Esme tapped her wand gently in a series of intricate silver arcs over Abraxas Malfoy's chest, watching the shimmering diagnostic runes float in the dim lighting of the bedroom.
"You have been gone a while," Abraxas commented, his voice raspy and thinned.
"Oui. I had some affairs to tend to in the Americas," Esme replied smoothly, her eyes focused on the glowing magical diagnostic before her. "And then I had to deal with your pregnant daughter-in-law."
Abraxas remained quiet for a long moment, watching the ceiling. "I heard she already gave birth."
"Oui. A healthy girl," Esme said softly. "They named her Octavia. Though Sirius does not seem to be fond of the name."
"Ah." A faint flicker of emotion crossed the old patriarch's weathered face before settling back into stoicism. "Octavia is a fine Malfoy name. At least that damn boy finally came to his senses and gave the other child a Malfoy name instead of a Black one."
"Did Lucius not tell you?" Esme asked, keeping her voice light and professional.
Abraxas looked away, his eyes fixed on the heavy curtains of the bed. "That boy hasn't entered this room in a while."
Esme nodded in silent understanding. Lucius had still not forgiven his father for his unfaithfulness, and in truth, Esme had not forgiven the man either. Yet as a Healer, she remained calm, composed, and strictly objective. It was no easy task to transfer Abraxas's care to another practitioner without compromising the family's privacy. And privacy was everything to high nobility. Everyone, from the highest-ranking lords to the lowest gossips in society, watched their every move, knowing that a single whisper of scandal or weakness could ruin their reputation.
Because of that suffocating scrutiny, finding a discreet Healer who could be trusted with noble secrets was exceptionally rare. The wizarding world suffered from a severe shortage of qualified Healers. The field was notoriously grueling, requiring immense discipline and precise magical mastery. Though the profession was slowly growing, it could hardly keep up with demand. St. Mungo's and smaller hospitals were perpetually understaffed all around the world, leaving hospital Healers exhausted and overworked, while private Healers retained immense leverage, prestige, and power among the elite.
When the official announcement of the newest member of the Malfoy family was finally released to the press, every single word had been meticulously controlled. The public had spent months wondering why the Malfoys had abruptly stepped back from high-society galas and seasonal gatherings, only to realize Narcissa had been in quiet confinement for her pregnancy.
Such a practice was hardly unusual among the noble families. Many of them routinely retreated behind heavily warded estates to protect the mother's and child's delicate magic during pregnancy. More importantly, confinement shielded the family from public scrutiny in the event of a tragedy or sudden loss. No noble house would willingly allow such information to become public gossip, not because of scandal, but because of the emotional weight of the loss.
Esme continued her deep diagnostic scans, her wand tracing silent, silver arcs above Abraxas's chest, until she abruptly paused.
Abraxas, ever perceptive, noticed the sharp shift in her stance immediately. "What is it?"
Esme composed her features before looking down at him. "Nothing. I am merely a little tired, but I admit your condition is far better than before, despite how rapidly the disease progressed in the beginning."
"I admit it seems to have halted," Abraxas murmured, gazing up at the ceiling.
"Yes," Esme warned, her tone cool and measured. "But we cannot afford to be complacent."
"Understood," he sighed heavily.
The man had been trapped within the four walls of this bedchamber for months, unable to leave due to his fragile health and the lingering danger of the infectious phase. Esme could hardly blame him for his melancholy. There were clear, undeniable health benefits to being out in the open air, but stepping beyond these warded doors carried the grave risk of infecting others. The best she could do for him was keep a window cracked and let in whatever faint sunlight managed to pierce the dreary British sky.
Esme packed her Healer's kit, gave a curt nod, and stepped out into the quiet corridor. The heavy doors clicked shut behind her, isolating her in the grand hallway of Malfoy Manor.
Once completely alone, she allowed her professional mask to slip. Her breath caught in her throat as a wave of sheer disbelief washed over her.
She couldn't believe it.
The dragonpox had ceased.
It had completely halted!
It hadn't merely slowed or gone dormant under palliative care; the violent, core-eating decay had ground to a total standstill. She rewound every shimmering diagnostic rune in her mind, her heart hammering against her ribs. For a disease universally regarded as a fatal death sentence, especially for elderly wizards, a complete arrest of dragonpox was nothing short of a miracle in wizarding medicine.
Yet, as a seasoned professional, she knew better than to let hope cloud her judgment. There was no guarantee that her specific regimen was the sole cause. It could very well be a biological anomaly or a temporary fluke. It would take several more months of observation, alongside trial data from patients in varying stages of the disease and of different ages, to confirm a true cure.
She needed to communicate again with Healers Beyond Frontiers. They had been running controlled experimental trials using her customized potion compound for months. If those trials yielded the same result... it would reshape the entire wizarding world and conquer one of its most terrifying plagues.
However, a far more dangerous dilemma immediately loomed over her: the family pride.
If the disease is cured. She could not hide the truth for long. Abraxas would inevitably notice his improving condition, and if the news of a breakthrough cure were to be announced, it would be remarkably easy to piece together that Esme had a hand in it. Her professional name was the real danger. She had chosen Healer Clarisse because Clarisse was her middle name, but it was also her mother's name, the name of Abraxas's own wife. The moment it appeared beside a cure for dragonpox, neither he nor Lucius would need more than a heartbeat to connect it to her. Knowing the two of them, they would love nothing more than to boast publicly that such a monumental medical discovery belonged to the House of Malfoy, achieved by none other than their own daughter and sister.
But Esme did not want that known. Not yet.
She still had so much to accomplish before stepping into the blinding public eye, a reveal that would eventually announce her not just a healer, but as the future Lady Black, wife to Sirius Black, the future Head of the House of Black. She needed to figure out a way to keep those two ambitious men from speaking out of turn for the time being.
Esme smoothed down her robes, taking a slow, steadying breath. She needed to speak with Sirius immediately. Together, they would have to find a way to firmly control the narrative and keep the Malfoys' mouths shut.
*****
Sirius and Regulus sat across from Arcturus in his private study at Blackwood Castle. It was a fine Saturday morning. Melania had gone out with Lucretia, taking the fresh air in the private botanical glasshouses and browsing the high-end artisan shops in Diagon Alley, something they enjoyed away from the frantic social galas.
"Why'd you summon us, Grandfather?" Sirius asked, leaning back into the leather armchair and crossing his legs.
Arcturus set down his quill, resting his hands on the desk as he fixed both brothers with a heavy, piercing stare. "Is there anything you two need to tell me?"
Sirius frowned, looking genuinely perplexed. "Not that I know of."
Regulus, however, shifted subtly in his seat, a flicker of guilt crossing his pale face.
Arcturus's eyes zeroed in on him immediately. "Regulus?"
"I... I don't know what you mean, Grandfather," Regulus stammered, trying to keep his composure.
"Oh?" Arcturus raised an eyebrow, his voice dangerously calm. "Is there a particular reason why your great-great-grandfather, Phineas Nigellus Black, is currently shouting in my portrait gallery, demanding to know why Regulus is still alive?"
"What?" Sirius gasped, snapping his head toward his brother in utter shock.
"I had to lock down the entire portrait gallery!" Arcturus barked, his eyes narrowing on Regulus. "Have you gone completely mad, Regulus? Your identity is supposed to be dead. If people find out you are alive, it will spell catastrophic trouble for you and for this family!"
"I know, and it was an accident!" Regulus admitted hurriedly, wincing. "I was up in the attic, not realizing Phineas's portrait was there. Apparently, the cloth covering his frame had slipped, and he caught sight of me. He told me he was being summoned somewhere and had to leave. I'm worried it could be Dumbledore."
"Because he was a former Hogwarts Headmaster," Sirius muttered grimly, the full weight of the situation hitting him. "Ah, fuck."
The dark realization set in fast. It was no secret that the Headmaster used portraits to keep tabs on students and gather intelligence. Looking back now, Sirius understood why the Gryffindors had gotten away with so much of their behavior, his own bullying included. He admitted it readily to himself these days. He had been a bully back then. Dumbledore had been so overtly biased toward his own house that even when the portraits revealed Gryffindors were at fault, the headmaster turned a blind eye. It was that unchecked favoritism that had made the Marauders cocky in the first place.
"Well, you do not have to worry about that," Arcturus interjected smoothly, pulling Sirius out of his thoughts. "Normally, Hogwarts Headmasters are strictly forbidden from using those portraits for anything outside of academic matters and school management. Attempting to use them to spy on private family estates overrides the portraits' magical obligations to the castle. My grandfather may be an annoying figure, but he draws a firm line with anyone trying to use him to spy on the House of Black."
"Still," Sirius pointed out, leaning forward, "the idea that Dumbledore is using former Headmaster portraits to spy on estates where their secondary frames hang... wouldn't that create a massive legal precedent against him?"
"It raises severe legal issues, yes. Especially since Dumbledore has no authority to do so," Arcturus agreed, crossing his arms. "We are simply fortunate that Phineas remains fiercely loyal to family lineage above all else. Though he does have a fair share of colorful things to say about you, Sirius."
"Of course he does," Sirius muttered, rolling his eyes. "My mother loved using him as her personal spy between the house and the school. The bloody man's portrait hung directly in the hallway in front of my bedroom door at Grimmauld Place for years."
"Yes, well, he was thoroughly enraged over why you were named Heir to the House of Black while Regulus is still breathing. He wouldn't listen to reason," Arcturus added dryly. "I had to silence him for a while. He was getting on my last nerve."
"Hah!" Sirius let out a breathless laugh, knowing that feeling all too well.
"But we need to lock him down," Regulus insisted, his brows furrowed in thought. "However, Dumbledore would raise questions as to why Phineas Black did not come back to his portrait at Hogwarts. It might cause issues, such as a formal complaint to the Department of Magical Education that we are illegally tampering with Phineas' portrait. We certainly do not want search warrants or Ministry inspectors pushed into our estates under the guise of an audit."
Silence fell over the study as the three men pondered the delicate legal balance.
"Why are we trying to lock Phineas down at all?" Sirius asked suddenly.
The two looked at him as if he had gone completely insane.
"I would love nothing more than to know what Dumbledore is up to," Sirius said, a calculating smirk forming on his face.
That caught the attention of both Arcturus and Regulus.
"Phineas could be our eyes and ears at Hogwarts," Sirius continued. "He has direct access to the Headmaster's office, and he can easily roam the entire castle through the other portraits. While he cannot share anything related to official school business, knowing Dumbledore, any activity outside of school jurisdiction is fair game. Besides, Phineas loves spying on people—so why don't we have him spy for us?"
Arcturus stroked his chin, pondering the idea. "He could... but he is going to ask for something in return. He is a Slytherin, after all."
"What kind of favor would he ask?" Sirius frowned. "Isn't the mere prospect of spying already something he loves doing?"
"I think you are underestimating the man simply because he is unlikeable," Regulus said dryly.
*****
Arcturus removed the silencing charm from Phineas Nigellus's ornate frame, stepping back as the painted ancestor immediately smoothed his dark robes, his narrow eyes flashing with indignity.
"Unmannerly, Arcturus! Silencing your own grandfather like a common house-elf!" Phineas sneered, leaning heavily on his frame before his gaze dragged across the room, lingering with open disdain on Sirius and Regulus. "And look at this tragic assembly. A ghost who lacks the spine to stay dead, and a disgraced Gryffindor standing proudly in my gallery as if he earned his seat. Tell me, Arcturus, have we truly fallen so low that we welcome blood-traitors back into the inner sanctum?"
Sirius didn't flinch. He merely met his ancestor's sharp gaze with a cold, unimpressed expression, leaning back further into his armchair. "Save the lecture, Great-Great-Grandfather. The family has bigger concerns than your lingering nostalgia for the old days."
"Silence, boy!" Phineas snapped, pointing a thin, ringed finger at him. "You strut about as Heir, yet you spent your formative years spitting on everything the House of Black stands for, running around with blood traitors and muggles, and thumbing your nose at tradition!"
"Enough, Phineas," Arcturus commanded, his voice dropping an octave, carrying the full weight of the current Head of House. "Sirius holds his position because he is the oldest of the next line as per tradition. You and I know how much our family blood magic works. More importantly, he is currently positioning this family to dismantle the meddling old fool running Hogwarts."
Phineas paused, his narrow eyes shifting between Arcturus and Sirius. A flicker of intrigue cut through his anger. "Dumbledore?"
"He has been using the secondary frames, including yours, to spy on private estates and gather intelligence on those who do not bend to his little Order," Arcturus said, his gray eyes narrowing slightly.
"Did you imagine I had not noticed?" Phineas scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "He has asked me to carry tales from this house for years, even more so now that you are back in the public view Arcturus. I have given him nothing but contempt." A dark, venomous smile slowly stretched across his painted face. "The hypocritical old dodderer. He sits in that Headmaster's office preaching about the greater good while sneaking through the keyholes of our history. He treats my portrait like common wallpaper while plotting his little crusades."
Phineas leaned forward, resting his hands on his cane as he looked directly at Sirius.
"You want me to go back to Hogwarts? You want me to sit in that office, listen to his sanctimonious drivel, and feed every piece of clandestine scheming straight back to Blackwood Castle?" Phineas let out a dry, sharp chuckle. "It will be a pleasure. But make no mistake, Sirius. Do not think a fancy title erases your past. If you are to lead this house, you had better prove you possess the teeth to tear Dumbledore down."
Sirius didn't rise to the old man's bait. Instead, a slow, dangerous smirk spread across his face.
"Do not worry about my teeth, Great-Great-Grandfather," Sirius said, his voice low and razor-sharp. "Dumbledore spent years viewing me as a rebellious pawn he could maneuver. He has no idea that I understand every single string he pulls, and how easily those strings can be severed. When I take him down, it won't be with loud posturing. It will be clean, legal, and final."
Phineas evaluated Sirius for a long, silent moment, his narrow dark eyes glinting with grudging approval. He liked the cold edge in the boy's voice. "Hmph. Words are cheap, Sirius. I shall expect results to match that arrogance."
"That is enough, Phineas," Arcturus interjected, his voice heavy as iron as he looked up from his desk. "You will accord him the respect his title demands, or I will personally paint over your canvas in pitch."
Phineas smoothed his silk lapels with a theatrical sigh. "Dreadfully dramatic, Arcturus."
"Let us focus on the logistics," Regulus chimed in smoothly, stepping forward to keep the plan grounded. "Dumbledore is far too observant. If you vanish from your Hogwarts frame too often, he will notice."
"The boy speaks sense," Phineas conceded, turning to Regulus. "Albus checks the frames whenever he returns to his office. I cannot simply leap back and forth to Blackwood Castle whenever I please."
"Then we establish a routine," Sirius said, leaning forward with a decisive glint in his eyes. "You report to us only when Dumbledore discusses Wizengamot politics, the Potters, or the Order, let's say once a month, unless it is urgent. If he asks about the House of Black, you give him exactly what you gave him. Contempt, silence, and arrogance. Make him believe you are just being your usual insufferable self."
Phineas let out a dry, genuine laugh, leaning on his painted cane. "Playing the insufferable aristocrat? Oh, Sirius... you ask so very little of my natural talents. I shall play the part to perfection."
"I wouldn't have it any other way," Sirius said with a faint, sharp smirk.
Phineas's painted eyes shifted away from Sirius, turning a discerning, lingering look upon Regulus. His sneer softened into a strange, uncharacteristic beat of gravity.
"Now, as to my price," Phineas said. Arcturus lifted a brow, and Phineas ignored him. "I will not spend another decade rotting in that attic. Your mother's elf banished me up there after she died, because he disliked my commentary, and no one thought to retrieve me. Return my portrait to the hallway at Grimmauld Place, where a man can see who comes and goes."
Regulus blinked. "I had no idea you were up there." Then he mumbled. "I cannot believe I will be dealing with him in the house." Sirius patted him on his back.
"Evidently," Phineas said dryly. "And one more thing. I would greatly appreciate it if you left the rest of Ominis Gaunt's belongings untouched, Regulus."
Sirius paused. "Wait... there are Gaunt artifacts in our house?"
"Why was there a Gaunt trunk sitting in our eaves in the first place?" Regulus asked, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion.
"That trunk belonged to Ominis Gaunt," Phineas explained, adjusting the cuffs of his dark robes. "A student of mine back during my tenure at Hogwarts. A bright boy, though sadly blind as a bat. He navigated the castle with magic, of all things. His father and I were quite good friends in the day, before that family's pride completely devoured them. Tragic, really. Fanatical inbreeding, mad delusions, and a fortune squandered into ruin."
Phineas sighed, a rare touch of nostalgic bitterness tinting his sharp voice. "After graduation, Ominis stayed at Grimmauld Place for a time as a personal favor to his father. He left one afternoon to attend to a private matter, which I cannot for the life of me recall, claiming he would return within the week. He never did. He simply vanished."
"He disappeared?" Arcturus asked, his heavy, authoritative voice cutting through the study. His piercing eyes narrowed as he leaned forward over his desk. "A scion of the House of Gaunt? That would have been a massive scandal!"
"Yes, he disappeared. And yes, it would have been a scandal, but with the abysmal state of the Gaunt family at the time, nobody raised the question. I certainly had no intention of letting the press know the scion of a noble lineage went missing while staying under my roof. It would have invited unwanted Ministry eyes into our affairs, especially given that both our houses hold ducal status at that time," Phineas grumbled.
"He vanished right along with those insufferable friends he was always running around with," Phineas continued, shaking his head in annoyance. "What were their names again? Ah, yes... Sebastian Sallow, and that reckless ward of Eleazar Fig's. A dreadful influence, that youngster. Always sneaking off out of the school, fighting with goblins and spiders, and dragging trouble behind them like a cloak. If he hadn't been a Slytherin, I would have thrown him out of Hogwarts myself."
Regulus's breath caught sharply in his throat, and his eyes snapped up to meet Phineas's canvas.
"Sallow?" Regulus asked, his voice tight. "Like... Anne Sallow?"
Sirius went very still. That was the name on the box, the name a spirit had spoken to him through Marie.
Arcturus turned his heavy gaze toward his younger grandson, then slowly toward his elder. "You both know that name?"
"It was the name of the box that we found." Sirius answered, nonchalantly.
"Sebastian Sallow had a twin sister. Her name was Anne," Phineas interjected before either could answer, nodding slowly in thought. "Tragic case. The girl was struck down by a horrific dark curse in her youth, and spent years withering, beyond the reach of St. Mungo's or any known remedy. But then, around the time those boys vanished, she miraculously recovered. Completely cured. No one in the Ministry or the medical guilds ever figured out how or why, and the Sallows took their secrets to the grave."
Silence fell over the private study, heavy and suffocating. Sirius glanced between his brother and the portrait, his Auror instincts flaring at the sudden web of historical secrets unraveling before them.
It was unmistakable now. The Sallows and the Gaunts were linked, and whatever had happened nearly a century ago had culminated inside that iron-bound trunk in their own attic.
Curiosity tugged sharply at Sirius, but years of hunting dark wizards and handling volatile curses had taught him restraint. He knew better than to mess with something carelessly. The House of Black was no stranger to dark magic. They embraced it, refined it, and respected its power. But the Gaunts were a different breed of dangerous. They were notorious for two things. Their fanatical dark magic so unhinged and taboo that even the Blacks balked at it, and the infamous gift of Parseltongue.
If they tried to force that trunk open without knowing what safeguards Ominis Gaunt had placed on it, they could trigger a trap meant specifically for non-Parselmouths. And if neutralizing the curse required Parselmagic, a gift no Black possessed, they would be backing themselves into a deadly corner.
"Maybe. I will leave the trunk to you," Regulus muttered to Sirius as they waited for the old man to finish reminiscing about his youth, which they discovered hours later took quite a long time. That man certainly liked to talk.