How Kings Bury the Dead Without Killing Them
A few minutes later, the air shifted.
Narcissa returned—supporting an old man.
Arcturus Black.
He was thin.
Stooped.
His magic flickered like a dying candle.
Lucien stepped forward immediately.
He placed two fingers lightly against Arcturus's wrist, eyes glowing faintly as he assessed him.
Vitality.
Soul cohesion.
Organ decay.
Lucien spoke calmly.
"You have at most three months to live."
Arcturus laughed quietly.
"A generous estimate," he said hoarsely. "But death doesn't frighten me."
Lucien met his eyes.
"What does?"
Arcturus's gaze softened.
"There are only two people I regret failing," he said.
"Narcissa… and Bellatrix."
Narcissa stiffened.
"They were my daughters," Arcturus said firmly.
"Blood or not."
His hands trembled.
"And I could not protect them."
Lucien listened without interrupting.
"That," Arcturus finished, "is my only regret."
The Price of Salvation
Lucien spoke next.
"If I save your daughter," he said evenly,
"no chains, no trials, no fear—if Bellatrix lives free…"
He paused.
"What do I gain?"
The room held its breath.
Arcturus straightened as much as his body allowed.
"Everything," he said immediately.
"My wealth. My name. My life."
He bowed his head.
"My loyalty until death."
Lucien nodded once.
"Good."
The Body That Should Not Exist
Lucien lifted his hand.
Space rippled.
A body appeared.
Forty years old.
Broken.
Ragged.
Bellatrix Lestrange.
Narcissa gasped.
Evelyn stumbled back.
Even the portraits recoiled.
Lucien's voice cut through the shock.
"This body is identical to Bellatrix," he said calmly.
"It will live for one week."
Silence.
"After death," Lucien continued,
"it will dissolve completely in three months."
Arcturus stared—then slowly smiled.
"…I see."
The Perfect Death
Lucien turned to Arcturus.
"You still have contacts in Azkaban?"
"Yes," Arcturus replied instantly.
"Good," Lucien said.
"After one week, make it look like a coincidence."
"Have your people check on Bellatrix," Lucien continued.
"They will find her dead."
The portraits leaned closer.
"Then," Lucien said,
"leak the news through official channels."
Bellatrix Lestrange is dead.
No suspicion.
No drama.
Lucien didn't stop.
"A Wizengamot trial will follow," he said calmly.
"Posthumous."
"Argument: the accused is dead. Justice complete."
It would pass.
It always did.
"The body," Lucien said,
"will be buried in Black family land."
Witnessed.
Recorded.
Undeniable.
Lucien's eyes sharpened.
"Bellatrix Lestrange will be dead to the world."
What Rises Instead
Lucien turned away from the body.
"As for the real Bellatrix," he said quietly,
"she will receive a new identity."
"She will work for the Lionhardt family."
Safe.
Hidden.
Free.
The corridor was silent.
Not disbelief.
Awe.
Phineas Nigellus Black finally spoke.
"…Flawless."
Cygnus nodded slowly.
"This," he said, "is how noble houses survive."
Narcissa covered her mouth, tears streaming.
Evelyn whispered, "She'll live…"
Arcturus Black bowed his head deeply to Lucien.
"You are not a child," he said.
"You are a king."
Lucien looked at the false body once more.
"No," he replied calmly.
"I am a solution."
And somewhere far away—
A prison built on despair prepared to lose its most infamous prisoner.
Without a single lock breaking.