On Christmas Day, Bronach woke curled in Arwen's arms, her back to Aragorn's chest, and everything was right in the world for a long, peaceful moment.
They'd returned to sharing a bed as soon as they arrived at Grimmauld, but she didn't think she'd ever grow accustomed to the easy familiarity of it, at least not for a long time. Arwen seemed to sense her thoughts, the arm slung over her tightening just a hair to draw them closer together.
Aragorn stirred, his breath warm against the nape of her neck where her braid had fallen away during the night. "Good morning," he murmured, voice rough with sleep.
"Morning," she said, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb the moment.
"A good morning indeed," Arwen said, pressing a kiss to Bronach's forehead, slow and lingering. They'd been cautious about intimacy, desiring to tell the truth if their relationship was ever questioned, but none of them had been willing to give up this, not behind the best wards Bronach had ever seen.
"The others will be rising eventually," Bronach said after a long moment. "We had best consider rising."
As she said that, the wards vibrated gently against her senses. Someone was approaching the suite door, and she sat up with a frown.
"What is it?" Aragorn shifted, propping himself up as well.
"You feel that?" she asked, glancing at him.
"On the edge of my senses," he said, frowning slightly. "Like someone stalking you through the woods, but not?"
"That's the wards," she said, squirming out from between them as whoever it was drew closer. "Someone's coming to visit us."
"Oh, is that what they feel like?" Arwen said, sitting up and reaching for her dressing gown.
"That you can feel them at all without our bonding being officially complete here is beyond belief," Bronach told them, drawing her dressing gown over her nightgown and sliding her feet into her slippers. "I'll go see who it is."
A light knock came as she made her way through the sitting room, and she waved a hand at the sconces on the wall to dimly light the room before she opened the door a crack.
Sirius grinned back at her, with Remus peering over his shoulder. "Merry Christmas," her godfather said, and brandished a sack at her. "We brought gifts!"
She eyed it warily. "That better not be Buckbeak's breakfast."
"No, no dead rats," he assured her with a grin. "But Remus and I thought we'd do family gifts before the rest are awake."
"Let me ask," Bronach said, and after a moment's thought, she opened the door to let them in. "Wait in the sitting room," she told her godfather sternly as he bounced inside, glancing around eagerly. "Merry Christmas Remus," she said, as he followed Sirius in.
"Are we celebrating early?" Arwen said, coming out of the bedroom. Clearly, she and Aragorn had been eavesdropping, though Bronach doubted that Sirius suspected more than simply being overheard.
"If you wish," Bronach said. "They thought we'd celebrate as a family before the others woke."
"Sounds lovely," Arwen said, crouching before the hearth and stirring up the fire. Kreacher did it if they didn't get to it first, but they'd agreed he was to keep up the rest of the fires first before getting to theirs. Aragorn came out, dressed in a pair of loose pants and a linen shirt, taking a seat on the settee. Sirius set his sack at his feet and took the other settee with Remus, leaving Arwen and Bronach to debate over who got the armchair and who sat with Aragorn.
In the end, Bronach curled into the armchair, while Arwen joined Aragorn. Bronach wondered if Kreacher had already distributed the gifts she'd left for him, or if the ones for Sirius and Remus were waiting for them at the foot of their beds.
"Now, I'm playing Santa Claus," Sirius said, digging in his sack. "What was it Lily said he always said? Ho- something?"
"Ho Ho Ho," Remus provided, and then added under his breath: "James always thought that was particularly appropriate for you."
Sirius burst out laughing. "He did, didn't he?" Setting down the parcel in his hands, Sirius wiped away the tear that slipped down his cheek, either from laughing too hard or from the memory. "Just because I wasn't fixated on a single bird…"
Bronach snickered herself. It was easy to see how Sirius might have been fond of dating around, based on what she knew of him, and he certainly was easy on the eyes, if the pictures were anything to go by. Aragorn and Arwen were clearly missing the joke, but Arwen's eyes were warm and happy when Bronach caught them.
"Moving on," Sirius wheezed, going back to the parcel he'd set down. "I made Moony get his gifts so we could all open everything together. So, first gift is for…" he made a production of reading the tag on the parcel: "Arwen, from Moony."
Arwen graciously accepted the parcel, setting it in her lap as Sirius dove for another one. Bronach glanced around, decided they were going to be there for a while, and called for Kreacher, who appeared promptly. "Would you mind bringing a tea tray and then coming back to join us?" she asked the elf, who nodded before disappearing again.
Sirius continued to pass out parcels, dramatically announcing the recipient and giver, and Bronach set herself to passing out tea. Kreacher settled himself on his preferred hearthside stool with his own mug of tea, something he rarely allowed outside of Christmas. Despite having almost two centuries of their unconventional partnership, he was stubborn about what he considered proper behavior.
When the sack was empty, Sirius gestured broadly. "Okay, no standing on ceremony, just rip into everything."
Presents from the Weasleys and Hermione weren't in the sack, so Bronach assumed they'd been left for the group present session later. That still left her gifts from Aragorn and Arwen, plus the ones from Sirius and Remus piled on her lap and around her feet.
The topmost gift was from Remus, and she unwrapped it curiously, not having received anything from him previously. Once the paper was removed, she realized that it wasn't a book like she had expected from the size and shape, but a journal.
Opening it, she found pages of handwritten notes in an unfamiliar hand. As she peered closely at the name inscribed on the inside cover, she caught her breath.
Property of Lily Evans Potter
Journal #8
"Your mother kept any number of journals," Remus said as she traced the writing. "Starting from her fourth or fifth year I think. Spell modifications and ideas, potions ideas, pretty much anything she wanted to research or develop. I don't know what happened to the others, but she'd loaned me this one because it has some notes on wards that she'd played with. A few years ago, I found it when I was cleaning out my suitcase."
She couldn't help but run her hands over the paper, wondering what else her mother had written about in the other journals, wondering what had happened to them. They'd likely been in Godric's Hollow that night, at least some of them, but had there been others stored away somewhere? Had Petunia thrown some out?
"Thank you," Bronach remembered her manners after a moment, but Remus looked as if he understood her distraction. Carefully setting aside the journal, she picked up the next parcel, which seemed to be from Aragorn.
They'd exchanged their proper gifts at Yule, in the privacy of their suite, but agreed to get small tokens for appearances on Christmas. When she unwrapped the parcel, she found a lovely, hand carved drop spindle that he must have been working on during his free time.
"I love it," she told him, meaning it. Most of the spindles Bronach had were ones she'd used when she'd first learned to spin, among the Trev Gallorg, but she had barely touched them once she'd learned how to wheel spin. But now that she was limited in the amount of time she had to spend at her wheel, she'd mentioned having to find her drop spindles for between classes, in classes, or evenings in the common room.
"Arwen provided a fair bit of commentary," he said, and Arwen snickered. Resolving to get the story later, she tucked the spindle into her workbasket and reached for the next parcel.
Arwen's gift was a lovely new workbag, and even more enchanting once Bronach realized that it was actually enchanted.
"Did you do this?" Bronach said, running her fingers through the bag as she felt the magic in the seams and stitching, every so often coming across an embroidered rune.
"It's a successful experiment," Arwen said. "I wasn't sure how successful, but it seems very spacious, and highly unobtrusive."
"Same effect as an undetectable expansion charm, but much more subtle," Bronach said after a moment, feeling out the bounds of the magic. "Better, in a way, since it adapts to the need of the carrier, not simply providing a bottomless pit."
"You crafted it?" Remus eyed the bag curiously. "As an experiment?"
"Magic was far more limited, where we came from," Bronach explained as she offered the bag for his inspection. "Arwen had as much training as was needed, but we haven't tested the extent of her ability in this dimension."
"Fascinating," Remus said, sticking a fair bit of his arm into the bag. "I'd love to learn how you managed such a thing."
"We can discuss during the holidays," Bronach promised, and then took back the bag. Only one parcel was left, and she could feel Sirius's eyes on her. Feeling an unknown sense of anticipation, she carefully lifted the paper away in order to reveal what was underneath.
Cautiously, she picked up the thin slate practically covered in runes, feeling the magic sparking where her fingertips brushed the stone. "Why this?" she asked, not taking her eyes off it. They weren't standard runes, not the Futhark that most of the wizarding world preferred. This was something completely different.
"I was working on clearing out the storage in the cellar, and…something called to me." Sirius looked unusually serious, frowning in discomfort at the memory. "There was a panel behind an old storage cabinet that was behind more, older magic than I'd ever seen before."
Bronach wanted to protest, she'd cleaned that storage out before and never found such a thing, but she'd known far less about magic when she'd done so, and the house continued to surprise her these days. That it called to Sirius was surprising, but he was the heir to the house for the moment, based on her declaration to Magic and her paperwork submitted to Gringotts. Family magics would impact him more than the rest of the family.
The runes wavered a bit before her eyes, but she blinked and they settled. Turning the slate over, she noticed the runes continued, so that the whole slate was covered in them.
"Why me?" she asked absently, still trying to make sense of them. They weren't familiar, but at the same time there was something about them…
"You're going to think I'm crazy," Sirius said, making them all snicker. "Well, crazier, at least. But when I picked it up…it didn't feel right. I thought about showing it to Dumbledore, or Bill, but it burned my hands until I thought about you."
She frowned, and focused harder on the slate. "For the head of the House?' she murmured, tracing her finger over one of the runes.
"For you," Sirius said, and she looked up in surprise at the emphasis. "Look, this house has seen some weird magic, and even weirder artifacts, but all I can say is this is the weirdest of them all."
Setting it aside, Bronach tried to move on and think about other things, but all day her mind kept wandering back to the slate, which she'd left on the desk in their sitting room.
"You might as well," Aragorn said, and Bronach looked up from her spinning. He gestured at her desk. "It's obvious that you want to figure out what's going on with that slate Sirius gave you."
"I'm slipping again," Bronach said, winding more yarn onto the cop. "If you can tell that easily where my thoughts are straying."
"We know you better than anyone," Arwen said, glancing over from where she was working on an embroidery piece. "And you know your secrets are safe within these rooms. Don't be too hard on yourself."
"But please do satisfy your curiosity," Aragorn added with a smile to show he meant it in jest. "Else you're going to be distracted all holiday."
"You have other plans for me this holiday that I don't know about?" she tossed back reflexively, and then winced. They'd been sharing a bed at Grimmauld, but were all too mindful of the potential ramifications of doing anything beyond some light making out.
Her partners smiled regretfully at her, and Bronach decided to abscond to her desk instead of following that painful train of thought. Settled in her desk chair, she was surprised to find the slate empty of writing, until she ran her fingers over it.
The runes rippled out of the slate, and she set it down once more, just to confirm that they disappeared.
"Would you come hold this?" she asked Aragorn, pointing to the slate. Obligingly, he set aside his book and came over to pick the slate up from the surface of her desk, frowning slightly.
"What is it?"
"I see what Sirius means," he said, handling it carefully. "There's a distinct sense of not for my hands that I get when I handle it, thought it doesn't feel violent in its rejection. And it's almost as if I can see something written on it, but it's just out of reach, no matter how I hold it."
"Curious," Bronach murmured, accepting the tablet back. Once it was solely in her hands, the writing blossomed over it once more, still in unreadable runes. Setting aside her curiosity about the language, she let herself pick apart the magic, more interested in the conditions required to bring for the missive.
"It's almost…attuned to people," she murmured after a thorough examination. "Much like the wards on the house. But it's not tied to blood, only character."
"So one of your ancestors designed it to only reveal its secrets to a person of the right character, regardless of blood?" Arwen asked, setting aside her stitching. "How curious. I did not get the impression that the Blacks were ones to share their hoard, be it wealth or gold."
"They weren't," Bronach agreed, still sending tendrils of her own magic wrapping around the slate, trying to determine the requirements. "Which makes the lack of blood binding on this even more curious."
Blood. There was something about that thought that made the hair on the back of her head stand up, but she followed the instinct.
In the top drawer of the desk, she had placed a thin blade, for opening correspondence primarily. Now she withdrew it, sanitized it with a pass of her hand, and nicked her index finger, drawing the bloody finger over the surface of the slate, along the first line of text.
Much like Tom Riddle's diary had absorbed ink, the slate absorbed the blood, and the text rearranged itself into a single line, shining in crimson blood.
The crown calls to the worthy.
Chilled to the bone, Bronach watched as the letters faded, and she let the message sink in for a moment.
There were too many references to crowns turning up in her life these days. Her dreams, though not of a crown, were suggestive that there was something greater at play here. And the sign in the fire at Yule…Aragorn had told her, reluctantly, of thinking her crowned by stars during one of their walks by the lake.
Moving by rote, she repeated the gesture, watching as the blood rearranged itself into a new message.
If you have to ask, you already know.
There was only one crown in Wizarding Britain. Only one mark of the monarch, one she hadn't known about until September first when Sirius and Remus mentioned it.
Bronach closed her eyes, but the message seemed burned into the back of her eyelids. When she opened them again, there was a new message on the slate.
In life, I thought myself worthy. In my arrogance, I sought to create a record for those who would follow, but the journey is yours alone.
Swallowing hard, Bronach set the slate back on her desk, fighting the urge to throw it against the wall. It explained so many things about the slate: clearly a Black had thought to test themselves against the crown, and set the slate to act as a record of the process, but Merlin's magics, whatever protected the crown, had warped it into whatever the slate was…
A guide, perhaps, but a very unhelpful one. More like a weather vane, to identify potential, which explained the lack of blood-bindings on it.
"You look as if you have encountered something unpleasant," Arwen murmured.
"I want to live my life in peace," Bronach said, her voice hitching. "I don't want this."
"Is this some sort of fate-telling device?" Aragorn asked, looking over her shoulder. "What did you see?"
She took a deep breath. And, for good measure, another. "What it was meant to be, I can only speculate, because the creator encountered a magical force that warped it. But it only responds to those who have already felt a calling."
"Arthur's crown," Aragorn said evenly, resting a hand on her shoulder. Somehow, it felt more real, hearing in his voice that he'd suspected the answer.
"You knew?"
"You and I have been dreaming of a stone-walled room, with a plinth that would be the right size to hold a crown," Aragorn said, gently turning her chair so they could be face to face. "And my dream of a castle, with a single chair…like a throne. Your encounter with the Unspeakable, the crown of stars…"
"It was not so much a knowing," Arwen added as Aragorn found himself short of words, "but a suspicion. One we did not wish to burden you with."
"It is a calling," Aragorn said after a long moment of silence. "And like all callings, the choice is yours whether to answer or not."
"I spent my childhood trying to fix the world," Bronach whispered, staring at the flames in the hearth. "And then much of my adulthood serving you as you did the same. I had hoped…"
"You still can," Arwen said fiercely. "There is no Sauron to cast the entire world into darkness here. You are already working to overcome the Ministry's shortfalls. Nothing you wish to do requires the burden of the crown, only what effort you choose to sacrifice towards it."
Bronach glanced at Aragorn, who met her gaze steadily. "It is a heavy burden, to willingly choose the crown," he said, and she knew that of all people, he would understand the best. Arwen came to her crown through love of Aragorn, but he had chosen to pursue his birthright, despite the monumental task before him. One that, despite the absolute nonsense the Ministry was up to, was far more burdensome than the task of reshaping Wizarding Britain.
"But," he continued, reaching out to clasp her hand. "We cannot make your decision for you. I suggest that you find the only solution that allows you to live with yourself. We will love and support you regardless, but I would not have you unhappy, crowned or uncrowned."
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she bowed her head to hide them, ashamed of how much she did not want the burden. She wanted something like Molly had, spouses and family and comfortable home where she could pursue whatever she wanted in peace. Not a crown and a kingdom that bore jagged fault lines.
Remus did not expect to find someone standing at his window when he let himself into his room after dinner.
For a moment, he drew his wand, a spell on his tongue, but then they turned, and he recognized Bronach, looking far more distracted than he'd ever seen her.
"Are you okay?" he asked, putting his wand away.
"Physically, yes," she said, and he let some of the tension ebb away. "I have two questions for you Remus."
"Of course," he said, taking a seat on his bed and gesturing for her to take the chair by his desk. "Anything for you."
She smiled, but there was no emotion in it. "What do you know of Arthur's Crown?"
"It's a legend," Remus told her with a shrug. "Most people don't know about it, but I read too much as a kid because of…well. Anyway," he cleared his throat, "the legend says that after Arthur's death, Merlin took his crown and placed it on a plinth in a grove in Wales, near Celliwig, where Arthur's court was located. The druids presiding over the grove swore to watch over it until the next ruler came to claim it."
"And what happened to it after that?" Bronach asked, her hands folded primly in her lap. "The muggles certainly don't know where Celliwig is, and I doubt the magical population knows either."
"It was destroyed," Remus said ruefully, remembering how disappointed he'd been when his father had informed him that even if Remus had been normal they couldn't go. "Somewhere around the Norman Invasion, if I recall correctly. The druids had protected the grove for as long as they could, but the magicians who came over with the Conquerer were determined to stamp out any traces of a king who might reunite the various magical groups against them."
"The crown?"
"See, that's the interesting bit," he leaned forward, wishing he'd had the chance to tell her the stories as a young child, instead of the mature woman who sat before him. "The crown was said to only allow a rightful heir to handle it. Legend say that many a claimant came to the grove, and some passed the druids into the clearing where the plinth stood. But none could lift it from the stone. But it wasn't lost with the grove. It somehow came to London."
He saw something flash in her eyes. "The Department of Mysteries."
"Precisely," Remus didn't think he wanted to know why she had cottoned on so quickly. "According to my father, deep within the Department of Mysteries, there is a room that only shows itself when a potential heir is active. Nobody has figured out how it senses potential, only that it appears during times of great turmoil, when a witch or wizard who might be able to pick it up is waxing in their strength. There are several accounts of seekers coming to the door, only to be turned away by the magic of the room. Few have made it beyond the door, and those that have returned from it are unable to account for what is inside."
"Unable, or unwilling?"
"Both," Remus shrugged. "Most are driven mad, but there's one account of a witch who went in and came out fully sane, but refused to say anything other than I changed my mind."
"How do these people know?" Bronach asked softly.
"Nobody has figured out what the crown requires of a potential heir," Remus told her, remembering what his father and his books had said. "Apparently, even during the rise of Grindelwald, which threatened not just Britain but the entire wizarding world, the door to the room didn't appear. Nor did it appear during the last war, as far as I know. So it's not triggered by instability."
Bronach had a look on her face like she disagreed, but said nothing. Remus wondered if anyone else would have seen the subtle disagreement, or if it was just him, used to James and Lily, that was able to pick up on it. He continued: "It's not required to be a member of the current government, though a few accounts exist of heirs that were members of the Wizengamot or the Ministry. Nor is it clear whether or not blood status matters. But the crown seems content to keep its own counsel, and none who have been called have written any account of their calling for public consumption."
A thought occurred to him. "Why do you ask?"
She glanced at him steadily.
"Is it something to do with Sirius's weird slate?" he said, wondering what had brought this on.
"It appears that the slate is a warped magical device, created by one who sought out the crown," Bronach said after a long moment. "How it was warped, or what it was intended to be, I cannot say for certain, but I do not think it is a threat to any who reside in this house."
A sinking feeling started to form in the pit of his stomach. "You said you had two questions," Remus said slowly. "What was the second?"
"What would you tell me, if I told you that I could fix everything for werewolves?" Bronach whispered, rising to stand at the window, looking out into London once more. "Not the curse itself, but the laws, the Ministry-sanctioned bigotry?"
"At what cost?" he asked warily.
"Nothing so dangerous as what you're thinking," she told him solemnly. "I need not give over my soul."
"But your freedom?" he guessed, seeing an unfortunate conclusion in the questions she'd asked him. "Your privacy, your right to make a life free of any responsibility but that what you take on?"
"I suppose you could describe it like that," she said, tipping her head contemplatively. "But think about it Remus. One person's sacrifice, and you would no longer have to worry about being sacked for a condition you did not ask for. No more laws restricting your rights until there is nothing left but the hatred of Fenrir's packs. Stability, easy access to healthcare and the Wolfsbane potion. The abolishment of the Werewolf Capture Unit."
It sounded ideal. He looked at Bronach's straight back and wondered if her thin shoulders weren't carrying too much already, without even considering what this would add to them. Sirius would help, he would help, Aragorn and Arwen would help but…in the end, they could not also carry the burden of being the wizarding world's first monarch since Arthur.
"I would not ask what you are thinking of, not of anyone," he said. "All I would ask is that those who can drive change in the existing system do their best to press forward."
She laughed. "You are kind," Bronach told him, and as she turned he could see the corner of her lip curling in a smile. "But I suspect that you are swayed by your affection for the daughter of your friends. For Sirius's goddaughter. Would you say the same if it was Dumbledore?"
Her words pierced through him, and he hung his head. "I would ask him to consider it, at the very least," he murmured. "But…for what you have done already, it feels like you have already borne much for everyone's sake. Let someone else carry it for a while."
"Sometimes Remus," she whispered, passing him on the way to the door. "There is nobody else."