The heavy oak doors of Grimmauld Place thudded shut behind Dorea Black as she stepped into the dimly lit entrance hall, the familiar musty smell of old magic and wax polish hitting her at once. The house was a relic of its time—high ceilings with peeling gilt, portraits muttering faintly on the walls, and a grand chandelier flickering with enchanted candles that hadn't been cleaned in years.
It was late afternoon, the grey London light filtering through grimy windows, casting long shadows across the threadbare rugs. She shook off her cloak, handing it to a sour-faced house-elf who scurried off without a word, and braced herself. Coming home was never quiet, not with her family.
Sure enough, the sharp clink of teacups and raised voices drifted from the drawing room down the hall. Dorea sighed, smoothing her dark hair where it'd come loose from its pins, and steeled herself for whatever row was brewing today. She'd barely made it halfway when her mother's voice cut through the air like a whip.
"—and I'll not have you sullying this house with that rubbish, Pollux! Muggle-lovers and their filth have no place here, and you'd do well to remember it!"
Dorea paused just outside the doorway, peering in. The drawing room was its usual cluttered mess—dark velvet drapes, overstuffed chairs, and a fire crackling in the grate despite the mild weather. Her mother, Irma, stood by the mantel, her thin frame rigid with fury, clutching a teacup so tight it looked ready to crack. Across from her, sprawled in an armchair with his legs crossed, was Dorea's older brother Pollux, smirking like he'd just won a bet. Their father, Cygnus, sat in his usual spot by the window, nose buried in the Daily Prophet, pretending he wasn't listening.
Pollux flicked a speck of lint off his robes, his tone lazy but dripping with mockery. "Oh, come off it, Mother. It's just a pamphlet—hardly the end of the world. You'd think I'd invited a Muggle to tea the way you're carrying on."
Irma's eyes narrowed, her voice rising an octave. "A pamphlet from that daft little group of blood-traitors! You think it's clever, do you? Bringing their drivel into this house? You're a disgrace to the name Black, you are—always sniffing round anything that'll get a rise out of us!"
"Disgrace?" Pollux snorted, sitting up a bit. "That's rich, coming from you. Half the time you're nattering on about keeping the blood pure, and the other half you're fawning over that hag Violetta Bulstrode like she's Merlin reborn. Her lot's barely a step up from Muggle stock—don't think I haven't checked the records."
Irma's face went blotchy red, and she slammed the teacup down on the mantel, tea sloshing over the rim. "How dare you! The Bulstrodes are a fine family—better than you'll ever deserve, you insolent little toad! If your father had half a spine, he'd have thrashed that cheek out of you years ago!"
Cygnus rustled his paper loudly, still not looking up. "Leave me out of it, Irma. I'm not playing referee today."
Pollux grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself. "See? Even Father knows you're barking up the wrong tree. And anyway, if we're talking blood, maybe you ought to look at your own side—Great-Uncle Regulus was half a nutter, married that Muggle-born tart and got himself blasted off the tapestry for it. Reckon that's where I get my 'disgraceful' streak."
Irma's gasp was sharp enough to cut glass. "You vile little—Regulus was a mistake, a blemish we've scrubbed clean! You'll not drag him up to excuse your nonsense! This family stands for something, Pollux—purity, power—and you're hell-bent on chucking it in the gutter!"
"Oh, give over," Pollux shot back, rolling his eyes. "Purity's just a fancy word for inbreeding, if you ask me. Half the Sacred Twenty-Eight are cross-eyed from it. I'm just saying—maybe those Muggle-lovers have a point about freshening the pot."
That did it. Irma snatched a silver candlestick off the mantel and brandished it like a wand, though she didn't throw it—Blacks didn't stoop to brawling, not in their own house. "Freshening the pot? You're a bloody fool, Pollux Black! A fool and a shame! If I had my way, I'd ship you off to Durmstrang and let them beat some sense into you!"
"Go on, then," Pollux said, unfazed, leaning back again. "Might be a laugh. Better than sitting here listening to you squawk about the same old rot day in, day out."
Dorea chose that moment to step in, her voice calm but firm. "Can't you two give it a rest? I've only just walked in, and it's already a shouting match."
Irma whirled on her, eyes blazing. "And where've you been, miss? Out gallivanting while your brother makes a mockery of us?"
"Shopping for school, Mother," Dorea said evenly, setting her bag of books on a side table. "Unless you'd rather I turned up at Hogwarts empty-handed."
Pollux chuckled, tipping his head toward her. "Good old Dorea, always the sensible one. Tell you what, you take over as heir—I'm clearly not cut out for it."
"Don't tempt me," Dorea muttered, shooting him a look. She turned to Irma, keeping her tone steady. "It's just noise, Mother. Pollux likes winding you up—it's not worth the fuss."
Irma huffed, setting the candlestick down with a clang. "Noise or not, I'll not have this house turned into a den of Muggle-loving claptrap. You'd all do well to remember what we are—Blacks, pure and proper!"
Cygnus finally lowered his paper, peering over the top with a weary sigh. "Enough, Irma. He's not storming the gates with Muggles—he's just being a prat. And Pollux, quit poking the bear. I'd like one day without a headache."
Pollux shrugged, smirking still, but he didn't push it further. Irma glared at him a moment longer, then swept out of the room, muttering about "standards" and "ingrates" under her breath. Cygnus shook his head and went back to his paper, the rustle of pages signaling the end of the spat—for now.
Dorea grabbed her bag and slipped out before Pollux could drag her into round two. She headed upstairs, her shoes clicking on the polished wood, until she reached the narrow landing outside Arcturus's room. The door was ajar, and she nudged it open with her elbow, finding her younger twin sprawled across a chaise by the window, a book on hexes propped open on his lap. His dark hair was neatly combed, his robes crisp—every inch the proper son of the Blacks.
He glanced up, one brow arching. "Heard the shouting. Pollux at it again?"
"When isn't he?" Dorea said, dropping her bag by the door and flopping into an armchair across from him. "Mother's in a right state—something about a Muggle-lover pamphlet he brought home."
Arcturus snorted, closing his book with a snap. "The bloke's got a death wish, baiting her like that. What's he playing at?"
"Same as always," Dorea said, kicking her feet up onto a stool. "Likes the chaos. Reckon he'd argue the sky's green just to see her face go purple."
"Sounds about right," Arcturus said, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "Still, he's pushing it. Mother's not wrong about the Muggle rot—those sorts haven't a clue what magic's worth. But Pollux doesn't give two Knuts about their ideas—he's just stirring the pot because he can."
Dorea shrugged, leaning her head back and gazing at the ceiling. "Father stayed out of it, per usual. Think he's hoping they'll tire themselves out one day."
"Fat chance," Arcturus said dryly. "Mother would argue with her own shadow if it looked at her funny, and Pollux would egg it on for a laugh. Reckon we're stuck with this until one of them keels over."
"Or until I hex them both quiet," Dorea muttered, earning a chuckle from him.
They sat in easy silence for a bit, the muffled hum of the house settling around them. Arcturus's room was a stark contrast to the rest of Grimmauld—tidy, with shelves of books and a sleek desk piled with parchment. No clutter, no fuss. It suited him, Dorea thought—he was sharp as a tack, always had been, and he liked things orderly, even if the family itself was anything but.
She shifted, glancing at him. "Speaking of odd rows, I had a bit of a run-in myself today. At Flourish and Blotts."
Arcturus perked up, setting his book aside. "Oh? What's this, then? You're not one for kicking up a fuss—spill it."
"Not a fuss," Dorea said, waving a hand. "Just… interesting. Bumped into two new Hogwarts lot—Harry Peverell and Nymeria Black."
Her brother's brows shot up, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Peverell? As in the Peverells? Thought that line was dead and buried."
"So did I," Dorea said, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "But there he was, cool as you like, picking out books like he'd just popped out of nowhere. Said his lot's been keeping a low profile—travel, solo study, that sort of thing."
Arcturus frowned, tapping a finger against his chin. "Low profile's one way to put it. Peverell's not just any name—it's tied up with all that Deathly Hallows business. Old tales, sure, but there's got to be something to them. Three brothers, three artifacts—powerful stuff if it's real. You reckon he's got a whiff of that in him?"
"No clue," Dorea admitted. "He didn't let much slip—just played it vague, said he's more fussed about what's coming than what's been. But he's sharp, Arcturus. Watched me and Melania like he was sizing us up, and he didn't flinch when we pressed him."
"Sharp's good," Arcturus said, nodding slowly. "But sharp and a Peverell? That's a mix worth keeping an eye on. If he's got even a scrap of that old magic, he could be trouble—or useful. What's he look like?"
"Dark hair, bit messy," Dorea said, picturing him. "Green eyes, tallish. Looks like he could handle himself, but he's not flashy—kept it low-key."
"Sounds like he's got sense, at least," Arcturus mused. "And the other one—Nymeria Black? What's her deal?"
Dorea's lips quirked. "That's the real kicker. She says she's from a squib line—been abroad, Eastern Europe mostly. Turned up with Peverell, and they're both headed to Hogwarts, sixth years, just like us."
Arcturus blinked, then let out a low whistle. "A squib line? Blimey, that's a turn-up. We've not had one of those crawl out of the woodwork since Great-Uncle Marius got the boot. You buy it?"
"Mostly," Dorea said, tilting her head. "She's got the look—dark hair, that Black jawline. Voice had a hint of something foreign, too, like she's not fibbing about being away. But there's more to it, I reckon. She and Peverell—they're tighter than they let on."
He raised a brow, leaning back. "Tighter how?"
"Just a feeling," Dorea said, her tone thoughtful. "They didn't say much outright—kept it all 'oh, we've crossed paths' and 'partners in a venture'—but the way they moved, the little glances? It's like they've got a rhythm, you know? Like they've been at it a while, not just some new thing."
Arcturus's eyes narrowed, his quick mind already turning it over. "Partners, eh? That's a tidy cover if they're hiding something. A squib-line Black and a long-lost Peverell turning up together's no coincidence—they're up to something, mark my words."
"Thought that myself," Dorea said, nodding. "Didn't push them too hard—didn't want to spook them off. But Nymeria… she's got some serious magic, no question. Squib line or not, she's a strong witch, and a Black one at that."
"Blood's blood," Arcturus said firmly, his tone taking on that edge he got when he talked family. "Squib line's a rough start, but if she's got the spark, she's one of us. Mother would have a fit, mind—reckon she'd rather pretend the girl didn't exist than admit a squib branch sprouted a proper witch."
Dorea snorted. "She'd probably call it a fluke and blame the Eastern air. But yeah, Nymeria's ours, like it or not. And Peverell—he's a wild card, but he's tied to her somehow."
Arcturus rubbed his jaw, thinking. "Right, here's how I see it. Peverell's got a name that carries weight—could mean old magic, could mean trouble. If he's half as clever as you say, he's not just stumbling into Hogwarts for a lark. And this Nymeria—she's a Black, squib line or no. That's leverage. We don't know their game yet, but they're not daft enough to waltz in blind."
"So, what's our move?" Dorea asked, watching him closely.
He grinned, that sharp, sly grin that meant he'd already half a plan. "We play nice, that's what. Cordial, not cosy—keep them close enough to watch, not so close we're in their pocket. Peverell's worth a talk—feel him out, see if there's anything to those Hallows tales. But Nymeria? She's the one I'd start with. She's family, Dorea—distant or not, that counts."
"Counts for a lot," Dorea agreed, her voice softening a bit. "I liked her, you know. Nosy as I am, but not nasty. Felt… solid, somehow."
"Solid's good," Arcturus said. "And if she's solid, we can use that. Blacks stick together—always have, always will. Even the ones we've shoved under the rug. Blood's thicker than water, and purer than most out there. Muggle-borns and their ilk can prance about all they like, but they'll never have what we've got—history, power, roots."
Dorea nodded, though her mind flicked back to the bookshop—Nymeria's steady gaze, Harry's quiet watchfulness. "She might not care much for the family claptrap, though. Didn't strike me as the type to bang on about purity."
"Don't need her to," Arcturus said, shrugging. "She's a Black—she's got it in her whether she bangs on or not. Point is, we don't freeze her out. Squib line's a sore spot for the old guard, but times are shifting—Grindelwald's kicking up dust somewhere out there, and we might need every wand we can get. She's a witch, she's ours. Simple as that."
"Fair," Dorea said, chewing it over. "And Peverell?"
"Same deal—cordial, cautious," Arcturus said. "If he's got something up his sleeve, we'll spot it soon enough. But if he's tied to Nymeria like you think, he's part of the package. Two for one, eh?"
Dorea laughed quietly. "Reckon so. They're a pair, even if they're playing it down. I'll bet you a Galleon they've got a proper history—more than just 'crossing paths.'"
"Done," Arcturus said, smirking. "But I'll raise you—they're not just mates. Partners like that? Sounds like they've been through the wringer together. Bet they've got secrets stacked higher than Gringotts."
"Wouldn't surprise me," Dorea said, her mind ticking back over the day. "They've got that air—calm, but ready. Like they've seen a scrap or two."
Arcturus leaned back, folding his arms. "Then we've got work to do. Hogwarts will sort them quick enough—see what they're made of. Until then, we keep it friendly. Nymeria's blood, and that's worth something. Peverell's a question mark, but if he's half the legend his name suggests, he's no mug. Either way, we don't let them slip past us."
Dorea nodded, feeling the weight of it settle over her. "Right. I'll nudge Nymeria when we're at school—nothing big, just a chat. You'll like her, I think. And Peverell… well, we'll see."
"Sounds good," Arcturus said, picking up his book again but not opening it yet. "Family first, Dorea. Always. Even the odd ones."
"Even the odd ones," she echoed, a small smile tugging at her lips. She grabbed her bag and stood, heading for the door. "See you at dinner, Arcturus."
"Later," he called after her, already flipping his book open.
As she stepped into the hall, the house creaked around her, the portraits muttering faintly. Grimmauld Place was a mess of noise and pride, but it was hers—and so was Nymeria, in a way. Blood and names, secrets and all. She'd figure her and her partner out, one way or another.
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