The ornate sitting room of Malfoy Manor was eerily quiet, an unusual stillness settling over the space that was often used for gatherings full of pointed conversations and veiled jabs. But today, the three sisters, Narcissa Malfoy, Andromeda Tonks, and Bellatrix Lestrange, who had rarely been in the same room together since childhood, met in a rare détente. They had been summoned by a force stronger than blood feud or political ideology—family.

The tension crackled like a low-burning fire as they sat across from each other, each grappling with their reasons for agreeing to this meeting. Narcissa, cool and composed, sat at the head of the circle, her hands folded delicately in her lap. Andromeda leaned back, clearly out of place in the grandeur of her old life, her posture bold, her gaze steady despite the signs of estrangement in the room. Bellatrix lounged, though the manic energy always so tightly coiled within her was palpable, her fingers twitching sporadically as though she longed to hex something.

A tea set rested on the table between them, untouched.

'It's strange,' Andromeda finally broke the silence, her voice tinged with both wistfulness and resentment, 'that it took the next generation for us to even share air again.'

Bellatrix snorted in disdain, leaning forward in her chair as her dark eyes flickered with disdain. 'The 'next generation,'' she said mockingly. 'Tainted by blood traitors and Mudbloods, like your precious Nymphadora. What a name, by the way. Hilarious.'

Andromeda tensed but didn't rise to the bait. She'd grown used to Bellatrix's venom over the years and had no inclination to let it pierce her armor. Instead, she replied, with calculated calmness, 'Funny, Bella, that you judge my child while your own contributions to the family name are nonexistent.'

Narcissa raised a hand, an exasperated sigh slipping from her lips. 'Enough, both of you,' she said firmly, her voice quiet but commanding. 'We're here to have a civilized conversation, not to rehash the same arguments we've been circling around since Hogwarts.'

'And aren't we the lucky ones to have your perfect hand to guide us toward civility,' Bellatrix sneered. Yet, despite her words, she fell silent, her dark eyes narrowing as she watched her younger sisters.

Andromeda leaned forward, finally engaging with the purpose of their meeting. 'I assume you've both heard about Draco's encounter with Harry Potter,' she said, her words careful.

Narcissa froze for half a second before recovering her practiced poise. 'I have,' she admitted. Her voice betrayed no emotion, but her fingers tightened on the arm of her chair.

Bellatrix snorted dismissively. 'The Boy Who Lived, prancing around like a Gryffindor peacock,' she said, waving a hand. 'Draco will handle himself. He's a Malfoy. Or at least, he should be.'

'It's not just about Draco, and deep down you know it,' Andromeda pushed, her gaze traveling between her sisters. 'It's about family. It's about what the next generation is going to inherit from all of us—the good, the bad, and the deeply broken.'

A silence fell, heavier and more accusing than before. The three women sat still, each consumed by thoughts they were perhaps too proud to share.

Sirius's name hung unspoken in the air. None of them had dared to say it yet, but they all knew this conversation couldn't avoid him. Finally, it was Andromeda—braver, sharper for all her years estranged—who leaned forward and broke the dam.

'And then there's Sirius.'

Her voice was steady, but there was an unmistakable edge of pain as she said his name. They had all lost him, in different ways. Andromeda lost a cousin and a fragment of her childhood anchor when she'd chosen to walk away from the family's ideals. Narcissa had lost a tenuous link to the boy she'd once quietly admired as daring and charming. Bellatrix... well, Bellatrix was harder to read. Sirius had been the antithesis of everything she believed.

Bellatrix flicked her wand impatiently, producing sparks that danced in the air before fading. 'Regulus was better. At least he knew where his loyalties lay.'

'Regulus was brave in his own way,' Narcissa said softly, surprising both her sisters. 'But Sirius... he was free.'

'Free?' Bellatrix's tone was sharp, almost disbelieving. 'He was weak. He turned his back on everything that made us strong.'

'No, Bella,' Andromeda interrupted, her voice unexpectedly gentle. 'He turned his back on what made us cruel.'

For a fleeting moment, all three women were silent. It was as though the air itself mourned the boy who had laughed too loud, defied expectations too boldly, and left them all grieving in ways they couldn't quite admit.

'Sirius was reckless,' Narcissa said finally, her fingers tracing the edge of her teacup. 'But he loved. Fiercely, deeply. Even when it hurt him. I see it in Draco sometimes—that capacity to love. It terrifies me.'

'The question,' Andromeda said quietly, 'is whether we let that love heal the next generation, or poison it further.'

Bellatrix laughed, hollow and bitter. 'Love. What a quaint thing to pin your hopes on.'

The room fell silent once more, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Narcissa's gaze darted to the door, as though willing herself to leave a conversation that had grown far too raw. Andromeda studied her sisters, grieving the childhood they had shared before the Black family legacy had shattered them.

And Bellatrix... Bellatrix stared at the fire, her expression inscrutable.

Somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of a child laughing echoed through the halls. Perhaps it was Narcissa's son, Draco, or Andromeda's grandson, Teddy. The sound was light, carefree, untouched by the darkness that had so long defined their family.

The sisters did not speak again as the quiet stretched on, but in the flickering light of the fire, something unspoken passed between them. A fragile hope, or perhaps just the acknowledgment that love—however distant or fractured—could still linger, even in the Black family.

When the meeting finally ended, they parted without goodbyes. But perhaps, for the first time, they left with the faintest understanding of what could be healed.