"You weep like a little girl whose pissed herself. Its bloody disgusting, boy," Walburga snapped at him.
Regulus sniffled, too shocked by what had just happened to do anything else. Heavy tears pooled at his eyes and threatened to escape. His wand trembled in his hand as he pointed at the elf before him.
"You better not drop that wand, Regulus!" She screeched.
It fell anyway and ominously clattered at the polished floor below. Regulus knelt on the rug, small and thin, his knees red against the embroidered sigils.
He started crying.
Not loudly the way children scream when scraped, but quiet sobs. Like something had broken inside his ribs. His hands were balled into fists on his thighs, and he stared at the creature before him.
"Wand up," Walburga demanded.
"M-Mother, please—"
He didn't see the curse. He only felt it, a line of fire lashing across his back, like a whip made of knotted leather. He cried out, folding in on himself.
She was already on him. She grabbed his hair in her fist and forced his head.
"Pick it up," she said coldly in his ear. "Now."
Regulus didn't move.
"Do you think the world forgives weakness? Do you think they'll be kind when they smell softness in a Black?" She knelt beside him, voice low and savage. "We are not like them, boy. We are not bred for mercy. We are bred for dominion."
"He disrespected you," she whispered. "You own him. And if you let them forget that, even once, you're already weak."
He whimpered, small fingers twitching near the wand. Another curse struck him, lower this time, across the hip. His body jerked, and he sobbed through gritted teeth.
"I said pick it up!"
The door opened.
"Enough."
A soft voice, sharp at the edges: "Enough."
Walburga did not turn.
"You dare interrupt, Narcissa?"
"I dare," came the reply.
Regulus knelt on the floor, blood pooling beneath his knees.
The elf lay still — stiff, petrified, glass-eyed. Walburga's wand hovered inches from her son's trembling back.
"I will not have a weak Lord Black," she hissed, wand tip flaring. "Not now. Not when our God walks again beneath the stars."
"I wasn't aware He'd started keeping appointments," Narcissa said. "What's the going rate for salvation these days? Or even perfect Os? Hekate knows we can use it."
Walburga's eyes narrowed. "Blasphemy from your tongue? That tongue I taught to speak?"
"You taught it to pronounce bloodlines," Narcissa said, tilting her head. "I taught it to bite."
Walburga sneered. "You forget your place."
"I remember it every time I step back into this crumbling mausoleum of yours," Narcissa said.
Walburga's wand hand twitched.
"The Blacks must learn to dominate," she said. "This house does not raise lambs. It raises kings."
Narcissa paused. Then drew her wand.
Walburga's eyes widened, slow and disbelieving.
"You dare," she breathed. "You dare raise your wand to me?"
Narcissa's smile was small. Sharp. Her teeth just visible.
"You spent the last decade telling your children to master everyone beneath them. And now you wilt when one of them stands eye to eye?"
Regulus made a choking noise. Narcissa didn't look at him.
"Up, young man," she said softly. "Get behind me."
"Regulus stay down!" Walburga screeched.
Regulus scrambled, nearly fell, and obeyed, clinging to the back of her robes like a drowning boy to driftwood.
Walburga's wand didn't waver.
"Do you honestly think," she said, "that you can dominate me?"
"You said we were meant to," Narcissa replied. "Was that just something you embroidered on the drapes?"
"You haven't even cleared your NEWTs yet," Walburga snapped.
Narcissa's smile deepened — not soft, not kind. Just teeth.
"Then it won't be much of a fight, will it?"
She tilted her head and gestured with her wand.
"First swing's yours, Mother."
The fire crackled.
Walburga didn't move.
She hissed instead, low and furious, "Bellatrix would flay you for this."
"Oh, there she is," Narcissa said, voice lilting. "Always hiding behind Bella when the robes start to feel too heavy. Are you going to wear the ring, Walburga? Or keep polishing it for someone else's hand?"
Walburga stiffened, as if slapped. Her wand dipped a fraction — not out of fear, but confusion.
"Where," she hissed, "did you get the temerity to stand against me? I birthed you—"
"You raised me to be ruthless," Narcissa interrupted coolly, "and then forgot what that meant."
Walburga's eyes blazed.
"I've heard the whispers," Narcissa went on, twirling her wand between two fingers with bored elegance. "The legends you and your little coven of wartime flowers like to recite. All poison and pride. But you? You never left the drawing room. Your generation of women — all talk, no teeth."
She laughed, cruel and effortless.
"Better suited to sipping wine under magnolia trees, trading gossip at soirees, eating macrons and playing matriarch while real wars are fought by men and women willing to stain their hands."
Walburga's jaw clenched.
"You want to speak of service?" Narcissa's voice darkened. "The Dark Lord doesn't need peacocks in mourning gowns. He needs women of grit. Women who don't faint at the sight of a bleeding throat. Women who fight enemies their own size — not children bound to a rug."
She stepped forward, the marble floor whispering beneath her boots.
"I am younger than you. More beautiful. Fertile. Cunning. And twice as vicious."
Each word landed like a lash.
"I am exactly the sort of woman our Lord desires. You? You are a nameplate on a crumbling manor."
She held her wand level now, her eyes alight with cold delight.
"So strike me, Mother. Prove me wrong."
Walburga's mouth twisted into something savage and she spun on her heel and stomped away.
.
..
Outside the arch, crouched just behind the ancestral bust of Cassiopeia Black, was Tonks. She pocketed her wand as soon as she saw Tonks. Her hair had darkened to an ash-brown and was pulled into a low knot — a rare moment of deference to silence. She didn't smile. She didn't joke. She met Narcissa's eyes and nodded.
Narcissa nodded back.
They said nothing.
Together, they walked the long corridor to their shared wing, their pace slow, Regulus trailing close behind, clutching Narcissa's sleeve like a lifeline.
As soon as Narcissa entered her room, she wrapped the wards around her tighter than ever before.
Only then did her mask slip.
Her face softened. Her breath caught. She turned and wrapped Regulus in her arms, fierce and gentle, all at once.
He gasped. Then broke into sobs. His small hands gripped her robes as if they anchored him to the earth. His tears soaked into her collar, his shoulders heaving with every breath.
She carried him to her bed without magic. It just felt wrong doing so at this moment.
Just as he'd always remembered — back when she'd been taller, and the world smaller, and love didn't come with rules.
She lay him down against the pillows, tucked his head against her shoulder, and stroked his back.
"You were brave," she murmured, her voice close against his hair. "You did exactly what you needed to do."
"I didn't do anything," he sniffled.
"You didn't break," she said. "That's everything."
She felt the damp heat of his blush before she saw it.
He was hesitating. Fingers twisting in the edge of his robe.
Narcissa drew back slightly, raising his chin with two fingers, "Let me see it."
He looked away. "It's ugly."
"I'm your big sister," she said, her voice almost amused. "You think I haven't seen you fall out of trees and land in mud?"
The door creaked.
Tonks stepped in, still quiet, holding a simple black leather satchel.
"Got the kit," she said.
Sisters At War
The marble basin ran red before it turned pink.
Narcissa worked in silence, hands steady beneath the faucet as she rinsed the blood from her knuckles. The water was warm and soothing. Her sleeves were rolled just enough to reveal the edge of a bruise.
Tonks stood beside her, scrubbing a rag between her palms as if she could erase something deeper. Regulus was asleep in the other room, tucked into Narcissa's bed with transfigured plushies to keep him company.
"You didn't yell at him," Tonks said, not looking up.
Narcissa's hand paused beneath the water. "I didn't need to."
Tonks set the rag down. Slowly. "You never needed to scream at me either. But you did."
The silence that followed was brittle.
Narcissa shut the tap. She reached for a clean towel and began dabbing her fingers with practiced precision. It was just enough movement to buy time and shape her voice.
"He was soft," she said at last.
"And I wasn't?" Tonks asked. "When I was seven and you made me kill a pixie? When I cried because Walburga tried to force me into dueling Bellatrix drunk?"
"You were insufferable," Narcissa said. "Loud. Rude. Uncooperative."
"I was a child," Tonks snapped.
"This really isn't the time, Nympho—" Narcissa started.
Tonks smashed a small bottle against the porcelain sink. The glass cracked. She glared at her through the mirror.
"Don't. call. Me. that," Tonks spat.
"You hated the drills. You hated the silence. But you never hated the results," Narcissa said.
Tonks stepped closer.
"You never praised me either. Not once. Not even when I broke your record for hovering."
"You were supposed to," Narcissa said.
Tonks stared at her. Her lip trembled. Her eyes teared, not from sorrow but from fury.
"You let Walburga call me a mutt in front of a dozen guests. You stood there and said nothing while she paraded me like a pet project."
Narcissa turned, slowly. Her voice was low. "What was I supposed to do?"
"Protect me?! I am your baby sister! Your blood. Just like Regulus is, damn it!"
Tonks screamed it as she hurled the first-aid kit across the marble floor. Vials clattered and broke. Narcissa instinctively raised a hand. The gesture of someone trying to stop time from falling apart.
"I gave you everything I had," Narcissa said.
"You gave me nothing," Tonks spat. Her tears streaked freely now.
"I gave you precision. Power. The chance to walk into a room full of dark mages and not flinch."
"You gave Regulus your arms when he cried. Have you ever done that for me?"
"He cried like a boy," Narcissa said.
"I cried too. Like a girl who just wanted her big sister to protect her against the nightmares."
Narcissa said nothing and turned her face away.
"Well?!" Tonks demanded but Narcissa still said nothing.
Tonks turned on her heel. Her boots hit the tile like a judge's gavel.
"I hate you," she said. "I fucking hate you and your stinking guts."
She reached the door, yanked it open, and paused just long enough to glance over her shoulder.
"You didn't train me. You took every soft thing I had and ground it out like a cigarette. You made sure I never asked you for help again."
Then she was gone.
The door slammed hard enough that the hinges cracked.
Narcissa stood in the silence.
The mirror still trembled from the force of the slam. A shard of broken glass rolled across the floor, stopped, and stilled.
She stared at the empty doorway for a long moment. Her mouth trembled.
Then her knees gave out.
She sat down on the cold marble, her back against the cabinet, and covered her face with both hands.
The tears came slowly.
Then all at once.
Narcissa Black
Narcissa lowered herself onto the edge of the bath, hands trembling in her lap. The sleeves of her robe were wet. Her shoulders ached. Her eyes stung. She didn't cry right away.
She sat. Cold. Still.
You should have stopped her.
You should have said something.
But what would you have said?
That you loved her? That you were proud?
She would have spat in your face. And rightly so.
How could you tell her what you saw that night? The Dark Lord, not even human, smiling like a corpse reanimated. The way his breath had smelled — not air, not flesh, but rot. Corpse rot. The kind that seeps into your teeth and never leaves.
She had sat beside him. Just once. A dinner in his honor. A performance. She had stared into those eyes and seen the future of the world.
Fire.
Flesh.
Cities burning. Rows of children screaming without mouths. Skies broken like glass. Magic twisted into ropes, binding witches to stakes not for punishment, but for entertainment.
Two days.
That was how long she had stayed in bed afterward. Catatonic. Silent. Her body refused food. Her magic recoiled from her touch.
And her mother had called it nerves. Her sister had called it reverence.
But he had known. He had turned to her — seen her — and spoken the words no one else dared whisper.
She is a psychic.
She is a lament.
He had wanted her. Claimed her.
And Walburga had offered her. Like a sow for slaughter.
She had seen her own womb torn open on a slab. Had seen the Lestrange heir inside her, laughing as he carved her name into the floor in her own blood.
Lucius. Rodolphus. Mulciber. It didn't matter. They all smelled of the same thing — rotting meat and fresh blood. Men who had pledged their souls to a monster.
She had done what she had to. Shut her mouth. Straightened her spine. Told herself it was survival. That if she played it right, she could live long enough to protect the ones who couldn't fight. She would marry a powerful general of the dark lord and seek safety by being the most boring person in the room. A trophy wife.
Tonks would never have played it safe.
he would have run to Dumbledore's banner with that wand half-bent and her heart too wide. She would have died screaming in some field, waving a flag for a man who never deserved her faith.
So Narcissa did the only thing she could. She struggled to hold back tears and sobs as finger nails dug in to her scalp.
She broke Tonks.
Trained her.
Sharpened her like a weapon and dared not love her, not properly, not openly. Because if she loved her, she would be weak. And weakness was death.
And now she was gone.
Because you didn't tell her the truth.
Because how could you?
How could you look her in the eye and say that the boy she keeps sneaking glances at, the one she sleeps beside, the one she would follow into fire and death, is the same child you were ordered to deliver to the Dark Lord thirteen years ago?
That the boy is Harry Potter.
A military secret so crucial that is anonymity was linked directly safety of their entire species, magical or mundane.
Narcissa began to cry.
Not softly.
Not ladylike.
The sobs broke from her chest like waves over stone, old and ugly and full of rust. She buried her face in her hands and wept for the little girl who had just walked away, for the child she had never been allowed to be, for the world that should have been.
For the secret that was killing her, one hour at a time.
She felt nausea overtake her and slammed a hand over her mouth in panic as she rushed.
.
..
She had broken Tonks before she'd known who Valemont truly was.
Before she saw past the theatrical speeches, the mock-academic posturing, the calculated charm. Before she heard the cold certainty in his voice when no one else was listening. Before she saw him bleed for people he barely knew.
She had thought him a tactician. A weapon shaped for survival. Another boy on the board.
She had been wrong.
There was conviction in him. Real conviction. Not philosophy. Not ego. Something worse. Something heavier.
He had seen it. The same future she had tasted in her visions. The one that left her mute for two days. Cities split like fruit. Blood rites drawn in oceans. Her family's name carved into obelisks of bone as history ended.
And he had survived it.
She remembered the first time he spoke of prophecy. Not loud. Not proud. Just three words, dropped between ink and silence like a blade across silk.
It was real.
And for the first time, Narcissa knew. Knew like steel between ribs.
The Dark Lord could be defeated. He could be killed.
This was no longer a slow crawl toward extinction. There was a thread now. Not thick. Not golden. But real.
That Bellatrix was mortal. Just like the rest of them.
The monster that had haunted their home since Narcissa was old enough to walk without supervision. The one who wore death like perfume, who carved runes into her dolls, who sang lullabies in broken Parseltongue and fed house elves to pythons for sport.
The one who raped and pillaged.
He tossed her like she was nothing. Like she was already dead and the world just hadn't caught up yet.
Bellatrix hit the stone wall like a broken doll and slid down without a sound. Her wand fell. Her mouth twisted into something between a snarl and a laugh. And for the first time in her life, Narcissa saw her sister afraid.
He didn't gloat. Didn't posture.
He just turned away. Like she wasn't worth his time.
That moment broke something inside her.
All her life, Narcissa had been told they were invincible. The Death Eaters. The sacred twenty-eight. The chosen few. Their power was sacred. Their bloodline divine.
But then Harry Valemont — Harry Potter — had thrown Bellatrix aside like used garbage. Not with desperation. With contempt.
And the veil came down.
Bellatrix could bleed. Which meant they all could.
Which meant the Dark Lord could.
One day, Narcissa would make it right.
With all of them. Every soul who had suffered for her choices, whether by silence, by inaction, or by the cold calculus she had once mistaken for survival.
Harry. Tonks. Regulus.
Andrew.
She would save them all. That was her vow. One day, when the war was over and the world finally turned quiet, she would see them grow old. She would see their children — dozens of them — sprinting through sunlit halls in opulent mansions without secret passageways or hidden dueling wards. There would be no portraits that screamed, no family trees carved in iron. Only gardens, laughter, and warmth.
They would be wealthy. They would be well-fed. They would be safe.
And Narcissa would make sure of it
.
..
She heard a sound outside the door. Laughter, soft and bright.
Narcissa crawled toward it on her knees and leaned just enough to peer through the cracked frame.
Tonks was there.
She was kneeling beside Regulus on the rug, her hands curled into exaggerated shapes, her face twisted into a ridiculous expression — tongue out, eyes crossed, chin tucked so far back it almost vanished. Regulus was giggling, high-pitched and helpless, his tears forgotten. His small hands clutched at the bedsheets as he laughed, real laughter, not forced, not strained.
He must have woken up from their shouting. And bless her — bless her — Tonks still cared. Still had it in her to cradle that boy's heart even after everything.
Narcissa pressed her hand to her mouth and nearly cried again.
So much had been broken. But not everything. Not yet.
There was still time to fix it.
Memento Mori, Tom, you son of a whore.
Memento Mori.
Grengrass House
Andrew looked up from the open ledger on his desk. Then he stood — too fast — the chair clattering behind him as he rushed toward her.
"Narcissa—" he said, breathless. "What the hell are you doing here?"
He reached for her hand as if to make sure she was real. His fingers closed around hers, warm and grounding. His eyes searched hers like he hadn't seen them in years.
"You said it was over," he said. "You said this was impossible. That you were a Black and I was... decoration. You told me not to wait. That your mother would never allow it."
"I know what I said," Narcissa replied, breath catching on the last word.
Andrew stared.
"And now?"
"Now I don't care," she said, voice wobbling with either defiance or drink. "Walburga can go shove a broomstick up her bony rear."
Andrew blinked.
Then blinked again.
"You what?"
"I said she can shove a—"
"I heard you. I'm just..." He broke into a grin. "That may be the most vulgar thing I've ever heard you say."
Narcissa hiccuped.
A small one. Embarrassed. Barely audible.
A touch of pink bloomed at her cheeks.
Andrew's smile softened. His thumb brushed over her knuckles.
"Has the perfect princess had too much tonight?"
She sniffed. Tried to pull her hand back. Failed.
"I am not drunk."
"Of course not."
He leaned in and kissed her nose.
Narcissa blinked.
Then giggled.
She actually giggled.
Before he could say a word, she reached into her robe and pressed a bottle into his hand. It was crystal, heavy, and unmistakably stolen from Walburga's private cabinet.
"Clearly," she said, eyes dancing now, "I haven't had enough."
.
..
The bottle drained quicker than either of them expected.
Andrew had poured the first glass with caution, like a man expecting his manor to be burned to the ground by Walburga's fury before midnight. But after Narcissa's third eye-roll and a second dramatic swig, he stopped asking permission.
They settled onto the velvet divan beneath the tall bay window. Narcissa kicked off her shoes. Andrew loosened his collar.
"So," she said, curling her legs beneath her. "Tonks is sleeping in a cupboard and calling it rebellion. You know she drew a lightning bolt on her arm last week and claimed she was the next Merlin?"
Andrew laughed, hand covering his mouth. "She always was dramatic. And I heard Harry threatened to hex Lucius in the hallway last Tuesday."
"Yes, and I nearly kissed him for it," Narcissa said, smirking.
Andrew turned to her, shocked.
"Kissed Harry?"
"Figure of speech, you utter dolt."
He clutched his chest. "Don't scare me like that."
Narcissa snorted before grabbing him by the back of his head and forcing him in a vicious snogging session.
Andrew gasped for breath as they both started at each other in amazement.
She sipped her drink, eyes glittering.
They talked more. About Lily Evans and how she had stormed out of Slughorn's party for calling her 'common.' About James Potter and how he'd once accidentally walked into the Slytherin girl's dorm, swore it was an ambush, and retreated in record time.
They shared names. Scandals. The kind of stories they were never supposed to laugh at.
They dreaded OWL results together. Swore that the Arithmancy examiner had a personal vendetta. Compared how many essays they'd faked with dictaquills.
"I missed this," Narcissa whispered at one point.
Andrew looked at her, puzzled. "What?"
She smiled. "Being stupid. Being young. Having fun."
His hand brushed hers again. This time, he didn't let go.
"Don't tell Walburga," he said softly.
Narcissa leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
"Tell her what? That I'm kissing boys in drawing rooms and drinking contraband brandy? She'd have a stroke."
He chuckled. "Good. She deserves one."
As they talked, the conversation turned — as it always did with Andrew — toward his obsessions.
Spells. Constructs. Theory.
"Okay, okay, so listen," he said, practically bouncing now, "the third model didn't collapse, and I actually think the cognitive rune is stable this time. I added an animus-tether to the spine, so when it moves—"
"You're drunk," Narcissa said.
"—it learns. Like, properly stores movement, not just reflex memory. If I'm right, it could—"
She leaned forward, watching him ramble, glass in one hand. Her smile was lazy now. Playful.
"Andrew."
"—imply that golems don't just have mimetic repetition, but intuitive reflex. It means they could—"
She reached down and peeled her shirt off with a single smooth motion.
Andrew kept going.
"—adjust posture based on terrain. You see, if I link the feedback loop through a—"
She coughed. Politely. Twice.
He paused.
Turned.
And saw her.
Pale. Gorgeous. Bare from the waist up, the firelight tracing every soft line of her skin like worship.
His jaw dropped.
"I—sorry—I wasn't—"
"You were talking about rocks and ghosts again," Narcissa said, grinning.
He flushed. "I wasn't trying to be boring."
"You weren't," she said, crawling across the cushions now. "But I do prefer your other talents."
He blinked.
She winked.
And in the space between heartbeats, Andrew Greengrass forgot all about golems and lept at her with a hungry growl.
The light leaking through the drapes was warm and gold, dust dancing in the quiet air.
Andrew stirred with a grunt, rolling over into the pillow, his hair a mess and mouth dry as cotton. For a long moment, he lay there, blinking slowly, letting the pieces come back to him.
The bottle. The giggles. Her shirt, floating to the floor like silk surrender. Her breath against his collarbone. The way she whispered his name like it was an old spell she'd just remembered how to cast.
He smiled into the sheets. Then frowned.
He rolled over, half-expecting an empty bed and the sound of stiff silk being buttoned back into place. He braced for Narcissa standing by the fireplace with her back turned, arms crossed, tone clipped and cold as she declared it a mistake, something childish and foolish and never to be repeated.
But she wasn't at the fireplace.
She was beside him.
Already awake.
Her chin rested on her hand, propped up on her elbow. Her golden hair fell loose around her shoulders, and her lips curved into the faintest smile — not mocking, not distant. Just soft.
Andrew blinked.
"You're still here?" he croaked.
Narcissa tilted her head.
"Should I have fled in shame?"
"I… no, I just thought…" He sat up slowly, clutching the sheets to his chest out of pure instinct. "You'd say it didn't count. That we were drunk. That I imagined it."
"You didn't."
He blinked again. "So it… wasn't a mistake?"
She leaned forward, eyes steady, and kissed him — lightly, sweetly, just once.
Then her mouth brushed the shell of his ear, and her breath sent a shiver down his spine.
"Memento Mori," she whispered.