Two nights after the Azkaban breakout sent tremors through the wizarding world, Eleanor was jolted awake by the dim flicker of torchlight. Professor Snape was standing stiffly in the Slytherin girls' dormitory doorway, his face unusually pale.
"Miss Black, a word," he said curtly, his voice low and urgent.
Eleanor, bleary-eyed, fumbled for her night robe and pulled it around her. From the neighbouring beds, Lucy Vane and Berenice peered at her through the velvet curtains of their four-posters, their faces pinched with curiosity and unease.
"Professor?" Eleanor mumbled, knotting her robe tighter.
"Not here. Come," Snape ordered briskly, disappearing into the Common Room.
She hurried after him, feeling a strange knot of foreboding twist inside her chest. Snape led her across the dim, green-tinged room and steered her into one of the armchairs by the window that looked out into the murky depths of the Black Lake. He snapped his fingers sharply.
A house-elf, dressed in what appeared to be an old tea cosy, popped into existence with a soft crack.
"Fetch us two glasses of Firewhisky, Gibbon," Snape said, his voice tight.
"Of course, Master Snape, sir," the elf squeaked, bowing so low his nose touched the floor.
Eleanor sat frozen, staring at Snape. Something was badly wrong.
"What happened?" she asked, her voice thinner than she intended.
Snape regarded her for a long moment, then said, quietly, "Miss Black, I'm afraid I have some very grim news. There has been an... incident. Arundel Castle—your former family home—has been destroyed. Officially, the Muggle authorities are calling it a gas explosion."
Eleanor felt as though someone had punched her in the stomach.
"The Duke—your stepfather—was not at home at the time," Snape went on. "But your mother... she was. She managed to Disapparate before the explosion consumed the building. However, she could not reveal herself to the Muggles without breaching the Statute of Secrecy. Therefore, the Ministry has... declared her dead to the Muggle world."
Gibbon reappeared with a tray, balancing two small tumblers filled with Firewhisky. Snape shoved one into Eleanor's trembling hand.
"Drink up, Miss Black. You'll need it."
The glass wobbled slightly in Eleanor's grasp. She couldn't seem to find her voice.
Her home—gone. The castle where she'd grown up reduced to nothing but rubble and ash. Her stepfather, the man who had raised her, left homeless.
"Mother..." she choked out at last.
"She's alive," Snape confirmed, "though she sustained some burns in the process. She is currently being treated at St Mungo's. Fortunately, her injuries are not magical in nature, and she is expected to make a full recovery."
"And where will she go?" Eleanor asked, her mouth dry.
Snape's lips curled into something between a sneer and a smirk. "I have it on good authority that Sirius Black is already by her side."
Eleanor shut her eyes briefly, as if the room might stop spinning if she just refused to look.
"May I see her, Professor?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
Snape nodded. "The Headmaster has already given permission."
He swept to the fireplace, drew a pouch of Floo powder from inside his robes, and threw a generous handful into the flames, which roared emerald green.
"Off you go, then," he said. "St Mungo's — Spell Damage Ward."
Eleanor stepped into the flames, feeling their strange, familiar warmth surround her, and called out the destination clearly.
Moments later, she stumbled out into the bright, antiseptic light of St Mungo's hospital. A kindly-looking Mediwitch met her almost at once.
"You must be Miss Black," the witch said. "Come along, dear. She's been given a private room."
Their footsteps echoed hollowly against the high, tiled floors as they walked. At last, the Mediwitch pushed open a heavy door and smiled kindly at her.
"There you are, sweetheart."
Inside, Astraea Black sat propped up against a mountain of pillows, her right hand leafing lazily through the latest issue ofWitch Weekly. Her left arm was bare, slathered with some sort of vivid orange salve. Her face, perfectly made up as ever, bore only a few smudges of soot along her cheekbones.
"Oh, Pleione, you really shouldn't have come," Astraea exclaimed airily the moment she spotted her daughter. "I'm in excellent hands, truly. Your father's just nipped off to the cafeteria for a cup of proper tea."
Eleanor leaned heavily against the doorframe. Her throat ached.
"How could you, Mother?" she said, her voice cracking.
Astraea glanced up lazily. "How could I what, darling?" she asked, as if discussing a missing hairbrush.
"How could you do that to Daddy?" Eleanor whispered.
Astraea closed her magazine with a sharp snap. Her smile faded.
"Don't be so dramatic, Pleione. The Duke of Norfolk is perfectly fine. No harm done."
"You blew up Arundel Castle!" Eleanor burst out, unable to hold it in any longer. "How could you?"
"How could I?" Astraea repeated, swinging her legs off the bed and standing up in a rustle of silk. "I will not be denied my birthright, child. I am your mother, Pleione Lyra Black."
"You only used me to worm your way back into Father's good graces," Eleanor said bitterly, blinking back furious tears.
Astraea's lips curled. "I cleared your father's name," she snapped. "Without me, he'd still be festering in that mausoleum at Grimmauld Place. I plied Sirius myself."
Eleanor's hand shot out before she knew what she was doing, but Astraea caught her wrist deftly, holding it in a grip like iron beneath velvet.
"I am your mother, Pleione," she murmured dangerously. "You will obey me."
Slowly, she lowered Eleanor's trembling hand.
"Darling, everything I do, I do forus," Astraea said, her voice smoothing out once more. "There's a war coming, and we must be ready. The Black name will shield us. The old magic will protect you."
Eleanor searched her mother's face desperately, looking for any flicker of warmth, of doubt. But Astraea looked as cool and certain as ever — beautiful and terrifying.
"And what about the Dark Lord?" Eleanor whispered, her stomach knotting painfully.
"We remain Neutral until the war is won," Astraea said crisply. "Even I cannot twist the Ministry that far. Not anymore."
Eleanor felt tears prick her eyelids, hot and shameful.
"And what about Father?" she asked, her voice almost inaudible.
"Leave your father to me," Astraea said with a small, indulgent smile. "He'll see sense soon enough. We all must, if we're to survive what's coming."
Eleanor nodded mutely. She would have to play along — for now.
Astraea drew her into a perfumed hug. "My sweet girl. Come, let's get you back to Hogwarts. You need your sleep."
She led Eleanor back to the waiting Mediwitch, giving strict instructions for her to be escorted back safely.
By the time Eleanor stumbled through the Slytherin Common Room's entrance, the fires had gone out. She crept upstairs and slipped wordlessly into Berenice's four-poster.
"Just hold me, Bunny," she whispered brokenly, the tears she had fought for so long finally spilling over. "Just tell me it'll all be all right."
Berenice said nothing. She simply pulled Eleanor close, letting her cry herself into exhaustion.
But long before the sun had fully risen, Eleanor stirred again. She slid from the bed, wrapped her lace-trimmed silk robe tightly around her, and tiptoed out of the dormitory, the castle silent and heavy around her.
Barefoot and cloaked by the shimmer of a Disillusionment Charm, Eleanor made her way through the silent corridors, the stones cool beneath her toes. When she reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, she paused, heart hammering in her chest.
The Fat Lady blinked blearily at her, clearly the worse for wear after some nocturnal indulgence.
"Duchess Black... How may I be of service?" she hiccupped, her voice thick with sleep and sherry.
"Valor Victor," Eleanor whispered, tugging the invisibility charm tighter around herself.
With an affronted sniff and a dramatic roll of her eyes, the Fat Lady swung open, muttering about late-night disturbances.
The Gryffindor Common Room unfolded before Eleanor — a warm, glowing space of deep reds and golds, the fire in the hearth still crackling low. She didn't waste a second admiring it. Her feet carried her straight towards the boys' dormitory stairs, her heart beating an urgent rhythm against her ribs.
Up and up she climbed, until she reached the seventh door. She paused, listening to the silence on the other side. Then, with a deep breath, she eased it open.
Inside, the room was bathed in the muted light of the embers below. The boys slept soundly, their curtains half-drawn. Eleanor's eyes found him instantly — George, tangled among the sheets, his chest rising and falling steadily.
Silently, she tiptoed across the room, the silk hem of her robe whispering against her skin. She perched on the edge of his bed, just by his feet, and with a subtle flick of her wand, charmed the curtains closed. Thick folds of scarlet velvet sealed them into their own secret world; no sound would escape, no eye would see.
Eleanor moved onto the mattress, her knees sinking into the soft bedding. She crept up over him, planting her hands either side of his broad shoulders. Her fingers brushed his cheek, a feather-light caress, as she leaned closer, her breath warm against his skin.
George stirred, his eyes blinking open slowly, hazy with sleep — and then he saw her. He sat bolt upright, shock flaring across his face.
"Eleanor?" he rasped.
She didn't answer with words. Her arms slid around his neck, pulling him into her. Her mouth found his, hot and demanding, setting fire to the space between them.
George reacted instinctively, a groan catching in his throat. His hands gripped her waist, fingers finding the belt of her robe and tugging it loose. The silk fell away with a whisper, revealing the crimson lace beneath — intricate, delicate, barely there.
"Oh, Merlin," George breathed, his voice thick. His hands roamed up her sides, cupping her breast reverently through the sheer fabric. Eleanor gasped, arching into his touch, her fingers threading through his hair.
She wrapped her legs around his hips, feeling his body respond eagerly. His mouth moved to her neck, trailing fire wherever he kissed. Eleanor tugged the robe from her shoulders, enveloping them both in a cocoon of silk.
With a slow, deliberate roll of her hips, she pressed against him, feeling the hard length of him through the thin barrier of lace. George groaned, his hands slipping lower, skimming along her thighs.
"Eleanor," he murmured again, almost in awe, his fingers tracing the edge of her thong. She answered by tilting her hips forward, a silent, urgent invitation.
With a low growl, he shifted the lace aside and entered her, their bodies locking together in a perfect, desperate rhythm. Eleanor's head dropped to his shoulder, a groan escaping her lips as she rocked against him, each movement stoking the fire higher.
George clutched at her hips, trying to guide her, but Eleanor was in command. She pushed him down onto his back, straddling him, her hair falling around them like a dark curtain.
His eyes met hers, wide and dark with need, but Eleanor only smiled — slow, wicked — and pinned his wrists above his head.
George moaned, the sound muffled against her skin, as she claimed him fully, fiercely, grinding down in a rhythm as old as magic itself.
She kissed the hollow of his throat, tasting salt and heat, her fingers stroking the insides of his wrists as she held him there, helpless beneath her.
George surrendered utterly, his body arching into hers, as Eleanor rode him through the firestorm they had summoned together, the only sound their ragged breathing and the pounding of their hearts.
Eleanor's hair cascaded over George's chest, her hands tracing his shoulders, memorising every curve and line. Her skin was on fire, each press and grind pushing them further into a feverish frenzy. The scent of her perfume — jasmine and something more, something deeper — filled the air, intoxicating.
George's hands slipped down her back, tracing the delicate lines of her spine before they grasped her firmly, pulling her closer. His lips brushed the curve of her neck, his words muffled but urgent. "Eleanor… Godric, I—"
She silenced him with a kiss, her mouth hot and demanding. Her hips moved in a slow, deliberate circle, teasing, building a rhythm that made George's breath hitch in his throat. Every shift of her body sent waves of pleasure coursing through him, each movement a promise of something just beyond reach.
Their eyes met for a moment, and in that fleeting glance, something passed between them — something deeper than the heat, the passion, the need. It was raw, it was vulnerable, and for a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. It was just the two of them, tangled in a mess of silk, skin, and yearning.
George's grip on her tightened as his body began to react in turn, a groan escaping his lips as his fingers found the curves of her hips, guiding her movements. The tension between the curtains grew, the fire between them flaring brighter, hotter, until it was almost unbearable.
Eleanor's head fell back, her body trembling as the peak of pleasure built higher, and higher — until, with one final, sharp thrust, they both shattered. The four-poster seemed to pulse with their release, time slowing to a stop as they held each other in that perfect, breathless moment.
Eleanor collapsed against George's chest, her heart racing in her ears, her skin slick with the aftershocks. She felt the warmth of his body beneath her, his hands still holding her close, as if he never wanted to let her go.
For a moment, there was silence — just the sound of their breathing, slow and steady. Eleanor nestled into his chest, trying to catch her breath. Her mind was a hazy blur, still caught in the haze of the intense connection they had shared. She didn't want to leave, but she knew she had to.
As the first light of dawn began to peek through the curtains, Eleanor eased herself off of him, the coolness of the room suddenly making her skin prickle. She slid into her robe, her hands trembling slightly as she fastened it, every movement slow, as if to savour the last few moments of what had just happened.
She glanced back at George, who was still lying on the bed, eyes closed, a soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He was half-dazed, still unsure if it was all real. His fingers flexed slightly, as if reaching for her even in his sleep.
With a final, lingering glance, Eleanor turned towards the door. She opened it quietly, slipping into the corridor just as the first rays of sunlight began to spill across the castle. Her footsteps were soft, like a whispered promise, and the faint scent of jasmine lingered in the air, a trace of the storm that had passed between them.
She walked away, leaving the Gryffindor Common Room behind, wondering if it had all been a dream. George, still half-dreaming, lay motionless for a moment, his eyes flickering open as he reached for her — but there was nothing there, nothing but the fading scent of jasmine and the bittersweet taste of what had been.
Was it real? He wondered, half convinced that he had imagined it all in the haze of sleep. The warmth of her still lingered in his mind, but as the sun crept higher in the sky, reality crept back in.
And yet, as he sat up and rubbed his eyes, a small smile tugged at his lips. Even if it was a dream, it had felt too real to ignore.
