30.Interlude-Reach for the Stars

Tuesday23rd of June 1992

Lucius

“So, what has been taken?” Narcissa asked, her face unreadable.

The Gala had ended, all the guests had left, Draco had gone to sleep, and Dobby had not appeared to clean up, alerting him that something was wrong. After an hour of frantic searching, Lucius realised someone had broken into the secret chamber where he kept all his unsavoury items, which explained why his elf was missing.

“The item he entrusted me,” Lucius shuddered. “This is not good. No, this is terrible. The Dark Lord will be apoplectic if he returns.”

His wife scoffed. “Quite. But did you not intend to deal away with all the cursed and illegal trinkets before the Muggle Protection Act passes?”

That damned nuisance Weasley had been the main architect of the act, and it would certainly pass the Mot after the Wiltshire Explosion that had killed nearly a thousand muggles. The international pressure from the ICW did not help either. The law was not necessarily bad. In fact, it was quite popular in the ministry. Yet it would give Weasley and the office he worked for the authority to search all private properties, even manors, should reasonable suspicion exist.

And that meant the Malfoy Manor would be amongst the first to be checked. The bad blood between Weasley and Malfoy was one thing, but the explosion happening just a few leagues from his own Manor brought further scrutiny upon his name and deeds.

“I was considering it,” Lucius admitted. “But it’s one thing to foist off the collection my family has gathered for centuries to someone else and know what happened to them. It is an entirely different matter for one of my guests to break into the chamber. Nobody should have known about, let alone steal, the one artefact that belonged to the Dark Lord!”

“Well, a stolen item cannot be used or traced against you legally, at least,” Narcissa sniffed imperiously. “But I know you, Lucius. You fear the Dark Lord’s wrath should he return far more than someone breaking into your home. I say this is good. It rid you of one damned problem, and you can stop hesitating about it.”

He sat down on his couch, shoulders slumped.

“You don’t get it,” fear leaked into his voice. “You have seen the charming, pleasant mask the Dark Lord dons in his rare Death Eater gatherings. But it’s just a facade; he… he’s far more vicious and cruel, especially when you fail him. His wretched heart holds no mercy and only lust for inflicting untold agony.”

She considered him with no small amount of concern veiled behind her usually composed expression. “All the more reason to distance yourself from him, my love.”

“What… what if he returns, Narcissa?” Lucius felt agitated, remembering the pain and fear that would wreak havoc through every inch of his flesh. “He was this close. I felt his magic tearing at me, tugging on everything I had in an effort to hold on when he was thwarted.”

His wife sat by his side, gripping his trembling hand.

“Sever yourself from that sordid past.” Her fingers trailed over where his Dark Mark wiggled. It had faded so much that one would struggle to notice it lest he knew it was there. “Even such a hybrid Protean Curse can be dispelled with enough effort.”

“Should the Dark Lord return, I’ll be hunted down like a dog,” he declined. What the youthful and foolish him had considered to be a reward and a badge of honour was nothing more than a cruel branding. “Failures can be punished and forgiven, but treason is the one thing he does not tolerate.”

Losing the diary would see Lucius tortured and fall out of favour for his failure, but he would be alive. Yet, removing the Dark Mark? It would be a direct challenge to the Dark Lord’s authority and invite all of his wrath.

“As you wish,” Narcissa relented. While proud, she was a dutiful wife where it mattered, if somewhat headstrong. “We should find where that useless elf of yours hid and question him, at least.”

The day was already long enough as it was, and Lucius wanted nothing more than to go to sleep in his soft bed. Even heftier work awaited him over the following days, for he had to wrangle with Dumbledore at the Board and dispose of his dark collection as discreetly and swiftly as possible.

The theft of the empty yet doubtlessly cursed diary was troublesome, but it did save him from disposing of it himself. If only he could cast Fiendfyre on his entire collection. Yet his control over the cursed flames was far too shaky to use with precision or subtlety inside his manor, which was already under scrutiny. Using them outside was no better, for after the Wiltshire Explosion, the DMLE would turn over every stone with such heavy use of dark magic.

Lucius was not foolish enough to test his wits, daring, and cunning against the whole Ministry. Alas, his wife was right, and leaving loose ends was inadvised.

Two hours later, Dobby was found petrified in a cupboard.

“Dobby doesn’t remember, master,” the elf squeaked anxiously as soon as the stunner was dispelled, his bony fingers clutching at his head.

“Can you track the diary, elf?” Lucius hissed out, his patience growing impossibly thin.

Dobby cringed. “It be hidden. Dobby can’t sense it.”

“A useless thing,” Narcissa tutted derisively. “I keep saying we should get another servant.”

He waved tiredly, unwilling to respond to her nagging, “Dobby, out of my sight—and triple punishment, too.”

The elf popped away, leaving them in an uneasy silence.

His wife’s one flaw was her stubbornness. Once she got something in her head, it was nigh impossible to dislodge, and she would nest over grudges or failures like a mother hen on an egg. Even now, she shook her head and poured herself a small cup of Ogden’s Old Firewhiskey. Taking a brave gulp, a belch of fire erupted from her lips.

Usually, she would never allow such an uncouth display, yet between themselves, there was nothing to hide.

“At least the Gala was a success,” Lucius consoled himself. “Despite everything, none of last year’s unpleasantries affected us.”

His wife’s jaw, however, was stiff, and she was glaring at the chalice of whiskey as if it had insulted her.

“Did you see my niece hanging off Potter’s arm?” Her voice was laced with disappointment. “Juno did not look at our Draco even once.”

“They’re just children,” Lucius said with a yawn, closing his eyes as he shifted his back, searching for comfort in the plush pillows of the couch.

Of course, Narcissa did not let go, dwelling on her failed plan. “Draco’s influence would have been unmatched with the Black and Lestrange fortunes and connections at his back. But Cassiopeia refuses to entertain any such talk about betrothals, let alone negotiate.”

He shrugged, feeling too drained to deal with it.

“It is what it is. Perhaps little Juno will get tired of hanging around Potter. I should know betrothal does not mean marriage,” he pointedly reminded, and his wife had the decency to blush. “Merlin knows there’s plenty of time before marriage is considered.”

“Laying the groundwork would have given Draco an undeniable advantage that now clearly belongs to Potter,” she continued stubbornly. “I told you we should have gone for one more child. A beautiful daughter that would have charmed the young Potter, tying us to the new rising powerhouse while freeing Draco’s way to take Juno.”

“Even magic cannot guarantee if the child shall be a boy or a girl,” Lucius reminded sourly; he was tired enough to fall asleep on the couch. “It’s been two centuries since brother turned against brother for the right to the inheritance, and Malfoys have not sired second and third sons since.”

Narcissa scoffed, and he felt her soft fingers leave his arm as she stood up.

“I know, but it leaves you bereft of possible spares, husband mine. I want a daughter.” The sound of clothes shuffling made Lucius finally crack his gaze open, only to see his svelte wife bare as the day she was born as her silken gown had fallen on the floor. “Come now, husband, do your duty and give me another child. Our daughter would be the jewel of Wizarding Britain. Even a son would be acceptable; Draco would be thirteen years his senior.”

Lucius was too tired to push down his rising lust or object further, especially when her warm, crimson lips sealed his mouth.

Friday 3rd of July 1992

Ronald Weasley

He stared despondently at the blue sky, watching as the fluffy clouds rolled by. His mother had been mighty happy about his stellar grades.

“See, Fred and George? Even Ronald does better than you,” she scolded the twins. “You should study more and cause less mischief.”

“Less mischief?” Fred had tilted his head.

George had nodded vigorously. Too vigorously. “Yes, of course. We shall become exemplary students from now on. The very best.”

The words had been taken seriously, but Ron had detected the mocking lilt at the end. It almost sounded like they promised to be the very best at not being caught.

It didn’t matter, though.

Hogwarts sucked. And just as he found himself a grain of normalcy or friendship, the end of the year had come, and the only adult who had understood him and given help and advice–had turned out to be an evil murderer.

Professor McGonagall was never truly helpful. She was too strict and cold, and it felt like she had long forgotten what it was to be young and the problems the students faced. Neville had yet to apologise for dragging him into trouble, and Ron would not forget.

Being a social pariah after reporting to Dumbledore had not helped either. Ron the Snitch they called him–it was even said to his face, giggling or mocking, not even bothering to hide it, and it had nothing to do with Quidditch. Nobody cared. Sure, his mum was proud of his academic success, but it felt like a backhanded compliment. “Even Ron,” the words echoed in his mind; his mother’s offhanded dismissal in the tone had not escaped him.

His father was extremely busy at the Ministry with his new law and returned deep into the night, dead tired, and went to sleep after a quick dinner. The twins were up to no good, plotting in their room, but they did not bother Ron for once. That said, he never lowered his guard around them after that stunt with the spider. Ginny was mooning over her new year in Hogwarts, dreaming about getting together with Harry Potter, and only spoke to him when she wanted to learn about the Boy Who Lived.

Well, when she realised that he didn’t know much about Potter, she returned to ignoring him.

Percy was studying, as usual, and had advised Ron to do the same, which Ron had done for a week before getting tired. He even finished all his homework and summer reading half a month ago!

But as much as he hated how Hogwarts and the students made him feel like an outcast, there was always something to do there–the library promised an endless wealth of knowledge and hours of reading. He could sneak into an abandoned classroom to practice spells or challenge some Hufflepuffs to wizarding chess. Or even fly around the Quidditch pitch when nobody was practising. The Burrow, however, was an endless array of chores where dull tedium awaited in a home where his mother forbade the use of magic. It was as pointless as using a toothbrush to clean the toilets and felt more like a detention.

He’d neither had fun nor learned anything new. Ron would never admit it out loud, but he hated this summer. Today was just another dull day, and he had already finished his degnoming the garden in the morning. There was nothing to do but lay on the grass and stared blankly at the sky. It was serene, beautiful, and freeing, almost making him forget his troubles.

Petrov would say something like, “Get your shit together, boyo. If the world isn’t fair, stack the odds in your favour.”

But was it wise to follow the advice of a murderer? Did Ron even know what he wanted any more? A year ago, he would have said he wanted to become a Quidditch captain or even head boy. But such desires felt foolish, childish, and unfulfilling, even though he still wanted them.

A tall shadow loomed over, blocking the sun.

“I degnomed the garden and did all my chores already,” Ron grunted, spitting out the straw he had been chewing.

“Alright then, I suppose I can go back to Egypt,” the amused voice made him jump on his feet.

“Bill!” Ron hugged his eldest brother, dressed in stylish dark green dragonhide from top to bottom. “I thought you’d be still in some dusty tomb!”

“Soon, but first, I thought I’d visit all of you,” Bill smiled, ruffling his hair. “It’s been over a year, and Dad said you looked in low spirits, but he was too swamped with work to help, so I had to come. So, what’s up?”

Ron struggled to hold back the tears. It wasn’t manly to cry.

“I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

“Really?” His brother’s voice thickened with faux regret. “It’s fine if you don’t want to tell, but bottling everything up is hardly a solution. And I suppose I should return the gift I brought you.”

“Wait, what?”

“Oh yes, Fred and George wrote to me mentioning you wanted to get stronger like a muggle,” Bill whistled idly, looking anywhere but at him, and his hands were empty.

“It’s nothing,” Ron shrugged. “It was just some advice from Petrov. You know, the most wanted dark wizard in Europe right now.”

Bill waved his wand, conjuring two chairs, and sat on one, patting the other. “So that’s what’s eating at you.”

Ron grimaced and reluctantly seated himself. “Kind of. Nobody else gave me advice or helped me at Hogwarts, you know? Even though Petrov’s words were mean and vague, they… they helped.”

“I see.”

“It’s just that I didn’t make any friends either,” Ron groaned. Damien Greengrass didn’t count. Gryffindors and Slytherins couldn’t be seen together in public. “Longbottom and the rest of my housemates are a bunch of arrogant pillocks.”

Bill shrugged, “If you want a friend, just go over that hill over there. Doesn’t Pandora’s daughter start Hogwarts this year?”

“She’s a girl, and Ginny will be mad if I try to steal her friend—she always complained to Mum when I tried to play with them.”

“Always mindful of the opinions of others, eh?” His brother pointed out dryly. “Look, Ron, Grigori Petrov might be a murderer, but that does not necessarily make him foolish or a liar. It’s rare for someone to be truly evil—the kind where they’re rotten to the core. Most people are a mix of some good and a little bad.”

“Even you?”

His brother sighed, closing his eyes. “Even me. I’m not saying you should follow Grigori Petrov’s every word, but he’s clearly a cunning and capable wizard who can pull off what he did and get away with it. There is no shame in finding wisdom where you can. It is not impossible that the Monster Hunter genuinely wanted to help you unless he could gain something by leading you astray. Was that the case?”

Ron clenched his fist, trying to think of any ulterior reason for Petrov’s assistance. But it was not… it was not about Ron. It was never about Ron, not truly. Petrov had just been playing the caretaker. Even with the trolls, he had undoubtedly picked up all the parts to sell them.

Each time they crossed roads, Petrov had watched out for himself first, and giving a few words of advice was just a source of amusement.

“…No.” Ron slumped on the chair, defeated. “He never had any reason to do so. I’m just Ron Weasley, nobody important.”

He knew that already, but speaking it outloud made it more real.

“So what?” Bill squeezed his shoulder. His blue eyes glowed with power, sending shivers down Ron’s spine. “Albus Dumbledore was just a smart boy at twelve, Ron. His family wasn’t of storied lineage or particularly important, powerful, or respected. Even Gellert Grindelwald’s beginnings were as humble as they came, with destitute parents and a muggle-born grandmother. When I was your age, neither Mum nor Dad believed I could ever become a Cursebreaker.”

His brother’s face inched closer to him, and his voice grew solemn. “Straighten up, Ron. Don’t be afraid to dream; do not be afraid to reach for the stars.”

“But how?” Ron asked, feeling shaken.

“How? I can give you a thousand empty platitudes, but they’re just that–empty. In the end, it’s all about grit, determination, and sheer will.” Bill’s smile turned ferocious. “Do not be swayed by the opinion of others. Use Petrov’s advice where it’s useful, but do not be led blindly by it. Take what works and discard the rest. Grab your destiny with your fist, and do not let go, no matter what anyone says. Here, if you still want to train your body, as Fred and George said.”

Contrary to Bill’s sudden ferociousness, he gently placed the heavy book into his lap. It was a hefty tome, easily twice as thick as the biggest of his schoolbooks.

Ron blinked at the half-naked man on the cover. He was impossibly muscular and big in an odd way, unlike any other man he had seen before, though still smaller than Hagrid, who beat a troll to death with his bare hands.

What the hell had the muggle been eating?

His gaze travelled up the length of the man’s broad body to the plainly written letters announcing the book’s name without any pomp.

Arnold Schwarzenegger–The Encyclopedia of Modern Bodybuilding.

He cracked it open, listing through the pages, only to be met with many illustrations that left him in disbelief and awe. By the time he thought of thanking Bill, his brother was gone.

Saturday 11th of June 1992

The Headmaster

The summer was daunting. After last year, all the castle’s secret passages had been sealed, and he had opened three new ones himself, this time far more secure. The tasks before him did not lessen, though. The matters of Hogwarts demanded his complete attention, and the lack of a deputy placed another burden upon his shoulders. Alas, the meditation sessions to cleanse his mind could not be skipped, and he had to begin researching the means Voldemort used to linger after his demise.

School woes were moving forth, if slowly.

“I am glad we came to an understanding, Miss Snyde,” Albus shook his former student’s hand. Despite her talent, young Merula had met with great trouble after school because of her parents’ support for the Dark Lord. The Snydes were one of those who had failed to avoid Azkaban.

Now, few were willing to give the impoverished daughter of known death eaters any work, and her prickly personality got her chased away or put her at odds with her employers sooner rather than later.

“I never expected to be the one to watch for mischief instead of making it,” Merula’s lips twitched. “Thank you, headmaster. I have missed Hogwarts.”

It was questionable if a talented and prideful witch like her would linger for long, but she was the only one who had applied for Albus’ offer. After Petrov’s demise, the caretaker’s pay returned to its previous amount. Still, there was free food, lodging, and almost unrestricted access to the Hogwarts library and plenty of other boons offered by the school for the faculty.

Dumbledore popped another lemon drop in his mouth and glanced at the witch, who lingered hesitantly.

“Indeed, once the school worms its place into your heart, it stays there forever. Of course, the staff lodging is available in summer, unlike for students. You can start today.”

Merula bowed deeply, her demeanour far more humble than her time as a student. “Thank you very much, headmaster.”

As she left, Albus realised that, for good or bad, the harsh couple of years out of school had done wonders for her manners.

Alas, his attempts to find a Divination teacher, a deputy headmaster, or a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor were unsuccessful. After the last year, he was reluctant to hire unvetted wizards and witches anymore, but he needed to.

Next, he went to the Three Broomsticks, where Sirius awaited in a small private parlour. The former inmate looked far healthier than he was last Christmas. The pallid hue of his face was replaced by healthy bronze, Sirius had sported a plain haircut, and his beard was all sheared clean, revealing the aristocratic face of House Black.

In contrast, his grab was a particularly scandalous set of muggle clothes: a Hawaiian shirt and blue swimming shorts as if he had come straight from the beach.

“Dumbledore,” the man nodded curtly. “Be quick about it. I am short on time. Eleven years missed with my godson to catch up upon, you see.”

The headmaster sighed at the not-so-hidden accusation. “Quite. I hope young Mr Potter is doing well?”

“As energetic as any boy his age,” Sirius shrugged, refusing to speak further. Albus let the topic go; Harry Potter was another tangle of problems he had no time to look into.

“Right to the point, then. I find myself in need of new staff members,” Dumbledore professed.

Sirius pointed at his chest, blinking in surprise. “Me, a teacher?” He guffawed then, tears streaming freely down his cheeks, while Dumbledore inclined his head, looking serene as the laughter dwindled. “Wait. You’re bloody serious?”

“No, I believe you are Sirius,” the slight jest got an involuntary laugh out of Sirius again. “Your school grades and knowledge were stellar when you were not up to mischief.”

“No.” The denial was given without an ounce of hesitation. “Defence is cursed, and I can’t risk anything. It’s not just me anymore–I got young Harry to take care of.”

Dumbledore expected the answer yet was still disappointed, something that had happened oft as of late. Yet there was a silver lining: the young Potter now had a guardian who was fully invested in his wellbeing, and his former pupil had grown, and not just physically.

“Alas,” he sighed. Would he truly have to entertain a pompous and untrustworthy man like Lockhart? It was either that or finding a proper deputy to free enough time to teach Defence himself. “Although… Defence is not the only position open. Are you perhaps interested in teaching Divination?”

“I’m not exactly a seer,” Sirius frowned. “Nor do I know how even to start teaching.”

“But you did quite well in the subject, if I recall, given your family’s choice of names and your proclivities in school,” Dumbledore pointed out. “Not all divination requires the Sight, and you excelled in that part, much to Minerva’s woe. Just for a year, until Trelawney returns from her… sabbatical. The Divination program is quite small, and you can even keep an eye on your godson in school. The pay isn’t terrible either. A learning course can be arranged for teaching, too.”

Half an hour later, with another new staff member under his belt, Dumbledore apparated to Shaftesbury to introduce another young boy named Collin Creevey to the Wizarding World.

Sunday, 19th July 1992

Juno

“I see you’re still stuck in the library,” Cassiopeia coughed. “I know almost all there is to know about dark magic, dear. You know you can just ask me.”

“That is no fun,” Juno scoffed, turning the page on Cursed Enchantments. “I would rather find out for myself.”

She had promised Harry not to tell anyone about the Horcrux and wasn’t about to break her word. Yet her curiosity was piqued, and Juno spent most of the last three weeks in the library while not training, eating, studying, or sleeping. Some would call her mad for resting by delving into dark magic at her age, but no Black had ever made grand claims to sanity.

What was a Horcrux?

Why did the Dark Lord create one?

Why did Harry want to find and destroy it so badly?

All were questions that had plagued her mind since the gala. And she desired to find the answer–preferably by herself. The thrill of success was sweetest that way. Cassiopeia could always be consulted, but she was the Lady of Black now and couldn’t rely on her grandaunt for the smallest thing.

It was clear that once she answered the first question, Juno would figure out the second and the third. It wasn’t all in vain, either. Her knowledge of the Dark Arts had deepened, for she had carefully read through every book in the library out of sheer curiosity.

Yet out of forty-five tomes of dark magic from Lord Black’s personal collection she had already combed through, there was not even a single mention of Horcruxes. Of course, there were hundreds more, so she wasn’t the least bit put out.

“Suit yourself,” her grandaunt snorted. “But you ought to know, the Averys finally paid off their debt with all the interest.”

“It’s not enough.” Juno frowned. “I would have let them off if it was anything else than an attempt to enslave me. Let them know the matter will be dropped should they defer their Wizengamot vote for two years to me, and Joseph Avery agrees to serve my interests at Hogwarts.”

A fifth-year Slytherin would be useful, and when grouped with Flora and Hestia, it would allow Juno to make a play for the whole of Slytherin. This meant expanding influence and having the opportunity to make even more connections.

“Reasonable,” Cassiopeia approved. “But what if the boy betrays you?”

“There’s nothing to fear in Hogwarts. I am not alone either.” Harry, Diana, and the Carrow twins would have her back. “That cretin Longbottom did teach me caution was worth more than gold.”

The Averys could always refuse, of course. This would force Juno to take the matter to the DMLE and exert all the pressure House Black was capable of, both open and underhanded.

Was it petty of her?

Probably, but she didn’t care. It was done to test her, and she couldn’t show even a sign of weakness, which would invite further attempts upon her person and House Black. Worst come to worst, Juno would have to start planning accidents for the Averys, but that was not something she was comfortable with yet. Even when she excluded the risk, murder was just so… final.

It was like a line she couldn’t return from. Perhaps she’d have to cross it one day, as Arcturus had warned her, but if she did, Juno wanted to ensure she’d have no regrets and all other options would be exhausted.

Besides, even her pettiness was measured. Assistance in Hogwarts and a two-year Wizengamot support would be easier to swallow for the Averys; pushing too much would have the opposite effect. Even a cornered rat would bite, after all.

“Very well. However, we will have more trouble with the Muggle Protection Act.” The old witch’s voice thickened with disdain. “The damned Weasley is going around from door to door, searching for cursed items and other shenanigans, and it is only a matter of time before he starts bothering us. The easiest way to deal with it is to move four houses worth of cursed collections to our tropical manse outside Wizarding Britain’s jurisdiction.”

Juno rubbed her face tiredly. While she loved the freedom it allowed her, being in charge of House Black demanded her time and attention.

“Has it been cleared from all traces of Dragonpox yet?”

“Jeeny finished last week,” Cassiopeia muttered. Jeeny was the new house elf they had bought, and this one had gone to her grandaunt. “With the help of Wally and Kreacher, I can sweep it all in less than two days with some liberal use of illegal portkeys. But letting that nuisance Weasley search everywhere he wants is an outrage.”

“We do have some dirt on him,” Juno’s lips curled. “Minor matters, but enough to put scrutiny on his person. But the Act ought to fall through if he fails to find anything. The outrage and fear after the Wiltshire Explosion can only give him so much momentum.”

If Weasley truly became a nuisance for House Black, Juno had plenty of ways to make trouble for him. But she knew this Muggle Protection Act was clearly politically motivated, for House Malfoy had been the first targeted, and everyone knew of their feud. With each manor Weasley showed up uninvited to search, the easier it would be to repeal the law in the Wizengamot.

“If you want him killed, just tell me,” her grandaunt proposed.

Juno groaned. “You can’t solve everything with murder! It’s risky, and there are easier ways to deal with problems that won’t draw ire or suspicion to us. Just let the matter rest, and Arthur Weasley will incur little results and bother too many, and it will go away on its own.”

Arcturus Black had taught her much, but she was not blind. Some of his methods were the reason House Black had fallen so low. Juno had chosen a different political course than he had already, and the appearance with Harry was an indirect claim to turning to the more moderate political standing.

A little voice protested in her head about the morality of going for murder just because it was convenient. She scoffed inwardly; Lord Black would be rolling in his grave if suspected she had any morals.

Diana and Harry had made her soft. But was it a bad thing?

“Less risk begets an even lesser reward,” Cassiopeia idly shrugged. “We have to start preparing you for the rituals. I’ve received a custom-made set for your thirteenth birthday.”

Juno blinked at the suddenness of the claim. “I thought rituals were the most perilous form of dark magic and should never be attempted lest I no longer value my life?”

Even the slightest mistake, lack of knowledge, or miscalculation could be your undoing. The difficulty and risk only increased because of the countless variables, obscure natural rules of rituals, and the sheer amount of esoteric knowledge required.

“It is good that you remember my warning. They are all of that and worse—but you’re in luck. I have a grandmaster who has trodden that path and lived to tell the tale. Someone who can actually guide you with little to no risk.”

Such a gift was immense. Too immense. Juno had never heard of such a living master of rituals.

Juno frowned. “If he’s as good as you say, why is he not swamped by swarms of ambitious and rich wizards looking for his service?”

Her grandaunt laughed as if she had said the biggest joke ever.

“Dear Juno, he does not just entertain everyone, nor is his dwelling place accessible to the weak.”

“And what is the price of his assistance?”

“Silence, of course. Do not fret. I have already paid the rest of the due, and I have the utmost belief in the authenticity and there will be no permanent downside.” The words were said with iron surety, with a sliver of reverence. This was the first time Juno had heard her grandaunt speak in such a tone. “Of course, preparations have to begin a moon cycle earlier. Materials have to be harvested by you personally for the greatest effect, amongst other things. Prepare yourself, Juno. A month of trial and suffering awaits.”

Cassiopeia’s lips curled in dark amusement, watching her every move as if seeking weakness.

But Juno cared little for adversity–a suitable challenge only made things sweeter, and nothing worthwhile was ever easy. She inclined her head in acknowledgement and returned to her book as her grandaunt retired to her quarters.

With her safety assured, accepting the rituals was not even a question, regardless of the boons granted. The benefits could be significant, and it was for that reason that so many blindly dabbled despite the risks and perished.

Cassiopeia Black was many things, but she never lied and was loyal to the bone. The young witch even suspected her grandaunt saw her as a mix of her apprentice and granddaughter.

Perhaps with the boons of the rituals, Juno could finally beat Harry in a duel once. It would feel… sour, worthless and hollow in a way. She did not desire victory for the sake of it. No, Juno desired to show she could surpass Harry with her own efforts.

It would be a way to show that her effort and talent were no lesser than his, and using rituals to tilt the scales of victory felt like cheating. It was cheating, and House Black often resorted to anything that could tilt the scales of victory. Yet such an opportunity was too good to pass up, no matter how conflicted it made her.

Why did the mere possibility make her feel so… hollow?

Shaking her head, Juno returned to reading through Dark Enchantments by Ethelred the Scarred, an evil warlock who lived in the Thirteenth Century. It was an ancient but thin collection written in Latin, which made it far easier to read than Middle English.

Yet even this book held no mention of Horcruxes. Sighing, Juno returned the books to the shelves and shuffled through the hidden compartments of the head of House’s private library until her eyes paused on a tome she had deliberately avoided.

Reading through all the dark magic had given her a sense of satisfaction and stretched the boundaries of her knowledge, so she had not been in a rush. For that reason, she avoided writing to Harry about it, too. Besides, sending letters by owls was not exactly a safe method to discuss dark lords and the twisted paths of magic.

Yet, with the extensive preparations the rituals would require, her free time would be cut dreadfully short.

After a heartbeat of hesitation, Juno reached out for the Dark Arts reference book that boasted to know all the vilest of magic and was rightly chucked at the more secure places only the Black of Black could access.

Magic Most Evile by Godelot.

Whatever Horcrux was, this book would at least mention it, leaving her with some idea, if nothing else. Yet, two hours later, she had received her long-anticipated mention—and nothing more, making her frustration boil hotter.