Narcissa paused before the mirror and studied herself with the cool, practiced appraisal of a woman who had been taught to measure every angle, every expression since birth.
The sapphire dress, a masterpiece, clung to her frame with a grace that was both elegant and forbidding. It accentuated the pale slope of her neck and drew the eye to the delicate, aristocratic line of her collarbone.
It was demure and severe in equal measure, precisely appropriate for the Black-Malfoy name. She was a Black by blood and a Malfoy by marriage, she was the living, breathing standard for what a pureblood woman should be.
Her poise was a fortress, her appearance a silent declaration of lineage and power. She smoothed the fabric once, then twice, the silk cool against her fingertips, before she turned her face to the portrait of a stern-faced ancestor on the wall and gave a curt, practiced smile. If she were to face Sirius Black and reclaim a semblance of her family's legacy, she would look every bit the part of someone who belonged at the table, not beneath it, unlike her cousin.
She made her way towards the floo, her heels clicking on the polished stone floor, but paused in the sitting room. A letter lay on a side table, its familiar, blunt handwriting making her lips twitch with annoyance.
Of the two letters she had received yesterday, it was this one that had grated on her nerves the most. She had braced herself for Sirius's missive, expecting a condescending or outright dismissive reply.
Instead, he had been surprisingly direct, simply stating the time and location for the next day's meeting, and signing it with a single, blunt declaration, "Lord Black." It was a clear power play, a way to show her who held the upper hand, and it had surprised her with it. Sirius was never one for things like that, he was usually blunt to a fault. Maybe prison changed him that much. Still, it was a slap in the face, yet she couldn't deny it had a certain brutal elegance to it.
But that letter had only been an inconvenience. The one from her son, Draco, was a different matter entirely. She sighed, remembering its contents. He had become increasingly like his father lately, petulant, entitled, and worst of all, demanding.
His last line had been a flat-out command, "Mother, deal with Greengrass. She refused me. Remove her family." She had let out a short, disbelieving laugh. The nerve of him, ordering her to act as his personal muscle, to destroy an ancient house because his ego had been bruised.
She shook her head. It was her fault, in a way. She had coddled him, had never been firm enough, and now he was trying to emulate her dead husband, as if that would somehow honor Lucius. Draco clearly didn't understand the nuance of their world.
If the Greengrasses were so easily toppled, they would have been removed long ago, not respected for their neutrality in the last war. The family, like the House of Black itself, had a history and power that could not be simply ignored. They were not some petty household to be trampled on a whim. She set the letter aside. Draco could be managed later.
She pushed the thought from her mind and called the floo, stepping into the green flame with a sense of resolute purpose.
"Black Cottage," she commanded, her voice as clipped and precise as the name itself. It was one of the old family summer properties, a place she'd rarely visited as a girl, more a repository of memory than of use.
It was a bizarre choice for a meeting, a place full of echoes and long-dead laughter, and as she stepped out of the hearth, she took a moment to look around. The cottage had clearly been recently cleaned, smelling faintly of lavender and the kind of neatness only a house untouched by careless children could maintain. A soft pop brought her back from her wandering mind as Kreacher appeared, his soot-smeared face brightening at the sight of her.
"Kreacher welcomes Lady Narcissa," the old elf said, his voice a frail, reedy thing. "Is Lord Black here?" she asked, getting right to the point. Kreacher's ears seemed to drop for a moment, as if unsure how to answer, before he nodded and hobbled down the corridor ahead of her.
She followed, her mind in a whirl. She had come here prepared to make her case, to swallow her pride and placate her cousin. She was not under the illusion that Sirius would give her the title of Lord Black, nor would he ever consider Draco.
He was too spiteful for that, he would sooner let the house die than see it go to a Malfoy. The only thing she wanted was to not be disowned, to retain her status as a daughter of House Black.
Kreacher stopped at a sitting room door and opened it, and Narcissa froze. She had braced herself for Sirius, or perhaps even others like that, his mutt friend.
What she had not expected was Harry Potter sitting where a Black lord should have, his hands resting on the small table with an unnerving ease, a plain black signet ring glinting in the lamplight. Sirius stood to one side, looking visibly uncomfortable and eager to be anywhere but in the middle of this.
"Lord Black," Narcissa said, her voice a smooth facade of calm as she lowered her head in a polite, old-world bow. It was all for tradition, a performance to keep people useful. Sirius scoffed and rose as if he had somewhere more pressing to be. "Have fun," he grumbled and left without another look.
Harry rose as she finished her bow. "Thank you for coming, Narcissa." She fixed him with a look. "I confess I am surprised," she said as she set her gloves on her lap. "Originally, I had presumed this would be a conversation with Sirius, surprised he'd even meet me."
"Sirius at one time said he preferred the house to die if it meant not ceding it to someone he disliked," Harry said, tapping the ring on his finger. "But he changed his mind. He told me that rather than letting the house go to waste or someone he hated, he gave it to me." Narcissa's mind raced.
So that was it. Sirius, in his ultimate act of defiance, had given the title to his godson. The boy was a half blood, she was sure her ancestors were rolling in their graves right now at Sirius's choice.
Still, this gave her a chance, the possibilities shifted in her mind. "Well, here's hoping I'm dealing with a more level-headed person," she said, her voice carefully modulated.
Harry's amusement was palpable. "You said originally. Am I correct in assuming your goal has changed?" he asked.
"Yes, originally, I wanted to speak with Sirius regarding the issue of the family," she said, "With someone as unpredictable as Sirius, you never know when he decides to do something stupid, like, say, banishing me from the family. While I might be a Malfoy now, I'm still a proud Black. I was just hoping to ensure my place."
"I see," he said,
"And I hope that your perceptions of me haven't been colored by your… forced history with the Dark Lord and my son."
He snorted. "No, they have not. In fact, I was quite happy when I received the letter for this meeting." The words set her on edge. Her mind raced, sifting through possibilities. Was he trying to get information? Was he working with Dumbledore?
"I'm sorry, but I can't help you with the Dark Lord," she said quickly, a hint of desperation in her tone. "Honestly, it was a risk for me even coming here."
Harry smiled, a chillingly easy expression. "Ah, don't worry about him. I've already killed him."
The words landed like a physical blow. The air seemed to be sucked out of the room. She stared at him, unable to comprehend. "What?" she whispered, the single syllable choked out.
He waved her off as if the confession were trivial. "He's dead. He and all his inner circle." A cold dread seeped into her bones. Surely he was lying.
He was not joking. The look in his eyes was deadly serious. She wanted to ask how, to demand an explanation, but something in his gaze told her she would be better off not asking that question.
She changed the topic, her voice a little shaky. "What did you say you needed from me?" His expression tightened, the light in his eyes gone cold for a heartbeat.
"I am building a measure of order in this country that will not tolerate nests of terror fluffing themselves under the Ministry. I have decided that I would prefer things to go my way without people messing with me, so I've decided to take over the entire wizarding council, and I need you to keep the dark faction in line lest I decide the only way is to 'remove' them." He spoke of such frightening words as if he were simply talking about the weather.
The word "remove" came out like a growl, and a weight pressed down on her shoulders, forcing her back into her seat.
"I appreciate that you think I can help you, but I—" she started, standing up, but stopped abruptly when he gave another low growl. "Sit down," he commanded, and the force returned, stronger this time, pinning her to the chair.
Her instincts screamed at her to obey, that to do otherwise would be to die. "I didn't give you permission to leave," he said, his voice calm again, the casual tone utterly terrifying.
He eased the pressure, and she nodded, unable to speak. He didn't expect her to make them all submit, he said. He just wanted her to do what he wanted when he called for it, and to keep them off his back lest he kill them just for annoying him.
In return, she would remain a daughter of the House of Black and enjoy the privileges that came with it.
It was not a choice, it was an arrangement under pressure, a bargain dressed up as a courtesy. She didn't even need to pretend to think about it when they both knew she would accept anyway.
He nodded. They sat in silence for a moment, the heavy air slowly returning to normal. Just when it seemed like the meeting had concluded, a sound rang out throughout the quiet room, breaking the silence.
Harry pulled out his phone from his pocket and answered.
"Hello?" he said. The caller spoke in clipped, panicked tones. Harry's face stoned as he listened. Then he straightened, his posture snapping to attention. "A heretic god," he said, and the words barely left his lips before the cottage window seemed to darken. The light dimmed, and a low, distant thrumming sound began to vibrate through the very stones of the cottage. "A summoning by the Scottish coast. What fool would want to summon a rogue god"
Narcissa watched as Potter talked on the device that she had only seen with Muggles. She was even surprised that it even worked, as they don't work well with magic. She could hear him talking, but couldn't hardly understand what he was talking about.
Across the country, Dumbledore stood on the crest of a bleak hill by the sea, the wind whipping his robes around him. He looked up at the sky. The clouds were a bruise-colored vortex, and a great, booming sound echoed from within. Forming a coffin as they rolled over, as if it was sealing the area.
By his side was his old friend, Gellert.
"Albus," Grindelwald asked softly, his eyes glittering in the gathering gloom. "Are you ready?" Albus laid his hand on the stone he had been staring at all morning, thumb brushing the small ring in his pocket. He closed his fingers around the stone and said quietly, his voice lost in the wind, "I'm ready."
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