Chapter 1 – Fixing mistakes
The last thing Harry Potter felt was a searing pain, the world spinning out of focus as the curse from Voldemort hit him with brutal finality. His body crumpled to the forest floor as the light faded from his eyes.
But it wasn't the end. No, this wasn't the cold, empty abyss of death Harry had expected. Instead, he awoke to a strange, ethereal light that seemed to swirl around him, pulsating with a warmth that was neither of the earth nor of the stars.
A figure appeared before him—a woman, or something like a woman—draped in shimmering silver robes that caught the light in a way that made her seem more dream than reality. Her beauty was otherworldly, her features perfect in a way that made Harry's heart race with a mixture of awe and confusion. Her eyes, impossibly deep, seemed to hold the entire cosmos within them.
"Harry Potter," she said, her voice soft but resonant, like the hum of a thousand unseen stars. "I am Fate."
Harry blinked, struggling to find his voice. "Fate?" His throat felt tight, as if he had no right to speak in her presence.
"Yes," she replied, a faint smile touching her lips, "I am the one who guides destinies, the one who weaves the threads of time." She took a step closer, her presence overwhelming yet calming. "But there has been a mistake—a grievous one."
Harry's confusion deepened. "A mistake? What do you mean?"
Fate hesitated, looking slightly embarrassed, which was not the expression Harry expected from the cosmic embodiment of destiny. "You see, um… there was a paperwork issue."
Harry frowned. "Paperwork?"
"Well," she said, clearing her throat, "it's more of a celestial bureaucracy thing. You know, too many souls, too little staff, an intern spilled coffee on the Wrongly-Marked-for-Death ledger... and, uh, you got accidentally shuffled into the tragic hero column when you were supposed to be in the blessed life category. Honestly, it's a miracle this sort of thing doesn't happen more often."
Harry stared at her, dumbfounded.
"And before you ask," she added quickly, "yes, we've fired the intern. Not that it fixes your whole parents-murdered-by-dark-wizard situation, but at least they won't be making more of a mess."
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. "You're telling me," he said slowly, "that my entire life—my suffering, my parents' deaths, the prophecy—all of it happened because someone spilled coffee?"
Fate winced. "Well, when you put it like that, it sounds bad. But that's why I'm here—to make it right."
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to wrap his head around this. "You're the cosmic embodiment of destiny," he said. "How does something like this even happen?"
Fate waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, you'd be surprised how often these things crop up. Mercury is in retrograde more than you'd think."
Harry blinked at her, and she coughed, changing the subject.
"Anyway," she said, regaining her air of cosmic authority, "your life—the one you were meant to live—was stolen. You were never supposed to die in that forest, Harry. You were never meant to be the orphan, the survivor. You were meant to meet your soulmate young, to live a life of joy and purpose. Your parents should have lived. Dumbledore should have defeated Voldemort during the First War. All of it… it was never meant to happen this way."
Harry's heart ached at the mention of his parents, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered what it would have been like to grow up with them, to have a family who loved him. But before he could voice his thoughts, Fate raised a hand, as if to still his emotions.
"I have come to correct the course of your life," she continued. "If you accept my gift I will send you back to a time when you can defeat Voldemort and reclaim the life that was stolen from you. You will live the life you were meant to have, Harry. A life of happiness, of love." Her voice softened. "And you will have not one, but two soulmates."
Harry's mind reeled. "Two? Soulmates?" He felt a strange tug in his chest at the thought, but he couldn't make sense of it. As Harry stood before Fate, her shimmering robes catching the cosmic light, he couldn't help but feel like the weight of the universe was pressing on his shoulders. She had just declared that his life had been a colossal mistake, orchestrated by celestial chaos—and now she was offering him a chance to rewrite everything. But there was one part of her proclamation that still baffled him.
"Wait," Harry said, narrowing his eyes. "You mentioned soulmates. Plural. How exactly do I end up with two?"
Fate's lips curled into a sly smile, her eyes gleaming with what Harry could only describe as mischief. "Ah, yes. That."
Harry crossed his arms. "Is this another 'coffee-on-the-ledger' situation? Or was that also planned?"
Fate chuckled, a sound like wind chimes echoing across the cosmos. "Oh no, that part was intentional. Call it my personal touch."
"Your personal touch?" Harry repeated, incredulous.
"You see, Harry," Fate began, pacing slowly, her silvery robes gliding as if they were weightless, "destiny is a complex tapestry. Every thread, every choice, weaves a greater pattern. But occasionally, I like to add a… twist. Something unexpected. Something to keep things interesting." She turned to him, her smile widening. "Because where's the fun in everything being predictable?"
Harry stared at her, his brow furrowed. "So, you're saying you gave me two soulmates for your own amusement?"
Fate shrugged, utterly unbothered. "In part, yes. But also because you deserve it. Think about it—after everything you've been through, wouldn't it be nice to have not one, but two people who complete you? Two people who love and support you, who challenge you, and who, together, make your life fuller than you ever imagined?"
Harry hesitated. When she put it that way, it didn't sound half bad. "Okay, but… why not just one? Isn't that how it's supposed to work?"
"Supposed to work?" Fate echoed, arching a delicate eyebrow. "Harry, dear, do you honestly think I follow the rules? I am the rules." She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Besides, this is a bit of a balancing act. One soulmate wouldn't have been quite enough for you—not with the destiny you're about to forge. You'll need two people, two threads, to create the kind of life you were meant to have. Think of it as a…cosmic upgrade."
Harry blinked. "So, let me get this straight. You gave me two soulmates to make my life more 'interesting' and because you thought I'd need extra help?"
Fate grinned, a spark of humour in her eyes. "Precisely. You're catching on."
"Doesn't that seem a bit… complicated?" Harry asked, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Oh, absolutely," Fate said with a laugh. "But where's the fun in simplicity? Love, Harry, is like a great puzzle. And trust me, when you meet them, it'll all make sense. The two of them will challenge you in ways you've never imagined, and together, you'll forge a bond stronger than anything destiny could have planned for just one person."
"How do I know who my soulmates are?" Harry asked quietly.
Fate smiled enigmatically. "You will know them when you touch them. That's how these things work." She paused, then added. "If it helps, your parents will live, but they will not be your parents. The life you know now, the life of Harry Potter… it will cease to exist. You will be someone else entirely."
The weight of her words settled heavily upon him. He would no longer be Harry Potter? What would that even mean? Who would he be?
He swallowed, fighting the rising tide of panic and confusion. "But… how do I defeat Voldemort? How can I save lives that have already been lost?"
Fate's lips curled into a smile that was both beautiful and mysterious, yet somehow distant. "The path is not clear, Harry. There is no simple answer. But know this: time is not a straight line. Every choice creates a ripple, every action has consequences. The future is not set in stone, but forged by those who dare to shape it."
Her words twisted in his mind, the cryptic meaning just out of reach, like a riddle he couldn't quite solve.
"Life is about choices Harry, so it is up to you. Do you wish to return to your current life?" Fate asked, her gaze never leaving him. "To continue on the path you were on, to face the war you cannot win? Or do you accept my gift, and take the chance to rewrite your destiny?"
The weight of her question pressed down on him, as if the universe itself held its breath. He glanced back at the life he had known—the friends he had lost, the battles still to be fought, the lonely road ahead. It was a path full of pain and uncertainty, but it was also his. The choice seemed impossible.
But then, a thought surfaced in his mind. A life where his parents were alive. A chance to live a full life, to be loved and cherished, to fight and triumph without the looming shadow of a prophecy hanging over him. He could have that. He could have it all.
With a quiet but resolute breath, Harry met Fate's gaze. "I accept your gift."
A flicker of approval passed through her eyes, and she stepped forward, her presence filling the space around him with a warmth he had never known.
"I have one question for you. If I send you back, but you find that living the life you were meant to have will cost you all your memories of this one—including the friends you've made, the battles you've fought, the love you've known—would you still accept it?"
Harry's breath caught. Forget Ron? Hermione? Ginny? Forget the love he had for them, the bonds they'd built through pain and triumph? His chest tightened, but after a long pause, he raised his chin. "Yes."
"Why?"
"Because they deserve better too," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "If my going back means the people I care about get to live happier lives—even if I don't remember them—I'll do it. Their happiness matters more than my memories."
Fate studied him for a long, weighty moment before a smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
"Very well," she said, her voice like the wind before a storm. "Your journey begins now. The past is gone, and the future is yours to shape."
With that, she extended her hand. Harry took it, feeling the spark of something powerful and infinite pulse through him. In an instant, the world around him blurred, the edges of reality folding in on themselves. He closed his eyes, bracing for what was to come.
o – o – o - o
Summer, 1967
The air in the study was thick with the smell of ink and aged parchment, mingling with the faint tang of smoke from cigars. It was an ornate room, as cold and calculated as the man seated at its centre. Cygnus Black's sharp features were bathed in the amber glow of candlelight, his quill poised above a document that could shape the future of two pureblood families.
Across from him, Bellatrix sat stiffly on a high-backed chair upholstered in dark green velvet, her fingers gripping the armrests so tightly her knuckles whitened. Her dark eyes burned with a mixture of anger and resignation, a silent storm brewing beneath her calm exterior.
Cygnus glanced at her, his expression a portrait of patriarchal authority. "You should consider yourself fortunate, Bellatrix," he said, his voice smooth but edged with steel. "The Lestrange family is powerful, influential. This union will strengthen the Black bloodline and secure your future."
Bellatrix didn't respond. She simply stared at the parchment on the desk, the words on the marriage contract blurring as her pulse quickened. She could feel the walls of her life closing in around her, every decision already made, every step predetermined. She only wanted to live a life of her choosing.
The moment he put his pen to the parchment the contract on Cygnus's desk began to smoke. The parchment curled at the edges, a bright orange glow spreading across its surface like wildfire.
"What in Salazar's name—?" Cygnus leapt to his feet, knocking his chair backward as the contract erupted into flames.
Bellatrix's eyes widened as the document disintegrated into ash, the ornate Black family crest melting into nothingness. The room filled with the acrid scent of burning parchment.
Cygnus's nostrils flared. He reached for Bellatrix's arm, his grip unyielding as he yanked her to her feet. "Enough of this nonsense. We'll settle this now. To Gringotts!"
"Father!" Bellatrix protested, but Cygnus's grip was iron. He dragged her from the study, her heels scraping against the marble floor as she struggled to keep up.
Moments later, Gringotts Wizarding Bank loomed before them, its marble facade stark and imposing under the bright London sky. The goblin guards at the entrance barely spared them a glance as Cygnus stormed inside, his robes billowing with the force of his stride. Bellatrix followed reluctantly, her curiosity now eclipsing her fear.
Inside, the bank's grand hall was a symphony of hushed murmurs and the clink of coins, the chandeliers casting fractured light onto the polished floor. Cygnus wasted no time, striding up to the nearest goblin clerk and slamming his fist on the counter.
"I need to confirm the status of a marriage contract," he barked. "Bellatrix Black and Rodolphus Lestrange."
The goblin clerk didn't flinch, though his pointed features twitched with mild annoyance. "Name and vault number, if you please."
"Cygnus Black, Vault 417."
The goblin snapped his fingers, and another clerk scurried forward with a thick ledger. Pages flipped rapidly under clawed fingers, the parchment rustling like dry leaves. Finally, the goblin paused, his sharp eyes scanning a line of text before glancing up at Cygnus with a toothy grin.
"It seems there's been an… update."
"What kind of update?" Cygnus growled.
The goblin's grin widened, revealing jagged teeth. "Miss Black's soulmate has just claimed her. The contract is void."
Bellatrix froze, her breath catching in her throat. "My… soulmate?"
"Impossible!" Cygnus snapped, his voice echoing through the hall. "She hasn't even met the man!"
The goblin shrugged, clearly enjoying the Black patriarch's distress. "Soulmate bonds transcend physical meetings, Mr. Black. Magic doesn't need introductions to act."
Bellatrix's heart raced, a strange mix of relief and curiosity surging within. She had a soulmate? But who?
Her curiosity quickly changed into anger as she thought back over the goblin's words. How dare anyone claim me. I am no one's property!
o – o – o – o
Just as the Lestrange marriage contract was bursting into flame Harry woke with a start, the softest sheets he had ever felt tangled around him. For a moment, he lay still, blinking against the warm sunlight streaming through sheer, golden curtains. The bed beneath him was impossibly comfortable, the kind of plushness that seemed designed to lull even the most restless soul into perfect slumber.
As his eyes adjusted to the light, he sat up and surveyed the room. It was lavish, almost absurdly so. The canopy bed was carved from dark mahogany, its posts inlaid with gold filigree. Rich tapestries hung on the walls, depicting magical scenes that shimmered faintly as if alive. A polished wardrobe stood in one corner, its intricate carvings matching the vanity beside it. Even the air smelled expensive—a blend of cedarwood and lavender that seemed to emanate from the very walls.
Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet sinking into a rug so soft it felt like clouds. "Where am I?" he wondered aloud, his voice breaking the silence of the room.
He crossed to the wardrobe and opened it, revealing an array of clothing finer than anything he'd ever seen. Silks, velvets, and brocades in deep jewel tones lined the shelves and hangers. He ran his fingers over a dark green robe embroidered with silver thread and decided it would do for now. Dressing quickly, he couldn't help but feel like he was playing a part in someone else's life.
Stepping out of the room, Harry found himself in a long, elegant hallway lined with gilded mirrors and ornate sconces holding enchanted candles. He walked slowly, taking in his surroundings as the corridor opened into a grand staircase that spiralled down to a marble-floored foyer.
The manor was enormous. Every room he entered seemed designed to impress, from the opulent dining hall with its vaulted ceiling and enchanted chandelier to the sunlit conservatory filled with exotic plants. A library stretched floor to ceiling with books so old and rare that Harry barely resisted the urge to stop and start reading.
Eventually, he stepped outside through a pair of heavy oak doors. His breath caught in his throat as he took in the view.
The manor stood on sprawling grounds, its towering turrets and sweeping wings rivalling the grandeur of Hogwarts. Immaculate gardens stretched as far as the eye could see, and a shimmering fountain shaped like a phoenix dominated the circular drive at the front. He turned slowly, trying to take it all in.
"This can't be real," he muttered, shaking his head. Back inside, as Harry wandered the halls once more, a sudden pop startled him. A house-elf appeared at his side, bowing so low that its long ears brushed the floor.
"Master Woodcroft," the elf squeaked, its voice high and trembling. "Shall I be preparing breakfast for you, sir?"
Harry blinked, taken aback. "Uh, yes, please. But—wait. Master Woodcroft? Is that me?"
The elf straightened just enough to give him a curious look. "Of course, sir. You are Lord Harold Woodcroft, master of this manor and heir to Hengist of Woodcroft himself."
Harry's head swam with questions. "And… this house? It's mine?"
The elf nodded vigorously. "Indeed, sir. This is the ancestral home of the Woodcroft family."
Harry hesitated. He wasn't sure how much he could ask without seeming entirely insane, but he pressed on anyway. "What year is it?"
The elf frowned, its large eyes narrowing slightly. "1967, sir. Are you feeling quite well? Shall I fetch a Healer?"
"No, no, I'm fine," Harry said quickly, though the elf still looked skeptical. "Just… bring breakfast to the study, would you?"
"Of course, Master." The elf bowed again and vanished with anotherpop.
The study was a room of dark wood and glowing lamplight, its large desk piled high with parchment and official-looking documents. On the desk sat a small, ornate box, a gleaming ring resting atop it. Beside the box was a single sheet of parchment, folded neatly.
Harry picked up the ring first, marvelling at its intricate design—a gold band engraved with an ancient family crest. He slipped it onto his finger, and a strange warmth spread through him, as if the ring was recognising him.
Then he unfolded the parchment.
Dear Harold of Woodcroft, it began in an elegant but whimsical script.
Congratulations! Or perhaps condolences, depending on your mood. You are now Lord Woodcroft, heir of Hengist of Woodcroft (founder of Hogsmeade, in case you missed that in History of Magic). I've provided you with a lovely home, an impeccable wardrobe, and, oh yes, ownership of Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley, and the Leaky Cauldron. Quite a package, isn't it? You're welcome.
Do try to have fun with this second chance, Harry. I've decided to leave your memories intact—you'll need them to defeat the self proclaimed dark lord of your old time —but don't be alarmed if new ones start to fill in. You'll find it easier to navigate your new identity that way.
Good luck, Lord Woodcroft. Try not to mess this up.
Yours most humorously, Fate.
Harry barely finished the letter before it burst into flames, the ashes vanishing into the air.
He leaned back in the chair, trying to process what he'd just read. "I'm… Lord Woodcroft?" he murmured.
He turned to the stack of documents. His eyes widened as he scanned them—deeds, property records, ledgers. It was all true. He owned Hogsmeade. He owned Diagon Alley. He owned the Leaky Cauldron.
A faint buzzing filled his ears as new memories began to form. They weren't overwhelming, more like whispers of a life he'd never lived, offering insights into his role as Harold of Woodcroft. Yet, his memories of being Harry Potter remained untouched, grounding him.
By the time breakfast arrived—a decadent spread of fruits, pastries, and smoked meats—Harry had fully grasped the scope of his new identity. After eating, he decided he couldn't stay cooped up any longer.
Gringotts would be his first stop and a walk through Diagon Alley would allow him to test people's reactions to him. Was he well liked in this new life? He didn't know. He walked over to the mirror and eyed himself in curiosity. He looked much the same, but he was more muscular now and taller. It was obvious he had led a well nourished life. He definitely wasn't the scrawny git he'd been before. Harry wondered how much power came with the title of Lord Woodcroft. Maybe if he was lucky he could just buy all of Voldemort's followers and not even have to lift his wand.
O – o – o - o
The cobblestones of Diagon Alley glistened faintly in the morning sun, still damp from a brief rain shower. Harry adjusted his cloak as he approached Gringotts. Wizards and witches hurried past, their chatter blending with the faint clinking of coins from nearby shops.
As Harry reached the steps of the bank, the door swung open, and two figures emerged.
Bellatrix Black descended the steps first, her posture regal and her dark curls cascading over her shoulders. Her sharp features were set in a neutral expression, though her eyes glinted with curiosity as they landed on Harry. Behind her strode Cygnus Black, his strides confident, his aristocratic air unmistakable.
The moment Harry and Bellatrix's eyes met, the world seemed to still.
Harry felt a rush of warmth flood his chest, a fondness that caught him so off guard he nearly stumbled. The Bellatrix of his memories—the cold, ruthless Death Eater—clashed violently with the young woman standing before him. Her gaze was curious, assessing, but there was no malice, no madness.
Bellatrix, for her part, took in the stranger with equal intensity. He was tall, with striking green eyes and a quiet confidence that set him apart from the usual simpering pureblood heirs she was accustomed to meeting. He was, she realised with a slight flutter in her chest, very handsome.
Harry tore his gaze away, trying to suppress the storm of emotions roiling within. This is Bellatrix Lestrange—no, Bellatrix Black, he reminded himself, though the thought offered little comfort. She wasn't yet the person who had haunted his nightmares, but the memories of her cruelty made it hard to fully trust what he was feeling. Still, he couldn't hate her. That realisation unnerved him more than anything else.
"Good day," Harry said politely, inclining his head. His voice was steady, though his palms felt clammy.
Cygnus, who had been eyeing Harry with growing interest, stepped forward and extended a hand, his anger set aside at the sight of a clearly very rich young man.
"Good day indeed, sir. Cygnus Black, at your service. And who might I have the pleasure of addressing?"
"Lord Woodcroft," Harry replied, shaking Cygnus's hand firmly. He felt a slight jolt of pride as Cygnus's eyes widened in recognition.
"Lord Woodcroft!" Cygnus exclaimed, his tone immediately turning deferential. "What an honour to meet you. Your family's legacy is unparalleled—Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley, the Leaky Cauldron. Why, you're practically the foundation of wizarding society itself."
Harry offered a tight smile, uncomfortable with the effusive praise but unwilling to be rude. "Thank you. I'm merely trying to uphold the legacy I've inherited."
"And doing so with great success, I'm sure," Cygnus continued, his voice dripping with charm. "Though I must admit, your absence these past several years has been most mysterious."
Harry hesitated, scrambling for a plausible explanation. "I've been… away, focusing on personal matters. I have had private tutors of course. But now that my education is over it seems the time has come to reacquaint myself with society."
Cygnus nodded, his smile sharp and knowing. "Of course, of course. It's a pleasure to see you back among us, Lord Woodcroft."
As the two men exchanged pleasantries, Bellatrix watched silently, her eyes darting between them. Her curiosity about this enigmatic man grew with each passing moment. He was undeniably powerful—and the way he carried himself only reinforced that impression.
But what intrigued her most was the way he had looked at her, if only for a moment. There had been something there, something warm and genuine that sent a flicker of excitement through her.
Harry excused himself politely, stepping past them and into the bank. As the heavy doors closed behind him, Bellatrix turned to her father.
"Who is he?" she asked, her voice low but tinged with eager curiosity.
Cygnus raised an eyebrow, his expression one of mild amusement. "Lord Harold of Woodcroft, my dear. One of the richest and most influential men in our world."
Bellatrix's lips parted slightly, her mind racing. He was not only handsome but also wealthy and powerful—a rare combination even in their elite circles. A small, unbidden smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
"Do you think he's married?" she asked casually, though her tone betrayed her true interest.
Cygnus chuckled, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. "Why, Bellatrix, I didn't think you were the type to concern yourself with such things."
She straightened, her face returning to its usual composure. "I'm merely curious. A man like that must attract considerable attention."
"Indeed," Cygnus said, leading her down the alley, his anger returning. "But men like that are not so easily swayed. I highly doubt he would have any interest in you."
Bellatrix's heart sank slightly at her father's words but her mind lingered on the encounter as they walked. For the first time in years, she felt a spark of genuine excitement—a thrill for the chase. Bellatrix was a Black, and Black women always got what they wanted.
Inside Gringotts, Harry tried to steady himself as he approached a goblin clerk. The brief meeting with Bellatrix and her father had shaken him in ways he couldn't fully comprehend.
This is a fresh start, he reminded himself. Focus on that.
But as he began his business with the goblins, he couldn't quite shake the image of Bellatrix's dark eyes, nor the peculiar fondness he'd felt when they'd met. Fate's words kept echoing through his mind. Every choice creates a ripple, every action has consequences….. but what did it mean.
o – o – o – o
The Black family's opulent lounge glowed softly in the afternoon light that filtered through the high windows. Velvet drapes, embroidered with intricate silver patterns, framed the view of the garden outside. A fresh summer breeze filtered in through the open window, the sunlight reflecting off the polished black marble floors. The air was thick with the scent of chamomile and bergamot from the tea tray resting on a low ebony table between the sisters.
Bellatrix lounged back in her chair, her dark curls spilling over the armrest like a wild, untamed river. Her deep-set eyes sparkled with excitement as she recounted her encounter with Lord Woodcroft.
"He is unlike anyone I've ever met," she said, her voice low and sultry, as though savouring the words. "Commanding. Intelligent. And there's something... mysterious about him." She traced the edge of her teacup with a manicured finger, her crimson lips curling into a smirk. "You can feel the power radiating from him. He's a man who could command kings."
Narcissa, seated elegantly on a plush ivory settee, stiffened. Her pale hair gleamed in the firelight, a perfect cascade of silver-gold. She narrowed her eyes, her expression as frosty as her chilled demeanour often was. "I think I'd like to meet him," she said softly, her tone sweet but laced with sharp jealousy. "You can't keep all the interesting ones to yourself, Bella."
Bellatrix's smirk twisted into a scowl. She sat up abruptly, her dark eyes flashing dangerously. "I met him first, Cissy. He's mine."
"Might I remind you," Narcissa retorted coolly, brushing imaginary lint off her pale green gown, "that nothing has been claimed yet. I do not see an engagement ring on your finger Bella.
The tension crackled like lightning. Bellatrix leaned forward, her tea forgotten, ready to escalate the fight, but before she could lash out, Druella's voice sliced through the room like a whip.
"That's enough," their mother commanded, her sharp tone silencing them both. She stood near the window, her regal presence impossible to ignore. Her silken dark green robes shimmered faintly as she folded her arms, fixing her daughters with an authoritative gaze. "Bickering over a man like common witches is beneath you. Remember who you are."
Andromeda, the quietest of the sisters, sat back in her chair, her lips quirking in amusement as she sipped her tea. The sunlight danced in her hazel eyes. She was all too happy to let Bellatrix and Narcissa fight; it meant their mother's focus was not on her for once.
Later that evening, Druella approached her husband, Cygnus, in his study. He sat behind his desk, his sharp features illuminated by the glow of a single candle. He didn't look up as Druella entered, his quill scratching over parchment.
"What happened with the Lestrange marriage contract?" Druella asked, her tone deceptively casual, though her penetrating gaze betrayed her keen interest.
Cygnus paused, his quill hovering mid-air, then resumed writing. "It was voided by the goblins. Complications."
"Complications," Druella repeated, stepping closer. "The goblins don't void contracts unless there's a soulmate or... something already binding. Which is it?"
Cygnus didn't answer, but the faint tightening of his jaw was all the confirmation Druella needed. A slow, secretive smile spread across her face. For all of Cygnus's cruelty and indifference, Druella loved her daughters fiercely. She would do whatever it took to secure their happiness—even if it meant meddling.
Over the following weeks, Bellatrix couldn't stop talking about Lord Woodcroft and Druella became more and more suspicious as she watched her eldest daughter fawn over a man she had never even spoken too.
"He's so mysterious," she mused one evening in the family parlour, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger. "What secrets lie beneath his robes?" Her voice dropped to a purr, and her sisters blushed furiously. Even Narcissa, unable to hide her jealousy, let out a quiet, longing sigh. Bellatrix gasped when she realised she'd said that last part out loud.
Druella, ever the strategist, decided then to take matters into her own hands. If Lord Woodcroft truly was Bellatrix's soulmate, which she assumed he was based on how Bellatrix was behaving, it was her duty to ensure they met properly. She devised a plan: daily excursions to Diagon Alley. Surely the man would appear there at some point, as he owned the bustling wizarding hub after all.
On the fourth day, her persistence paid off. Druella and Bellatrix were dining at an elegant bistro near the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron when Bellatrix stiffened in her chair. "It's him," she whispered, her voice trembling with awe.
They turned to see Lord Woodcroft striding out of the pub, surrounded by a dozen wizards who hung on his every word. He moved with effortless grace, his black robes tailored to perfection, and his emerald eyes seemed to pierce through the crowd. Power rolled off him in waves, so palpable that even Druella found herself momentarily breathless.
Bellatrix let out a soft, involuntary moan beside her.
"Can I go say hello, Mother?" she asked, her voice trembling with anticipation.
Druella masked her excitement with a façade of indifference. "If you must," she said, though the corner of her lips twitched into a small smile.
Bellatrix rose, her movements uncharacteristically uncertain, and made her way toward him. She was so focused on him that she didn't see the uneven cobblestone. Her foot caught, and she stumbled—only to be caught by a pair of strong hands.
She looked up and found herself staring into Lord Woodcroft's face, his emerald eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. His grip on her waist was firm but gentle, and she felt warmth radiating from his touch.
"Are you alright, Miss...?" His voice was deep, smooth, and utterly captivating.
"Black," she replied huskily, her cheeks flushing. "Bellatrix Black."
"Miss Black," he repeated, his lips curling into a faint smile. "I'm—"
"Lord Woodcroft," she said quickly, surprising herself. Her eyes widened, and she blushed even deeper.
He chuckled softly, the sound sending a thrill through her. "Yes. I see my reputation precedes me."
Before either could say more, Druella appeared, her expression composed. "We must be going," she said smoothly, though her eyes lingered on Harry with a calculating gleam.
As they turned to leave, Druella stopped and looked back. "Lord Woodcroft," she said, her voice light but purposeful, "would you care to join us for dinner tomorrow evening?"
Harry hesitated, his gaze drifting to Bellatrix, who smiled at him with a mixture of shyness and determination. His heart skipped a beat. "I would be honoured," he said, bowing slightly.
As he kissed Bellatrix's hand in farewell, his lips lingered for a moment longer than necessary. Their eyes met, and time seemed to freeze. Then, with a graceful turn, he walked away, leaving Bellatrix standing there, breathless.