Eleanor awoke to a soft, silvery light spilling through the frost-laced windowpanes, the hush of falling snow still blanketing the Blacks' townhouse in an enchanted quiet. A fire crackled low in the grate—Tilly must have tended it through the night—and warmth seeped through the room like a gentle charm. With a grin stretching across her face, Eleanor wriggled deeper beneath the covers, delaying the inevitable in favour of a few more moments of drowsy contentment.
At the foot of her bed, a neat bundle of wrapped gifts awaited her. She sat up slowly, stretching, and summoned her silk-satin dressing gown with a flick of her wand.
"Tilly," she called.
With a loudpop, the house-elf appeared, beaming from ear to ear.
"Good morning, Mistress. What can Tilly do for Mistress?"
Eleanor smiled warmly and moved to her dressing table. "Happy Christmas, Tilly. I've got a little something for you."
Tilly flushed with delight, ears wiggling. "Oh, Mistress, you shouldn't have!"
Eleanor chuckled softly, pulling open a drawer and retrieving a tiny Honeydukes package wrapped in ribbon. "Oh yes, I should have. And you know the rules. Not all at once."
"Thank you very much, Mistress," said Tilly, clutching the box to her chest with a delighted squeak. "Mistress is too kind."
"It's the least I could do," Eleanor said gently. "Now go enjoy yourself. Happy Christmas!"
With anotherpop, Tilly vanished, leaving Eleanor alone with her gifts. She padded back to her bed and settled down among the cushions, unwrapping each parcel one by one.
Her mother had sent a set of robes from Paris—deep green velvet with delicate silver thread along the hem. Berenice had tracked down a rare volume titledThe Grimoires of Old: Unearthed Spells from the Age of the Ancients, its spine cracked and pages yellowed with age. Adrian had gifted her a bottle of jasmine perfume, familiar and comforting.
She blinked in surprise at a dark emerald jumper, hand-knitted and unmistakably Mrs Weasley's handiwork, complete with an elegant E stitched into the chest. Fred had sent her a prototype of their new Skiving Snackboxes—a stash she resolved to reserve specifically for Umbridge's classes.
Finally, her fingers closed around a smaller, heavier package. Sirius's name was written across the tag in his distinctive, spiky handwriting.
Inside lay a dark silver locket, cool to the touch, engraved with the Black family crest. The antique chain glinted faintly in the firelight. Eleanor opened it carefully—and gasped.
On the left, a portrait of Sirius at seventeen: eyes mischievous, hair falling roguishly into his eyes. On the right, a strikingly beautiful young woman with stormy eyes and elegant features. Astraea Black. Her mother.
Eleanor pressed the locket to her chest, heart fluttering. Tears welled up and spilled down her cheek as she fastened the chain around her neck, where it settled just above her heart.
"Thank you, Father," she whispered.
She dressed slowly, her fingers lingering over the locket, and sat at her writing desk to pen thank-you notes to Adrian, Berenice, and her mother. She stacked the letters neatly beside her inkpot—Pegasus was out, but she'd send them later that day.
Rummaging through her trunk, Eleanor located George's gift and clutched it tightly, heading downstairs. She had only made it to the stairs when she nearly collided with George himself, holding a gift in his hands.
"Happy Christmas," he said softly.
"Happy Christmas," she replied, the temptation to fling her arms around him almost overwhelming. But Lupin was somewhere nearby, and she didn't fancy being interrupted.
"I've got your gift," George said, holding it up.
"Same," she said with a smile. "Ladies first?"
She handed him the neatly bound stack of notes—the very ones she'd mentioned to Hermione yesterday, describing how to make Muggle devices function within a magic-saturated environment.
George flipped through the pages, his eyes widening. "Oh, Eleanor, this is exactly what we needed!"
She beamed. "You're welcome. Use it well."
"Oh, trust me, we will." He hesitated, then passed her a small wrapped parcel. "It's not much, but I thought…"
Eleanor tore it open and gave a delighted squeal. "Merlin's socks, you remembered!" She flung her arms around him. "Oh, thank you! Thank you! I can't believe you remembered the band!"
Without waiting, she grabbed his hand and pulled him upstairs to her room. "Wait!" she cried, rummaging through her trunk until she pulled out her boombox. "Oh Merlin, George, I can't thank you enough! Here!"
She struggled with the buttons for a moment, then pressed play.
Music burst forth—loud, full of drums and electric guitar—and Eleanor lost herself in it. She danced wildly, hair tumbling, feet tapping, voice rising to match the lyrics. She mimed an invisible guitar, then seized George's arms and pulled him into her impromptu performance.
George couldn't stop staring. She was radiant, golden flecks lighting up her eyes, utterly and incandescently alive.
When the song ended, they collapsed onto the bed, both breathless, grinning from ear to ear.
"Oh, this is already the best Christmas morning I've ever had," she murmured, rolling onto her side to face him. "Thank you."
She kissed him, slow and sweet, but just as he leaned in to deepen it, she jumped up, caught in the next wave of music.
It took three more songs before she allowed herself to be dragged downstairs for Christmas lunch. Her cheeks were flushed, hair a delightful mess, but she looked more content than ever.
After the meal, the Weasleys bundled up to head off to St Mungo's to visit Mr Weasley, leaving Eleanor with a moment of quiet. She crossed the house and knocked softly on the door of Sirius's study.
"Enter!" came Sirius's unmistakable voice, deep and slightly hoarse. "Kreacher, have you seen Aunt Cassiopeia's collection of Dark Arts texts? I was almost certain she had the only surviving copy ofMaleficia: A Compendium of Curses, Hexes and Malevolent Magic."
"Kreacher has not seen it, Master," came the raspy reply. "Kreacher believes Mistress Cassiopeia's books are still at Stygian House. Mistress Cassiopeia resided with Mistress Lucretia during her final years."
"Oh, for Merlin's saggiest ball sacks," Sirius muttered under his breath. "So everything worth a Knut is buried in Somerset. Brilliant. Have you had word from any of the house-elves who served at Stygian?"
"Yes, Master. Kreacher has located them all. Does Master wish to speak with them?"
"Yes, yes, Kreacher, of course I do. Fetch them, would you? Have them wait in the kitchen and then report back to me here."
The door creaked open and Eleanor stepped inside just as Kreacher gave a loudcrackand Disapparated.
Sirius glanced up and smiled warmly. "Eleanor, darling, what can I do for you?"
He pushed aside a thick leather-bound volume on his desk—Bloodlines and Black Magic: Pureblood Rituals and Forgotten Pacts. Eleanor's eyes darted to it with the hunger of a true scholar. She knew Mr Yaxley had scoured the continent in search of a copy.
"I wanted to thank you for your gift, Father," Eleanor said softly, her voice still threaded with emotion. "Thank you for entrusting me with a family heirloom."
Sirius waved a hand dismissively, though his eyes betrayed a glimmer of affection. "Oh, it was nothing. I meant to give you the true Black family locket—the one forged by goblins and engraved with the Black crest—but it's vanished. Regulus had it last, and I've searched his room top to bottom. Strange thing, really."
He leaned back in his chair, looking pensive.
"Ididfind a locket in there, though," he added, voice lowering with intrigue. "More valuable than I expected. Slytherin's Locket, of all things. It's still a mystery how it ended up in the family's possession. My best guess is Aunt Lucretia—she had a nose for dark trinkets. Always had a flair for the dramatic."
At that moment, Kreacher reappeared with another sharpcrack. "Master, the elves are waiting for you in the kitchen, if you please."
"Excellent, thank you, Kreacher." Sirius stood, stretching his back with a faint groan. "Eleanor, care to come along?"
She nodded without hesitation.
The pair descended the narrow staircase together and stepped into the chilly, stone-flagged kitchen of Number Twelve. At the long wooden table sat three house-elves, perched nervously on stools, ears twitching and hands twisting their tea-towel garments in knots.
"Right," Sirius began, arms folded across his chest. "Let's get one thing straight—none of you are being given clothes."
All three elves exhaled visibly in relief.
"Now then," Sirius continued, taking a step closer. "What are your names?"
The eldest among them, whose drooping ears and silvery eyebrows gave him an ancient, owlish look, cleared his throat.
"I is Frimsby, Master. This is Elf Mopsy and Elf Dilsy." He nodded to the two younger elves, who gave small, nervous bows. "We tended to Mistress Lucretia and Mistress Cassiopeia at Stygian House, Master. When they passed, we remained to look after the estate. Can Master confirm that we are still in service to the House of Black?" Frimsby asked anxiously, wringing his gnarled hands.
"Yes, you are," Sirius said firmly. "All three of you remain in the service of the Black family. No need to worry about that."
Frimsby's ears lifted with relief.
"I want you to listen carefully to Kreacher," Sirius continued. "He oversees the London townhouse and is helping me restore the House of Black properly. Frimsby, I'd like you to take Eleanor and me to Stygian House for a full tour. Understood?"
"Of course, Master," Frimsby squeaked, hopping off his stool. He took Eleanor's hand in one of his bony little paws and Sirius's in the other.
With a suddencrack, the kitchen vanished around them, replaced by a gust of cold wind and the dim, ivy-smothered outline of a towering manor in the Somerset countryside.