Snowflakes whirled gently from the grey sky above, dusting the gabled rooftops ofStygian House, an ancient manor nestled deep in the Somerset countryside. Its tall chimneys and grand mullioned windows gleamed beneath a crust of white, making the house look as though it had stepped out of some enchanted storybook, or had been forgotten by time itself.
"This way, if you please," wheezedFrimsby, hurrying up the stone steps ahead of them. "Frimsby begs pardon for the cold, Master. We didn't light the hearths today. If we'd known Master was returning to Stygian House, we'd have warmed every corner proper-like."
"It's no trouble, Frimsby," Sirius replied briskly, already brushing snow from his cloak. "Take us to the library and the study. That's all I need for now. The rest can wait till spring, when it's not bloody freezing."
"Very good, Master," piped Frimsby, trotting to keep up as Sirius strode through the front doors and into the cavernous entrance hall, boots echoing on the flagstone floor.
Eleanor hesitated on the threshold. Her breath caught in her throat. The air here was different—older, thicker. She stepped inside slowly, and it hit her like a soft tide: magic, raw and familiar, curled around her like a shawl.
Family magic.
It clung to the polished banisters, hummed in the brass fittings, whispered in the tall velvet drapes that framed the great windows. Eleanor's eyes widened as she took in the grand hall — the towering crystal chandeliers, the marble staircase that swept upward like a queen's procession, the tapestries embroidered with the family crest of the House of Black.
And it was calling to her.
Before she could help herself, her feet turned away from Sirius and Frimsby and carried her silently across the hall to the west wing. She passed the music room, where an ancient harp stood silently under a dustless sheet, and the drawing room, its heavy curtains parted just enough to let the wintry light pour through the stained glass. A unicorn pranced there in sapphire and emerald panes, casting fractured colour over the parquet floor.
Unlike the neglected London townhouse, Stygian House had been lovingly kept. Not a cobweb in sight. The elves had been diligent stewards of the family legacy.
She found herself climbing the staircase, hand trailing the smooth rail, drawn by the portraits that lined the upper gallery. Their subjects stirred and turned toward her, their painted eyes watchful, curious.
When she reached the portrait ofRegulus Arcturus Black,she stopped. Her father's younger brother. Her uncle. The boy who had turned from the path he was raised to follow.
He looked scarcely older than her—sharp cheekbones, noble brow, hair like ink falling across a pale forehead. Not quite handsome, not like Sirius, but cut with aristocratic precision.
"Who were you, really?" she whispered.
The painted eyes blinked at her.
"You saw the truth in the end, didn't you? And you paid for it with your life." She swallowed. "How did you find the strength to choose differently?"
A sudden bellow echoed up from the hall.
"ELEANOR! Where are you?"
"I'm coming!" she called back, spinning on her heel and hurrying back down the stairs.
Sirius was waiting, arms folded, his cloak still dusted with snow.
"You shouldn't wander off," he said sharply. "Not in a house like this."
"I was perfectly safe," Eleanor said. "Can't you feel it? The magic here — it's alive. It wants me here. It's... welcoming."
Frimsby had already slipped into the east wing ahead of them and lit a fire in the vastlibrary. The scent of ancient parchment and dried herbs filled the chamber, and the firelight danced on the glass-fronted bookcases that rose to the ceiling.
Sirius stepped into the warmth and nodded. "Aunt Lucretia and Aunt Cassiopeia must have layered blood spells into the wards. Very old, very protective. Likely designed to respond only to those of Black descent."
"Is that dangerous?" Eleanor asked.
Sirius shrugged, settling into a wing-backed armchair by the fire. "Depends on your view. Blood magic's often classed as Dark, but it wasn't always meant that way. It's protective, mostly. Bound to kin, to memory. It's forgotten magic, misunderstood."
Eleanor nodded and perched in the opposite chair, her gaze drifting to the towering shelves. A fire crackled between them. A tray appeared on the table, bearing two crystal tumblers and a bottle of deep amber Firewhisky.
"I'll need weeks to catalogue this lot," Sirius muttered, pouring a measure into his glass. "Lucretia might've had the finest private library in the country."
Eleanor said nothing. She simply watched the flames, feeling strangely at peace. She was surrounded by legacy—by power, yes, but also roots. And across from her sat her father, whom she'd only recently come to know.
"It's odd," Sirius murmured, watching the Firewhisky swirl like liquid amber in his glass. "Being back here... it feels almost right, in a way I hadn't expected." His voice was low, pensive. "The magic in the walls—" he gave a crooked smile "—it welcomed me. Like a son returned after too long gone. As if the house itself had been waiting… starved for a master. Therightfulone."
He didn't look at her, but she could see the wistful curl of a smile in the firelight.
When the grandfather clock chimed three, he stood up.
"We ought to head back," Sirius said at last, rising to his feet, his cloak rustling like old parchment in the silence of the crypt. He looked around the ancient chamber, the candlelight casting shadows that danced along the carved stone.
"This... all of this," he gestured to the dark, vault-like room with its glowing sigils and age-old dust, "we keep between us, Eleanor." His voice dropped, more gravel than usual. "Not even Remus would quite see it the same way, I reckon. They wouldn't understand—not really—why it matters to bring the Black name back from disgrace."
He paused, eyes locking with hers. "But you do, don't you? We need this. All of it. On our side."
"I understand," she said softly.
He held out his hand. She took it, and in one swift motion, he pulled her close and held her tight.
"Oh, my sweet girl," he whispered into her hair, and then, with a crack, they were gone.
At precisely four o'clock, the heavy front door creaked open downstairs, and the familiar murmur of voices floated through the ancient house. Eleanor, hunched over a rather temperamental Runes translation in the chilly dining room, paused only momentarily to glance up as the door creaked behind her.
Hermione stepped in, her curls slightly frizzled from the December damp, her arms wrapped protectively around a stack of books. "You don't mind if I join you?" she asked, her voice edged with the tired politeness of someone who'd had a long day.
"Please," Eleanor said, gesturing to the expanse of polished table that could seat fourteen witches or wizards with room to spare.
For a time, there was only the scratch of quills and the soft rustle of turning parchment. The silver candelabra flickered overhead, casting sleepy shadows across their ink-stained fingers.
"Are Ron and Harry joining us?" Eleanor asked eventually, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear as she leaned closer to her parchment.
Hermione sighed, her quill hovering above the margin. "No. I don't think so. They're playing wizard chess in the drawing room—again."
"Hmmf." Eleanor's nose dipped closer to her Runes calculations, her brow furrowed with frustration.
She flipped a page. "How was Mr Weasley?"
Hermione hesitated. "He was fine," she replied, but her voice cracked, just barely.
Eleanor looked up sharply. "You look upset." Her voice was brisk and clear, like a blade through fog. "What happened at St Mungo's?"
"I—"
"Don't try to deny it, Hermione," Eleanor said, more steel than silk. But then her tone softened. "You can tell me."
Hermione let out a long breath and pushed her books aside with a shuddering sound of parchment against wood. "We saw Neville," she said quietly, her eyes fixed on the quill twirling in her hand. "He was on the fourth floor… with his gran."
Eleanor reached across the table, resting her hand gently atop Hermione's. "Why was he on the fourth floor?" she asked, though the answer was already forming cold and unwelcome in her mind.
"They're residents," Hermione said softly. "His parents. Permanent residents." She swallowed hard. "I didn't know… I should've—"
"If he never told you, you couldn't have known," Eleanor interrupted gently. "I'm sorry you had to see that."
"You knew?" Hermione's gaze flicked up.
Eleanor nodded gravely. "Yes. It's… a well-known tragedy. Frank and Alice Longbottom were two of the most promising Aurors of their generation. There were whispers that Frank would be named Head Auror. Their fate… it sent shockwaves through the magical world." She paused, voice low. "I was very young. I remember little of it, but my mother was acquainted with Alice Longbottom. She never quite forgave the world for letting it happen."
Hermione's jaw clenched. "I can't believe Kreacher keeps a photo of that woman in his nest of things."
"You mean Bellatrix Lestrange?" Eleanor asked, her voice sharp with sudden tension.
Hermione nodded stiffly. "Yes."
Eleanor's brows knitted together. "Bellatrix was Sirius' cousin. Her younger sister, Andromeda, ran off with a Muggle-born wizard—Ted Tonks. Bellatrix considered it a betrayal. Never got over it. That… and the miserable marriage to Rodolphus Lestrange. It twisted her." Her voice dipped lower. "Still, that's no excuse. She's mad. Mad and dangerous."
She didn't show Hermione just how deeply it troubled her—how the thought of Kreacher still idolising that woman sent a chill down her spine. Bellatrix had been more than just cruel; she had been utterly unhinged.
"My mother knew Andromeda," Eleanor added quietly. "Saw the madness claim Bellatrix little by little. That woman should never be underestimated—not even locked away."
She rose suddenly. "Excuse me. I think I've left my Arithmancy notes upstairs."
She fled the dining room, robes swishing around her ankles, and reached her bedroom in haste. Once the door clicked shut, she turned and called sharply:
"Kreacher!"
With a crack like someone snapping their fingers through thick fog, the elf appeared at once, his nose nearly brushing the floor. "Mistress, what can Kreacher do for young Mistress?"
"You can start," Eleanor said coolly, though not unkindly, "by telling me why you have the family heirlooms and photographs in your possession. And why you keep a photo of Bellatrix Lestrange."
Kreacher's ears flattened. "Master wanted to throw them out," he said, voice shaking. "Kreacher was only trying to save them."
Eleanor's voice softened, though her eyes remained fixed on him. "Father won't throw them away. If it matters to you, you may keep them here. In my room. I'd like the family photos close by."
She knelt so that she was eye-level with the elf. "Kreacher… I'm on your side. I'm on the side of the Black family. You must show me the same loyalty. You answer only to Father and to me. No one else. Not even our cousins. Do you understand?"
Kreacher nodded, his lip wobbling, tears springing into his bloodshot eyes. "Kreacher was only trying to save the family…"
"I know," Eleanor said softly, taking his hand in both of hers and gently stroking the gnarled skin. "But you mustn't carry that burden alone. Let Father and me help restore what's been lost. We can only do it with you, Kreacher. With your help, and your loyalty."
"Kreacher understands," he whimpered, tears now falling in earnest.
Eleanor rose and rummaged through her drawer, producing a small paper-wrapped parcel. "Here," she said, offering it to him. "A little something from Honeydukes. Chocoballs. Don't eat them all at once."
Kreacher blinked at the gift in his hands, overcome. "Mistress is too good to Kreacher."
Eleanor patted his shoulder, her touch light and careful. "It's Christmas, Kreacher. Enjoy them. And when you've had one or two, bring the heirlooms and photos here, will you?"
"Yes, Mistress," he squeaked, already cradling the parcel like treasure.
As the door closed behind him with a quietcrack, Eleanor allowed herself a moment to breathe.