthday," she wrote. "The evenings here can be dreadfully long and dull, and a few more enchanted baths would certainly make them more bearable."
The thought of Tracey, cloaked in bubbles and the steamy mist of a hot bath, was enough to make Harry's imagination run wild. She knew exactly where to poke at his vulnerabilities, to send his thoughts spiralling.
Finally, Tracey dropped the bombshell: "I've attached a special picture to this letter, just for your eyes, Harry."
His heart rate spiked. His eyes darted away from the letter and toward the cloth-wrapped rectangle that lay near the envelope on his bed. The temptation to look was almost overpowering, fuelled by a sudden whirlpool of conjecture and curiosity. What could this picture be, if not something... indecorous?
With shaky hands, Harry picked up the cloth-wrapped item, and for a moment, he held it aloft, like a sacred relic. But then his eyes flickered back to the parchment.
Harry's eyes devoured the remaining lines of the letter, each word a tantalising clue to the enigmatic Tracey. "I know you don't have a camera, Harry," she wrote. "So you'll have to show me how much you like this picture—personally."
The letter ended with a flourish. "See you soon, Harry. Make sure you have some 'fun' for the rest of the holidays." A winking face was drawn next to the word 'fun,' its insinuation loaded with possibilities.
Harry's eyes fell upon the signatures below. Daphne's name was elegantly penned, each letter a model of grace and restraint. Next to it was something even more endearing—a paw mark inked in the margin, unmistakably Rigel's. Love from Tracey, Daphne, and Rigel. A triad of affection that managed to travel across distances, right into his lonely dorm room.
His heart pounding, Harry finally laid the letter aside and focused on the cloth-wrapped rectangle that had been commanding his attention. His hands trembled slightly as he carefully unfolded the fabric, his thoughts teetering on the precipice of expectation and apprehension. What would he find? How far had Tracey dared to go?
His fingers pulled back the last fold of cloth, revealing the picture within. The anticipation that had been flooding his system abruptly retreated, replaced by a warmth that sank deep into his soul. Unlike the static photos of the Muggle world, this was a magical image alive with motion and spirit. Tracey's eyes twinkled in an eternal loop of mischief as she seemed to giggle and lean into Daphne, who, in her own graceful manner, smiled at the camera while brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Rigel, ever the bundle of energy, appeared to leap joyfully into the frame over and over, as if caught in a delightful spell of perpetual motion.
The intimacy of the animated picture swept through him. It was as if they had opened a window to let him peer into their holiday celebration, and he felt like he'd been there with them, even if only for the repeating moments captured in a magical photograph. Any lascivious thoughts were promptly evicted from his mind, replaced by the genuine warmth of friendship.
Yet, as he watched Tracey's twinkling eyes cycle through their dance of mischief, a plan began to form. Tracey had played her cards masterfully, but now it was his turn. She had baited him with expectation, only to switch the lure with affection. She deserved to be teased back, and Harry was now more than ever determined to get even. With a grin spreading across his face, Harry gently placed the picture on his nightstand, next to a stack of spellbooks and a half-empty inkwell. Oh yes, he would get back at Tracey, and he couldn't wait to see the look on her face when he did.
~~~o~~~
The magical carriages deposited students back at the gates of Hogwarts, signalling the end of the holiday season. Chatter and laughter filled the air, as if the school had awoken from a long winter's nap. When Harry caught sight of Hermione, Tracey, Daphne, and Neville in the sea of returning students, a rush of warmth replaced the biting January cold.
After the welcoming feast—which featured a dessert that looked suspiciously like fireworks in a nod to the New Year—the group decided to reconvene in the Room of Requirement. As they stepped inside, the room transformed itself into a cosy lounge filled with plush chairs and a roaring fireplace, as if anticipating the deep conversations and laughter that were to fill its enchanted walls.
No sooner had Harry settled into his seat than Tracey approached him, her eyes twinkling with a glint of mischief. She leaned in, her voice dipped in a sultry tone that would make even the most composed wizard blush.
"So, Harry, did you enjoy that special little picture I sent you?" She grinned, waiting for the bait to set.
Harry looked at her, his eyes meeting hers. He decided then and there to play her game, to dance to the tune she was so delightfully orchestrating.
"Oh, you have no idea," he began, mirroring her seductive tone. "That picture was... deeply moving. The sheer artistry, the emotional depth—I was practically spellbound."
Tracey blinked, her playful smirk momentarily faltering. She wasn't expecting Harry to pick up on her teasing so effortlessly. The air between them thickened, and the other friends glanced up from their own conversations, sensing the electric exchange.
"Yeah?" Tracey raised an eyebrow, recovering her playful composure. "Well, it's not every day one sends such a 'deeply moving' piece of art."
Harry grinned triumphantly, "Oh, but of course. I felt so inspired, I think I'll frame it—maybe even place it on my nightstand so it's the last thing I see before sleep and the first thing I see when I wake up."
A ripple of laughter erupted from their friends, but the two didn't break eye contact, each revelling in the other's gameplay. Oh yes, the new term was off to a delightful start, and Harry couldn't help but feel that the game of wits between him and Tracey had just reached a delightful new level.
Daphne, sensing the need to steer the conversation back into more communal waters, decided it was time to interrupt the electric exchange between Harry and Tracey.
"Alright, you two, save the banter for later. We're all excited to share our holiday gifts, but before we get into that, I think it's time to share something I didn't want to write in a letter. As you know, I had a meeting with Madam Black during the break," Daphne announced, turning her gaze to each face around her. Rigel, curled up on a cushion next to her chair, looked up, his blue eyes attentive.
In the glow of the fireplace, her friends leaned in, their faces etched with varying degrees of curiosity and concern. Daphne recounted the meeting, touching on Madam Black's efforts to restore Rigel's human form and the older witch's intention to clear Sirius Black's name so that Harry could leave the Dursleys for good. She purposefully omitted any mention of the proposed betrothal contract, feeling it was not the right moment to drop that particular bombshell.
After her summary, she looked around, noticing the surprise that tinged each of their faces. Harry, in particular, seemed taken aback, his emerald eyes searching hers with a mix of astonishment and scepticism.
Harry's eyes narrowed, still locked onto Daphne's. "Are you absolutely sure about all this? It's not exactly small talk, Daphne. Sirius Black betrayed my parents to Voldemort," he said, a touch of bitterness infusing his words. "If you're wrong, or if she's lying, the stakes are pretty high, don't you think?"
Daphne looked straight into Harry's searching eyes, not flinching from the hard gaze. "Madam Black wants something from us, something she can't have unless we're willing to give it—Rigel. If she's found out to be deceiving us, she loses any chance at what she wants. She has nothing to gain from lying, Harry."
Harry stared at her, the gears visibly turning behind his emerald eyes. Finally, he leaned back into his chair, breaking eye contact as he looked at the fireplace. "I suppose that makes some sense. But what about Rigel? Isn't this... dangerous for him?"
Daphne glanced down at Rigel, who looked back at her with an almost uncanny understanding. "Yes, it's dangerous," she admitted softly. "But I have faith in him. Still, it's a risk. One we'll all need to weigh."
Harry looked at her, then at Rigel, and seemed to reach some internal resolution. "Alright, then. We proceed cautiously, keeping our eyes wide open."
Daphne nodded, appreciating the newfound gravity in Harry's demeanour. Sometimes life thrust upon you decisions wrapped in layers of risk, but when the potential rewards were freedom and family, perhaps the gamble was worth it.
Tracey, sensing the heavy atmosphere beginning to solidify, interjected with a theatrical clearing of her throat. "Alright, moving from jailbreaks and life-changing decisions, how about we lighten the mood with some Christmas gift exchanges?"
Harry, grateful for the change in subject, stood up. "Before we do that, I've got something to show you all. Give me a second." He walked to the back of the room, where he'd stashed a long, slender package. Returning, he carefully unwrapped the cloth, revealing a broom that seemed to practically hum with magical energy.
It was a Firebolt.
Daphne's eyes widened, her magical senses tingling at the aura emanating from the superb piece of craftsmanship. "Merlin's beard, Harry! That's a Firebolt! Do you know how advanced this broom is?"
"Absolutely, I know," Harry said, his eyes shining with uncontained enthusiasm as he looked at Daphne. "It's a Firebolt—fastest broom in the world, isn't it? But here's the mystery: it came without a note. No clue who sent it, can you believe that?"
However, it was Hermione who voiced a note of caution. "Harry, that's incredibly generous, but don't you think it's a bit suspicious? There's no note, you don't know who it's from. What if it's cursed or something?"
Harry blinked, his excitement dimming. "You know, I hadn't thought of that. But for the record, I haven't ridden it yet."
Just then, Rigel, who had been lounging lazily on one of the plush chairs, sat up, his golden eyes locking onto Harry's. In Parseltongue, he hissed, "You have become proficient enough in sensing magic, Harry. Why don't you check the broom? I doubt someone could curse it without leaving a trace."
Nodding, Harry held the broom carefully in his hands, his eyes half-closed as he focused his senses. The others, sensing his intent, followed suit, each extending their own magical perception towards the broom. The air in the room thickened with concentration, the magical currents swirling as each of them probed the object.
After what felt like an eternity but was likely only a few seconds, they collectively exhaled, their gazes meeting.
"Nothing," Harry finally said, the tension leaving his body.
Daphne shook her head, also smiling. "No, nothing malicious here. Just an extraordinarily powerful piece of magical engineering."
The friends exchanged glances, a symphony of relief and curiosity playing out in their eyes. The Firebolt was indeed a marvel, but the question still loomed in the enchanted air of the room—just who had sent such a lavish gift? And why?
"Well, whoever sent it," Tracey said, breaking the silence, "they obviously think very highly of you, Harry."
"Yeah, high enough to drop a small fortune on a broom," Neville added, sounding incredulous but pleased.
Harry looked down at the Firebolt, then back at his friends. Their faces were alight with joy and a little wonder, and while the mystery remained, for now, the sense of camaraderie in the room felt like the truest form of magic.
"Right, shall we get to the other gifts then?" Harry suggested, setting the broom aside carefully.
Tracey clasped her hands together in a theatrical display of enthusiasm. "Oh, this is just perfect. I have to go first; my gift for Harry fits in so well with the Firebolt surprise."
Amid nods and sounds of agreement, she leaned over to a stack of festively wrapped gifts on a nearby table, selecting a rectangular box wrapped in silver paper that twinkled under the warm light of the room. With a grin, she handed it to Harry.
Eager but cautious, Harry tore through the paper. When he opened the box, his eyes widened in surprise and appreciation. It was a broom-servicing kit—but not just any kit. It was a deluxe version, complete with miniature polish pots of varying finishes, an array of fine-tipped brushes, and a small book on broom care bound in dragonhide.
Tracey beamed at him. "I knew you were looking to get a new broom, so I thought you might want the proper kit to keep it in tip-top shape."
Harry looked up from the impressive set, his eyes meeting Tracey's. "This is incredibly thoughtful, Tracey. Thank you."
But then, Tracey's voice took on that all-too-familiar sultry tone, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "Well, I'd be more than happy to help you polish your broom sometime. Not that I doubt your own polishing skills. But I think it'd be quite the experience to do it together."
It was a struggle—a formidable one—for Harry to keep his imagination from wandering far off course, and equally challenging not to let his cheeks betray him with a rosy flush. He had to respect Tracey's ability to play her game so well.
Raising an eyebrow and smirking, Harry found his voice. "Oh, I'm sure it would be, but you already 'help' me plenty with my 'broom polishing' as it is."
Laughter erupted from Tracey at his response, a throaty chuckle that signified her approval of his come-back. Hermione, on the other hand, looked as though she'd swallowed something particularly sour, her eyes widened in a mix of shock and disbelief. Daphne simply rolled her eyes, leaning down to pet Rigel, who was now lounging comfortably at her feet. Neville seemed to suddenly find the ceiling fascinating, his ears reddening as if they were under a stinging hex.
Harry leaned back in his plush chair, his eyes twinkling as he caught Tracey's gaze. "Well, it's only fair that I give you your gift now, isn't it?"
He reached behind his chair where a small pile of wrapped gifts was nestled and retrieved a bottle-shaped package wrapped in shimmering emerald paper. With a grin, he handed it to Tracey.
A ripple of intrigue moved through the room as Tracey unwrapped the gift. Her eyes widened when she saw another bottle of that special bath potion Harry had given her on her birthday. It was a luxurious potion that transformed the water into a shimmering cascade of colours and fragrances, a personalised spa experience, really.
Harry cleared his throat, drawing her attention to a small card that had been nestled in the wrapping paper. "You might want to read the note."
With a curious frown, Tracey picked up the small card and unfolded it. Her eyes scanned Harry's handwriting. It was a voucher of sorts, offering "one free session of hands-on assistance in enjoying the potion."
Looking up from the card, Tracey locked eyes with Harry, a wicked grin spreading across her face. Harry responded by wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. The room burst into laughter at their unspoken exchange, the tension breaking like a charm.
"Trust me, Harry, you'll regret offering this," Tracey said, pocketing the voucher as she moved toward him for a hug. But her voice held no real warning, only the melody of teasing affection.
Harry pulled her into a warm embrace, holding her close and sharing the richness of her laughter. It was a moment suspended in time, full of the potential for more delightful games and warm friendship.
Finally, Daphne spoke up, her voice cutting through the laughter like a silver knife. "Alright, now that we've gotten all the flirtatious gifts out of the way, shall we proceed with the normal ones?"
Her suggestion was met with nods and murmurs of agreement. One by one, they handed out their presents, sharing not just material gifts but fragments of their hearts. The room filled with expressions of gratitude, exclamations of surprise, and moments where words were unnecessary, the simple touch of a hand or a knowing look saying it all.
Each present unwrapped contributed to the tapestry of their friendships, each one a thread woven into the fabric of their lives at Hogwarts. And so they sat, surrounded by the warmth of the fireplace and the even greater warmth of companionship.
Hermione shuffled in her seat, her eyes bright with anticipation. "Actually, I have one last gift. It's for Rigel."
The small black cat blinked up at her, his eyes filled with curiosity, betraying not a hint of expectation.
"You didn't think you'd be left out, did you?" Hermione said as she carefully unwrapped the package. It revealed a small container brimming with dried green herbs—catnip.
"In the Muggle world," Hermione began, "it's quite common for people to give their cats catnip or toys scented with it. I remember Daphne mentioning that Rigel enjoyed the catnip I gave him in our first year. So I thought, why not let him experience it again, especially now that he can communicate how it feels through Daphne?"
Her words hung in the air for a moment, mingled with the flickering light of the fireplace, before she carefully opened the container and set it in front of Rigel.
Rigel approached cautiously, sniffing the catnip before taking a tentative bite. Almost instantly, his demeanour changed. With a sudden burst of vigour, Rigel dashed around the room, skidding over the plush carpets and leaping onto armrests, full of feline enthusiasm. His wild antics were a spectacle, leaving the room filled with laughter and warm smiles.
Amidst the mirth, Daphne scribbled a message on a small piece of parchment. "Rigel's Birthday is on the 27th of January—let's plan something for him," it read. Carefully, so as not to attract Rigel's attention from his manic spree, she began to pass it around to the others.
As she sat back, Daphne could feel Rigel's contentment flow through their magical connection like a gentle stream. In that room, surrounded by friends and warmed by the fire's glow, they both knew that they were part of something special, something that extended beyond gifts and festive seasons. And in that moment, everything felt right in the world.
As the effects of the catnip began to wane, Rigel sauntered back to Daphne, his tail curling elegantly as he jumped into her lap. His blue eyes looked softer, lighter, as if years had been peeled away from them.
"He says he felt a surge of energy, followed by a sense of pure, unadulterated bliss," Daphne relayed, her fingers stroking Rigel's fur. "And he'd like to thank you, Hermione, for such an exhilarating experience."
Hermione's face beamed like the morning sun breaking through a curtain of clouds. "You're very welcome, Rigel."
As the enchanted clock on the mantel chimed, signalling the encroachment of curfew, the friends nestled deeper into their seats, their eyes captivated by the dance of flames in the fireplace.
Then Hermione, ever the diligent student, shifted her gaze from the fire back to the present. "You know, if everything goes according to Madam Black's plan, both Harry and Rigel will have new chapters in their lives. But what about you, Daphne? Did Madam Black offer any insights into your situation?"
A flicker of unreadable emotion flashed through Daphne's eyes. "Madam Black did mention that my situation was... complex," she said, maintaining her cool composure. "She promised to look into options, but no concrete plans were discussed."
Harry couldn't let that hang in the air unanswered. "Well, if everything works out and Rigel and I claim our titles, we should have enough influence to help you too, Daphne."
Gratitude swam in the azure depths of Daphne's eyes as she pulled Rigel closer to her. "Thank you, Harry. That means more than you could ever know."
The clock's chimes grew more insistent, a kindly reminder that the magical evening had to come to an end, at least for now. Reluctantly, the friends began to rise from their seats, the weight of curfew hanging heavier with each passing second.
"Goodnight, everyone," Daphne said softly, her voice imbued with the kind of warmth that could only come from a heart genuinely touched.
"Goodnight," they all echoed, their voices tinged with the promise of many more nights like this to come.
And so, the friends parted ways, exiting the Room of Requirement and meandering through the labyrinthine corridors of Hogwarts, each heading towards their respective common rooms.
The door to Daphne's room closed with a soft click, as if it were a whisper in a library. Her silken nightgown glided against her skin like a feather's touch as she moved around her room. Her eyes fell on Rigel, who was perched regally on her bed, his blue eyes almost luminescent in the dim light.
Through their magical link, she felt a ripple of something akin to sadness. It was subtle but unmissable, like the murmuring of a distant stream.
"Why didn't you tell them about the betrothal contract my grandmother suggested?" His thoughts brushed against her consciousness, laced with an undercurrent of uncertainty. "Is it because you're uncomfortable with it?"
Daphne picked him up carefully and nestled him into her arms. His fur was an oasis of softness, and she clung to the comforting sensation it offered.
"No, Rigel, it's not discomfort," she said, her voice tinged with vulnerability. "I find myself in a place of disbelief, actually. You see, for years I've had plans to secure a betrothal contract with some grey or light heir, any who would have me, as a way to escape the iron grip of my family. I knew such an arrangement would likely be devoid of love or even basic decency. But it was a price I was willing to pay for freedom."
She met his luminescent eyes, and for a moment they were two souls bare before each other. "And here you are—an opportunity not just to escape, but to be with someone I genuinely care for, someone who is incredibly important to me. I can hardly wrap my mind around it. I'm afraid it's all some intricate illusion or that maybe you won't regain your human form, and this fleeting hope will crumble into nothing."
As she spoke, her eyes welled up, and a single tear slid down her cheek, leaving a glistening trail in its wake.
Rigel raised his head to nuzzle her, his fur wiping away the wetness of her tears. His purring resonated with a comforting vibration, as if he were trying to weave a tapestry of reassurance around her breaking heart.
"Don't cry, Daphne," his thoughts came through, laden with tenderness. "We cannot foresee what awaits us, but we have the 'now,' and we have each other. That's more certainty than most ever get."
Daphne's tears ebbed away as she hugged him close, her arms tightening just a bit. And there, in that cocoon of warmth and vulnerability, they clung to the fragile yet unbreakable hope that perhaps they would find a way to write their own futures, against all odds.
~~~o~~~
The air in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom felt thick with tension as the students filed in. Where Professor Remus Lupin's gentle, understanding aura usually filled the space, now loomed the ominous presence of Professor Severus Snape. He stood beside the instructor's desk, cloaked in his usual layers of disdain, as his dark eyes surveyed the room like a hawk. His glare swept across the classroom, stopping briefly on Harry, as though daring him to misbehave. A shiver of apprehension slid down Harry's spine, unsettling yet familiar.
Lupin had been conspicuously absent for several days that year, his reasons always vaguely cited as illness. Students generally missed his compassionate teaching style on these days, and Harry was no exception. He had something important to discuss with Lupin—something involving Sirius Black's alleged innocence. But now, with Snape glaring down at them all, it seemed that conversation would have to wait.
"Since Professor Lupin is...indisposed," Snape drawled, the last word tinged with a measure of scorn, "I shall endeavour to educate you in matters you are woefully ignorant of—werewolves."
A hushed murmur of surprise wove its way through the room, silenced immediately by Snape's piercing stare. Hermione's hand shot into the air, her eyes glowing with interest. Snape ignored her, choosing instead to open the textbook to a particular page filled with grim illustrations of werewolves in various stages of transformation.
"As you might be aware, werewolves can be extremely dangerous," Snape began, pacing the front of the room as his robes swished ominously around him. "It would be prudent for you to understand their habits, their cycles, and how to defend yourselves."
Daphne caught Harry's eye from a few seats away. There was a thoughtful concern etched onto her face, a contemplative shadow that told Harry she too wondered about the frequency of Lupin's illnesses and Snape's choice of lesson topic.
The class was an excruciating march through grim details, gruesome accounts, and horrifying scenarios. Snape's tone throughout was a mix of disdain for having to teach the class and subtle relish at the discomfort he was inflicting on the students. Yet Harry's mind kept drifting back to Lupin. Was he alright? And when would he have the chance to broach the subject of Sirius Black?
As Snape finally concluded his lecture, assigning a lengthy essay on methods to combat a werewolf, Harry packed his books and quills away, a sigh of resignation escaping his lips.
"The conversation can wait," Harry thought to himself as he left the classroom, his boots echoing on the stone floors. "Lupin's health comes first, and when he's back, we'll have all the time to discuss Sirius."
But even as he reassured himself, a small nagging voice in the back of his mind warned him—time was one thing they might not have much of. And as he moved down the corridor, his thoughts oscillated between concern for his teacher and the pending mystery that wrapped itself around Sirius Black—two enigmas, bound inextricably to the growing labyrinth of his third year at Hogwarts.