Phineas Nigellus Black's POV
A Headmaster's duty is a relentless, thankless slog, perpetually mired in the mediocrity of the masses. One is tasked with shepherding a herd of bleating, magic-wielding sheep, most of whom wouldn't know true wizarding nobility if it hexed them into next week. My days were a parade of petty grievances: Peeves desecrating a statue of some long-dead Hufflepuff, a third-year Gryffindor attempting to cross-breed a Fwooper with a Cornish pixie (the resulting noise was, admittedly, a marginal improvement on the Gryffindor choir), and the endless, dreary paperwork from the Ministry.
But this… this was different. This was a stain. A personal affront. A blight upon the sanctity of my own bloodline.
It had started as a whisper, a piece of gossip slipped to me by Aesop Sharp, who thought I'd "want to know." Sharp, for all his dourness, understood the importance of blood. The whisper was this: my cousin, Dahlia Black—a scion of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black—was not merely acquainted with that Hunter boy. She was consorting with him. Publicly. Brazenly.
At first, I dismissed it. Dahlia, while possessing a regrettably modern streak of independence, was still a Black. She understood her duty. She was to marry well, secure an alliance with the Lestranges or the Rosiers, and propagate the sacred bloodline. This was mere childish rebellion, a phase.
Then I saw them.
It was in the courtyard. I was on my way to chastise a group of students for an improperly cast Vera Verto that had left a suit of armor quacking like a duck. And there they were. Dahlia and the Hunter boy. They weren't touching. They weren't even speaking. They were standing side-by-side, looking out over the Black Lake. And that was the most damning thing of all. The proximity was intimate. The silence was comfortable. It was the posture of co-conspirators.
He, the Mudblood orphan with the unnervingly calm eyes and the reputation for being unsettlingly competent. She, the embodiment of centuries of pure magical heritage.
It was an obscenity.
I decided to handle this with the subtlety and discretion befitting my station. I summoned her to my office that evening.
She arrived precisely on time, her posture perfect, her expression one of polite, bored inquiry. "You wished to see me, Headmaster?"
"We are family, Dahlia," I began, attempting a tone of avuncular concern. "You may call me Phineas in private."
"I prefer to observe the formalities, Headmaster," she replied coolly. "It maintains a necessary boundary."
I bristled but pressed on. "I have been hearing… talk. Distressing talk. Regarding your… associations."
"My associations are a matter of public record," she said, her grey eyes—the Black family eyes—meeting mine without a flicker. "I am associated with the Slytherin Quidditch team, Crossed Wands, and Advanced Arithmancy study group. Is one of these causing you distress?"
"Do not be obtuse, girl!" I snapped, my patience fraying. "I am speaking of Alexander Hunter!"
"Ah, Mr. Hunter," she said, as if recalling a mildly interesting fact. "Yes. A remarkable student. Top of his year in several subjects. A credit to Hogwarts."
"He is a Mudblood!" I spat the word, wanting to see her flinch. She did not.
"He is a wizard of significant talent," she corrected, her voice like ice. "His blood status is irrelevant to his magical capability, a fact that even you, Headmaster, must acknowledge given his academic record."
"This is not about academics! This is about blood! About purity! About the future of our world! You are a Black! Your blood is a legacy! His is… is… a contamination!" I was nearly shouting now, my carefully cultivated composure shattered.
Dahlia's expression shifted from bored indifference to something far more dangerous: cold, utter contempt.
"And what, precisely, is it that you are forbidding me from doing, Headmaster?" she asked, her voice dangerously soft. "Studying with him? Discussing magical theory? Working together on a project for Professor Weasley?"
"You know very well what I mean! This… this friendship! It is inappropriate! It will not be tolerated!"
She took a step forward, and for a moment, I saw not my young cousin, but the ghost of my own formidable Aunt Lycoris.
"Who are you," she said, each word a shard of ice, "to tell me who I may call a friend? Who I may find intelligent? Who I may value? You sit in this tower, preaching about blood purity while the world outside changes. You fear him because you don't understand him. You fear him because he is, without the benefit of your precious name, ten times the wizard you will ever be."
I was rendered speechless. No one, no one, spoke to me in such a manner.
"You will cease this association immediately," I finally managed to choke out. "That is an order."
"Or what?" she challenged, a faint, mocking smile on her lips. "You'll expel me? The scandal would be delicious. 'Headmaster Black's Own Cousin, Corrupted by Muggle-born.' The Daily Prophet would have a field day. Or perhaps you'll write to Mother and Father? Please, do. Tell them their daughter is fraternizing with the help. I'm sure they'll be fascinated to hear your report."
She turned on her heel and walked out of my office, leaving me seething, humiliated, and utterly defeated. She was right. A public scandal was unthinkable. The shame would reflect on me, on my leadership.
But there were other ways.
I stormed to my desk, snatched a piece of parchment, and dipped my peacock quill into the inkpot with a violent jab.
Cygnus and Lyra, I wrote, my handwriting sharp and angry.
It is with a heavy heart and a sense of familial duty that I must write to you concerning your daughter, Dahlia. Her behavior at Hogwarts has become a source of grave concern…
Cygnus Black's POV
The letter from Phineas arrived during supper. A sleek, irritable-looking eagle owl dropped it directly into Lyra's lap, as was proper.
Cygnus Black watched as his wife's eyes scanned the parchment. Her face, usually a mask of serene, pure-blood superiority, tightened. A faint, displeased line appeared between her perfectly sculpted eyebrows.
"What does my dear cousin have to say?" Cygnus asked, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "Complaining about the house-elves' canapés again, I suppose?"
"It is about Dahlia," Lyra said, her voice clipped. She passed him the letter.
Cygnus read it. Then he read it again. His own composure began to crack. His jaw tightened. A dull, throbbing anger began to build behind his eyes.
"…consorting openly with a Muggle-born student…"
"…a boy of no family, an orphan from some Muggle institution…"
"…defiant and disrespectful to my authority…"
"…urge you to intervene before this… infatuation… causes irreparable damage to her prospects and, by extension, the family's reputation…"
"An orphan?" Cygnus finally hissed, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. "A Mudblood orphan? Is she mad?"
"It is worse than madness, Cygnus," Lyra said, her voice cold as a tomb. "It is a calculated insult. To us. To our name. To everything we stand for."
"Who is this… this boy?" Cygnus demanded, crumpling the letter in his fist. "Hunter. I know of no Hunters."
"Phineas says he is top of his year," Lyra said, her tone implying this was a disease, not an accomplishment. "He says he is… 'unsettlingly competent.'"
"Competent at what? Charms? Potions?" Cygnus scoffed, throwing his napkin onto the table. "A trained monkey can follow a recipe! That does not make it our equal! That does not give it the right to… to pollute our daughter!"
The image was unbearable. His daughter, his beautiful, sharp, perfect Dahlia, the culmination of generations of meticulous pure-blood breeding, walking with some grubby little charity case from a Muggle hovel. The shame of it burned him.
"We must write to her immediately," Cygnus declared, standing up and pacing before the fireplace. "We will forbid it. We will make it clear that this… this friendship is to cease. At once."
Lyra remained seated, her fingers steepled. "And if she refuses? As Phineas implies she might. She has always been willful."
"Then we will remind her of her duty!" Cygnus thundered. "She is a Black! She is not some common witch free to follow her every passing fancy! She has obligations! The Malfoy boy has shown interest. Septimus is a fine wizard from an impeccable family. That is the path she is meant to walk!"
"A letter may not be enough," Lyra said, her mind working with a cold, ruthless efficiency. "Phineas is a pompous fool, but he is not weak. If she defied him so openly, she will defy a letter."
"What do you propose?" Cygnus asked, stopping his pacing.
"We must be seen to act," Lyra stated. "We will write the letter. It will be firm. Unyielding. We will remind her of who she is and what is expected of her. We will threaten to disinherit her, to strike her name from the family tapestry if she persists in this… folly."
Cygnus nodded grimly. It was the ultimate sanction. The threat of becoming a non-person, a blood-traitor, erased from history.
"And then," Lyra continued, a cruel glint in her eye, "we will make arrangements to visit. Unexpectedly. Perhaps for the next Hogsmeade weekend. It is time Dahlia remembers that her actions do not occur in a vacuum. They have consequences. And we are those consequences."
Cygnus felt a surge of satisfaction. Yes. A show of force. Let the girl see the disappointment in their eyes. Let her feel the weight of centuries of tradition pressing down upon her. Let this Hunter boy see the might of a true wizarding family and understand his place.
He sat back down, his anger crystallizing into a cold, hard resolve. "Very well. We will write the letter. And then we will pay our daughter a visit."
Lyra nodded, a thin, bloodless smile on her lips. "It is for her own good. She may hate us now, but one day she will thank us for saving her from herself."
They called for a house-elf to bring them parchment and a quill. Together, in the opulent, silent dining room of Black Manor, they began to compose a letter designed to break their daughter's spirit, to save the family's honor, and to put a Mudblood orphan firmly in his place.
They were confident of their victory. They were, after all, Blacks. They had never encountered a problem that couldn't be solved with the right application of money, fear, and pure-blood prerogative.
They had no idea they were declaring war on a emperor, and a daughter who had learned from the very best.