67.Rekindled

7th of October 1994, Friday (13 days later)

The Aspirant

The morning greeted them with its typical British weather. The wind howled through the treetops as rain poured down endlessly, soaking the already damp Scottish Highlands further. The pathway from the carriage to the castle had turned into a muddy river, nigh impossible to cross.

“If it’s not the cold, it’s the rain,” Adeline muttered sourly, glancing through the windows of their shared dorm.

Originally, the carriage had more than enough space to allow each champion-elect their own room and then some. But since the number of students Madame Maxime brought along had swollen to forty, the whole carriage had been cramped tight, with only the seventh and sixth years allowed the luxury of a room shared between two instead of four or five. Not that Fleur minded—she had been sharing a dorm with Adeline since their first year in Beauxbatons.

Fleur hummed. “This country’s weather is as unpleasant as its people.”

“That scarred teacher is just an awful brute,” said Adeline with a dark face. “Back home, he would be rotting in jail for such classes.”

“Still angry at twirling like a ballerina? Or perhaps it is that Muggle exercise he forced you to do instead?”

Adeline puffed up her cheeks like a child. “It was awful.”

“And yet Madame Maxime not only agreed but approved of the training,” Fleur pointed out calmly. “Unlike these dreary isles, France is not peaceful. Even our stubborn mule of a Minister might agree to the Imperius practice.”

“Easy for you to say. You veela can resist it easily enough with the aid of your allure.”

It was a lie. A veela’s allure did nothing against the Imperius Curse, and veela were no more resistant to the curse than any other witch. But ever since the 19th-century veela slave trade was finally broken by Grand Mage Richard Johnson, most veela taught their daughters to resist mind-bending magic from a young age, and Fleur was no different. The methods were highly illegal, so it was a closely-guarded secret.

“It still takes some training,” Fleur said instead. “Potter shrugged it off right away.”

“Oh, please, the teacher held back on the sleeping boy.” Adeline gave her an exasperated look. “I don’t know why you still care about him—he has proven himself completely and utterly unexceptional, sleeping through all of the classes and barely squeezing out a spell when asked by the teachers. I don’t know how he ever got to the final year like this.”

“That much is true, yes, but… when you were a fourth year, could you cast seventh-year spells when you were half asleep and on the verge of exhaustion?”

That gave her friend pause. “What?”

“It’s as you heard.” Fleur’s mind wandered towards those green eyes again. “I don’t know how or why, but Potter doesn’t sleep in classes because he’s lazy. Whenever we see him, he is always so tired he’s one step from collapse. It’s not a simple exhaustion, but physical, mental, and magical.”

Adeline was aghast. “This can’t be.”

Fleur’s lips twitched. “Why do you think the teachers suffer such blatant disrespect otherwise?”

“Connections, perhaps. Wouldn’t be the first one to coast on fame or fortune.”

There was no point in convincing her stubborn friend. Fleur herself was not entirely certain, and yet… she remembered her own experience the summer before the last. Though she would never admit it aloud, she had gone to her father, the captain of the French hit-wizards, for training. ‘You want to be the very best, daughter? Then you must train more than all the rest.’ 

It was not just body and magic, but mind too.

The weeks-long, gruelling gauntlet he called training had left Fleur without the strength to lift a single finger by evening, but it had elevated her far above her peers. Each summer, each tiny vacation, there was no rest for her, only endless training. It was that which had won her the International Under Seventeen Duelling Championship and even allowed her to enter the global duelling ranking for adult wizards and witches. It taught her how to control her allure in a way her mother failed after a decade of teaching. And it was that very same exhaustion she saw in Harry Potter.

And there was something more to the green-eyed boy, something dark yet magnificent that called to her senses. But the more she tried to catch that feeling, the less she could sense it. Was it her imagination? For four weeks, Fleur had observed Harry Potter closely in classes—or as close as that ice-eyed witch allowed—and she still couldn’t tell for certain. 

“You’ve yet to challenge the boy to regain your honour.” Adeline’s voice broke her from her musings. “I’d wager it’d be an easy victory—hell, even I’d be able to win.”

Fleur’s mouth twisted. “And thus it’s not worth having.”

“Very funny,” her friend deadpanned. “I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with him. He’s handsome enough, I suppose, but you’ve never been like this before…”

Never before had she lost so badly to someone so much younger, either. Fleur couldn’t forget it even if she wanted to.

“I don’t want to hear that from you.” Fleur’s voice was laced with amusement. “If you could drape yourself over Krum, you wouldn’t even return to your bed to sleep.”

Adeline gave her a mock glare. “Krum is a handsome international Quidditch star, and Potter is—well—an edgy boy. Decent enough with a wand, or so they say, but lazier than a murtlap. You say the British Boy Wonder is hard-working and capable, but I haven’t seen him in the library even once since we came. In fact, I haven’t seen him do much of anything other than sleeping in class or eating in the Great Hall, if he bothers to show up to the meals.” 

Perhaps her friend had the right of it. And yet… Fleur couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was up with Harry Potter. And it wasn’t the Black witch glued to his side.

The early morning saw her into a hefty training session with Madame Maxime in the duelling room. Hogwarts had a duelling club of its own, and Fleur had been eager to visit the place that moulded such a young and fierce wizard, but was left sorely disappointed. Aside from some taciturn Selwyn witch in her final year, the rest gave her not even a smidgen of challenge. A single well-woven blast of allure saw them all defeated without Fleur lifting a wand.

To her dismay, Harry Potter had never attended the club, Professor Filius Flitwick didn’t even train them for professional competitions, and his final duellist—some witch by the name of Tonks—had graduated last year.

After two visits, Fleur deemed it a waste of her time.

The forty Beauxbatons students clustered together at the carriage door, huddling under their umbrellas. Even Fleur stared for a long moment at the muddy river that had been the road yesterday, unwilling to proceed. The pittering rain was relentless and unending, though not as soothing as she had found it last night. 

A month in the Scottish Highlands had seen the thin silk robes discarded with warmer clothing, and all now wore heavy, thick cloaks of wool, linen, and leather—still dyed in Beauxbatons blue, of course—sponsored by Madame Maxime and Julien’s father. 

“Observe,” the headmistress spoke from behind her, lifting her cherry wand. In truth, it was nearly twice as long as most students’ and looked more like a stick, with intricately carved ancient Gaelic runes running its length. A complex motion caused the mud to ripple, solidifying into flat stones of grey granite, rounded around the edge. The younger students oohed and aahed, and Gabrielle even clapped in excitement. 

Yet the next word had them all freeze. 

“This morning, I’ll help you. But from now on, the fifth, sixth, and seventh years shall lay the way each morning and evening.”

“Even when it doesn’t rain?” Maglene asked, tugging on her caramel braid.

“Of course.” Madame Maxime peered down at the petite witch. “Stone shall be only the beginning. You don’t have to try, of course, but this task shall be a quarter of your final Transfiguration grade, Miss Montclair.”

A wave of groans echoed from the crowd, but Fleur already opened her umbrella and stepped onto the stony path, braving the rain. The first step was easily over a meter, nearly as wide as her sister was tall. But they grew smaller and smaller the further Fleur walked from the carriage, down to the size of dinner plates in Hogwarts courtyard. 

She marvelled at the display of magic and control for a long moment, allowing the others to catch up. “I hate the British weather,” Adeline muttered, huddled beneath her thick cloak.

“You’re not wrong,” Fleur said. “But you’re whining more than my sister.”

Though that probably had more to do with Gabrielle’s age—she was young enough to find everything novel and interesting, even the dreary British weather. At least the chill was bearable with the proper clothing, though some of the sickly younger years—and Julien—still shivered at the first gust of cold wind.

In comparison, the Durmstrang students marched forth from the ship with no umbrellas or rain jackets, unbothered by the rain, the wind, or the cold, braving the muddy grass with wooden old-style patyn under-shoes that were untransfigured at the entrance.

“Madmen, the lot of them,” Mathieu said after giving the Durmstrang students a complicated glance.

Since their arrival, the Durmstrang students had kept to themselves, always huddling together in groups and only speaking when spoken to—even the three witches amongst them. Everyone who attempted to get close to or befriend them was met with polite but firm dismissal. Even in class, they listened diligently and showed no more than the teachers demanded of them.

Breakfast was as usual, though her sister had somehow caught the awful British love of greasy food, no longer bothering with most French meals save for dessert. Not that Gabrielle would ever be affected—it was hard for a witch to grow plump, and harder still for a veela. Most Hogwarts students were slender enough, due to the exertion offered by the endless hallways and winding staircases.

After devouring a serving of bacon with manners that would put most of her peers to shame, Gabrielle tore her attention from the food, and her gaze wandered down the length of the Ravenclaw table. “Do you see him?”

“What are you looking for?” Adeline asked after swallowing a bite of chocolate-glazed croissant.

“Harry Potter.” 

Her friend snorted. “That boy never comes for breakfast. If you’re lucky, you can see him eating at dinner. Probably doesn’t need much food to sleep.” 

“I heard different.” Gabrielle leaned across the table, voice lowered to a whisper. “His friend—Lovegood—said Potter comes here to eat every morning. Says Harry Potter never misses a meal.”

“Maybe he lied.”

That saw her sister’s mouth begin to quiver. “No, Luna couldn’t have.” 

A girl? Fleur let out a long sigh. “Did you deliberately use your allure to get an older girl to speak, Gabby?”

Gabrielle averted her eyes, muttering something under her breath. 

“Our allure might work on girls, but no doubt you know how stupid and dangerous doing so is, both for you and for the poor soul,” Fleur said, not unkindly. “I won’t chide or punish you, but I will write Mother.”

“I just wanted to speak to Harry Potter,” she said weakly.

Shaking her head, Fleur finished her own serving of buttered croissant and allowed her gaze to roam down the table. Her gaze lingered on where the fourth-year Ravenclaws had clustered, centred around the proud Juno Black.

Why was the haughty witch, usually glued by Potter’s side, now sitting beside another boy?

Fleur’s eyes slid from the lean frame, and she sensed something tickle her mind. Her gaze settled back on the boy in question again, but her attention kept gliding away. Her eyes saw him well enough, but her mind refused to register his presence.

‘What secrets are you hiding?’ she wondered, looking closer.

And when the boy turned his head her way, she gasped.

15th of October 1994, Saturday (8 days later)

She had watched Harry Potter throughout the classes for a whole week closer than before, and by the next weekend, Fleur was reasonably certain he was far more powerful—and dangerous—than he let on. Worse, he had been eating with them in the Great Hall from the very start, and they had all failed to notice. 

Somehow, he hid his presence in plain sight—something that should have been impossible—and did so with ease. Fleur certainly couldn’t do it. Nor could her father, Madame Maxime, or anyone else she knew.

The Hogwarts rumour mill claimed this legendary running club was led by Juno Black, which saw a few students jog each morning, but Fleur suspected otherwise. The same rumour mill spoke of a secret study club where only Potter’s closest friends were invited. Fleur scoffed at the ‘secret’ idea of it, but once she tried finding it, there was nothing. No meeting place, no schedule, not even a whisper. If it ever existed, its members never spoke of it.

Fleur had seen a few figures run around the lake when she woke up early one morning, though.

No wonder Potter looked so dog-tired every day. But it couldn’t have been the morning run. At breakfast, he looked well enough, whereas his slumped and exhausted look only came about by noon. Fleur suspected more training was at hand, though somewhere behind closed doors, unseen by others. Despite his naps in class, he always answered questions when asked and always handed in his assignments on time.

And the more she paid attention to Potter, the more a sense of apprehension grew within her—though that could be from the glares coming from Juno Black.

This is why Fleur made up her mind to finally speak to Harry Potter. But approaching someone who had actually created new magic to avoid attention was not easy. Not if she wanted to speak alone and secretly. And that jealous witch would not leave his side, but perhaps Fleur didn’t need her to.

Fleur attempted to send a letter by owl, but the school owls refused to take it. Her sister’s barn owl, Athena, also hooted in confusion when faced with the letter, even though it was to the boy in the same castle.

Sighing, she settled her mind on a different idea.

The alarm rang at six, much to the chagrin of Adeline, who blearily muttered something about madness and disappeared under her covers.

It was pitch dark outside, the nightly chill biting at her skin even through her thick cloak.

Surely enough, Fleur found them running laps around the great lake. Over a dozen figures were there, with the two at the front lighting the way with their wands. Even in the cold darkness, they moved with a good rhythm.

“Very disciplined,” a gruff voice came from beside her, startling her.

Fleur lowered her wand when she saw Victor Krum, short and stocky in his crimson Durmstrang robes, observing the runners with his hands crossed and an impassive face.

“You ’ave been watching them?”

“Da.” His accent was thick, but his words were slow and easy enough to understand. “Every day, before sun is up, dey come out. Dey run in cold, in wind, in dark. Even when rain come, dey still run. Dey run more than Quidditch players and no complain. Very impressive.”

Fleur’s brow furrowed. “What good eez it to run in ze rain?” 

Krum tapped his shaved head. “Strength of mind.”

She opened her mouth, meaning to ask what he was doing so early in the morning, but closed it with a click. They didn’t even know each other. Adeline would surely figure out something clever and flirtatious to introduce herself in her shoes, but Fleur… didn’t truly care. She had no desire to make friends with a Quidditch superstar, let alone get to know them. Perhaps they would be competing soon enough.

They watched for a few more minutes in silence, until Krum muttered something under his breath, gave a curt nod, and returned to the Durmstrang ship.

Fleur waited for them to finish the run, watching the group circle the great lake lap after lap. Minutes ticked by, and she grew tired—and cold—just from watching them, drawing the hems of her cloak tighter. Perhaps Krum had the right of it. Running like this tested the mind as much as it did the body.

At the end, they dashed up, sprinting two final laps around the lake, with three figures swifter than the rest, pulling ahead. Once they stopped, Fleur slowly approached. Her wand was raised, lighting the way and announcing her presence.

It was two boys and a girl, all three of them a tad taller than Fleur, nearing six feet each. The most winded of them was a burly boy with a red mop of hair and an honest face. Then, there was Juno Black, her ample chest rising and falling from the earlier exertion. A hint of colour had crept into those high cheekbones, but the rest of her pale, aristocratic face remained icy. She could have easily been mistaken for a veela if her hair had been fairer. 

Last was Harry Potter, just as tall with a lean body packed with no less power than his peers, though his breathing was already even, as if he had just taken a walk instead of doing a mad dash. His green eyes were so bright and sharp that Fleur felt her skin prickle. 

There was no sign of weakness in him now, not even a sign of the sleepy laziness he displayed during classes. He easily shrugged off her allure three years ago, and now, even though he had entered puberty, his gorgeous eyes held her gaze without flinching, yet to stray…

Her magic stirred underneath her skin, boiling with excitement. She had to control herself, consciously reining in her allure. Her magic had not acted like this before, not even when meeting her veela grandmother, not even when seeing Albus Dumbledore or fighting the Above Eighteen International Duelling. 

“Miss Delacour,” Potter said with a nod, voice even. “We meet again.”

Fleur gave him a smile despite herself. “You are a ‘ard man to find, ‘Arry Potter.”

“Busy, more like.” His smile grew sheepish. “Are you here for another duel?”

“Oui.” Perhaps at the start, a duel alone would have satisfied her. But now, she had grown curious. No, mere curiosity was not enough to describe it. 

He spread out his hands helplessly. “I’m afraid I have to disappoint you. I no longer dabble in duelling—even back then, it was just some fun to pass the summer. Truth be told, I haven’t duelled since Corsica.”

The red-haired boy stifled a laugh. Fleur studied Harry Potter without blinking, and surely enough, failed to find the slightest desire to fight in the man before her, as if she were not worth bothering.

The gall! 

“What if I insist?”

Harry merely lifted a brow. “Are you going to assault me in Hogwarts, Miss Delacour?”

She lifted her wand, gathering magic at the tip. She took a subtle step closer, and even her inner bird stirred awake from the depths of her mind, agitated and eager to merge together. Eager for a challenge, too, and something more that made heat rush to her cheeks. Its whole attention was fixed on Harry Potter.

But she felt all of the hair on her neck stand on end as Juno’s wand was pointed her way, glowing with a wisp of sinister purple. 

Fleur faltered, stepping away just enough so her inner bird finally piped down, and disappointment washed over her like a wave. She hadn’t planned this far—nor had she expected Potter to be so disagreeable. Or that her inner bird would be so excited for anything, let alone a man—that alone was unprecedented. 

A slender hand fell on the boy’s shoulder, and Juno Bellatrix Black stepped forward, her eyes glaring daggers back at Fleur. It was not the envy of those with lesser appearance, but outright jealousy.

“Delacour.” Her voice was even colder than her gaze. “If you so desire a duel, I can be the one to satisfy you.”

Fleur wrinkled her nose. “And why would I bozzer weez you, Black?”

“I have a small measure of talent in duelling,” was the calm reply. “Though not nearly as much as Harry. If you can’t even defeat me, you’d be wasting his time.”

With the other runners finally nearing, Fleur knew that this wasn’t the time for this. Duelling here… was unwise, and she no longer felt any desire for it. 

“Pardon,” she squeezed out, dipping her head awkwardly. “Een truth… I wanted to talk.”

“But we don’t know each other,” Harry said, scratching his brow. “If you have something urgent, say it here—I trust these two with my life.”

The red-haired boy stood stunned for a moment, then puffed up his chest with pride, forcing the smile that so desperately wanted to spread across his face into submission. Finally, the others started to arrive, huffing and puffing and giving Fleur odd glances.

So much for privacy.

Giving the Black witch one final glance, she retreated, her pride mostly intact. Her feet led her back to the carriage and into her room while her mind was churning furiously.

She had underestimated how hard it was to talk to Harry Potter in private. And now, she knew for certain that he was far from displaying his true prowess. Even now, she wasn’t certain how much he had grown in those three years. Fleur wanted to know more desperately; she wanted to ask him a hundred different things. Most importantly, she needed to know why he stirred her inner bird in a way that shouldn’t have been possible.

Heat rushed to her face. She’d word it more… properly, of course. Harry Potter was handsome and polite enough, a rare combination for someone so powerful. Even rarer still for that same person to shrug off allure with ease. 

There was potential to explore there, and while casual dating was a taboo amongst veela, her mother had always taught her never to let go if she found someone suitable.

But all those plans were moot if she couldn’t speak in private with the mysterious boy.

What to do?

As a veela, she had never had to approach a boy, or anyone before, really. They all came to her with ease, and Fleur had struggled for the longest time to learn how to chase them away. And now, she had no idea how to go about this whole thing at all.

She restlessly paced across her room, tugging on her silvery hair in frustration, enough to get the stink eye from Adeline, who had just woken up.

Perhaps she didn’t need to do anything. She had nine more months, and they would get plenty of chances for a private chat once the tournament began.

Age restriction or not, Fleur did not doubt that Harry Potter would easily become the Hogwarts champion. It was not a matter of the young wizard participating. No hot-blooded boy—or man—could possibly resist a chance at glory and triumph, no matter how fleeting. Once the two of them were fellow contestants, irritants like that pesky witch would no longer be a hitch in Fleur’s plans.

16th of October 1994, Sunday (1 day later)

The Dying Lioness

The evening grew closer as Minerva stared at the flickering candle. It was just like her, with the flame guttering out, about to die at any moment.

Her bones now ached even as she sat down, the chair no longer offering her any comfort. The dull pain in her chest had grown sharper as of late, and her breath was shorter by the day. The faint stench of rot was growing stronger, and no amount of washing would make it go away. Even perfume struggled to cover it. The curse coursing through her flesh could only be suppressed for so long, gnawing away at her like a slow, persistent flesh-worm. It ate away at her magic, attempting to wrestle control from her own spells, and nothing Poppy gave her helped beyond stalling the curse for a time.

Minerva refused to falter in that. Transfiguration required the most control out of all branches of magic, and her hard-earned skills in it were the last of her pride. She had nothing else left, only the lessons, her lions, and Transfiguration.

Her resolve was firm, but reality was cruel. Her sheer will was enough to keep manifesting magic and spells, but her limbs had grown feeble and weak…

Perhaps the next morning, she would fail to get out of bed, doomed to a slow, agonising death. She almost regretted refusing Albus’s good intentions. Almost. She had a good idea of his plan, though there was little need for guessing. Dumbledore was many things, but a master healer was not one of them. There was no guarantee it would have worked, and perhaps extending her lifespan would only prolong her agony. 

Dull pain slowly clouded her mind, also denying her the respite of rest. It was, in short, torture. She again cursed the monster hunter for his cruelty.

A knock on the door startled her. It was rare for a student to come for consultation, especially now that she had grown weak.

She managed a feeble, “Come in.”

Juno Bellatrix Black slid through the door, gliding into her office with a grace that would put most self-important ladies to shame. ‘Not her mother or her father.’ Minerva regarded the young witch with a hint of helplessness and regret. Albus had been right again.

Perhaps the looming end brought her a newfound clarity, and Minerva still felt foolish for being so small-minded. How petty was it for a grown witch to be mistrustful of a child who had done no wrong? It was true, her parents had been the ones to kill her half-brother, and yet she was not her parents. Minerva wanted to laugh, but laughter would be too painful for her as she was now, and she needed to save what little strength she had for her students.

And yet… something cracked, and a fleeting feeling of power flooded her body, bringing her a small measure of relief.

Just that thought alone saw the barrier that she had long thought unsailable crumble like paper. After so many years of toil and struggle, she had finally done it. The thin barrier that had held back her control from the realm of Transfiguration Grandmaster had been pierced through. Even half-rotten, her magic coiled into her flesh, obeying her command, but she no longer felt joy at it.

Her face twisted in a wry, self-deprecating smile. Her end was drawing nearer, and personal success no longer mattered. She was first and foremost a teacher.

“Miss Black,” she wheezed out. “What brings you to my office?”

“Professor McGonagall.” Juno inclined her head, studying her in turn. “You don’t seem… well.”

The old witch shuffled in her chair, ignoring the pain lancing through her joints. “I’m afraid I’m not long for this world. My appearance alone makes it hard to hide, and twice as hard to deny. Perhaps in a week, I’ll breathe my last, or maybe in a month or three if I hold out. Perhaps even tomorrow or the day after.”

Juno’s face remained impassive. “I suspected,” she said softly. “What if I have a way to cure it, Professor?”

Minerva wanted to snort, but only a pained cough escaped from her lips. “Unless you can find the counter-spell for the ancient Assyrian Rotting Curse on my person. Perhaps it doesn’t even exist—I’ve looked for nearly three years now, to no avail.”

The edges of Juno’s lips twitched ever so slightly.

“I have it,” she said, proudly lifting her chin.

Minerva would have reeled once. But now, she only felt the dull ache racking through her chest. 

“It’s good that you do,” the old witch rasped. “But I’m afraid it’s too late for me. I know my body all too well, child. The curse itself has long since taken root in the very marrow of my bones and even my magic. It’s interwoven so closely together that even Poppy can no longer say where the curse ends and my being begins. If you remove it now, I’ll see my end regardless.”

She motioned towards the desk, covered with empty vials of the potion regimen Poppy had prescribed. “All of this is just pain relief potions. You should know better than most that dark curses damage the body in a way no amount of healing draughts can ever heal, and not even phoenix tears would be of use.”

“Yes, Professor.” Juno lowered her head. “But perhaps… wouldn’t it be better to live out your final days without the thrall of the curse?”

Minerva froze. Yes. She had been struggling for so long and did not want her final defeat to come from that vile curse. It would still bring about her death regardless, but it would be one small, final victory in the face of defeat.

“Very well,” she said hoarsely, straightening up despite the pain in the base of her spine. “Do it.”

That finally tore a slight surprise from Juno’s impassive face. 

“Now?”

“I’ve long since made arrangements for my passing.” Minerva let out a hoarse, joyless laugh. “If I wait any longer, it might be too late. Do it now.”

Juno raised a pale, sinister-looking wand that gave the ailing professor palpitations. She had seen that wand before in class, but now, up close, she finally saw it was not made out of wood but polished bone. Was her student here to actually… kill her?

But there was no ill intent on Juno’s face, merely calm concentration. 

Minerva was too weary, too weak to do anything either way.

The wand, glowing with soft, golden light, settled between Minerva’s brows. 

When Juno opened her mouth, odd, ancient words flowed like silk from her tongue.

“Pūṣu lipuš, napšu lišur.”

A warm, fluttering wave washed over Minerva, taking away all the aches. The sheer relief saw a sigh tear away from her lips. This was worth it even if she died.

And yet, all good things had to come to an end, and this was no exception.

When the warmth drained away from her, it left her hollow, as if her self had been emptied out. In truth, that was precisely what was happening. She could feel her magic ripple through her flesh, trying to mend it, but it struggled. Her magic itself was hollow, the rotten parts washed away from the counterspell.

“Thank… you…” Minerva barely managed. She slumped on her chair, unable to muster any strength. Her gaze slid towards the potion-relief draughts in the cabinet and reached out. “Bring… me… the… red… one…”

A faint smile tugged at Juno’s lips, and the last thing the Transfiguration Mistress saw was the witch pull out a transparent vial full of swirling amber liquid and pour it into Minerva’s mouth. 

She dreamt of Elphinstone again, of their short but joyous time together. Perhaps, in death, they would be reunited again.

None was more surprised than Minerva McGonagall when she opened her eyes, only to be greeted with the rustic ceiling of her office. Not a single part of her body ached, though there was stiffness in her. And… she felt too full of strength, too full of power to be alive. Her magic thrummed in her flesh, ready to be unleashed. It was as if she had never been cursed. No, she felt even better than before.

A glance at the window showed her it was dark. She glanced at the clock beside her bed—it was just past midnight. Not even a whole day had passed; otherwise, the headmaster would have sent someone to search for her once she missed her Monday classes.

A flick of her wand conjured a crystalline mirror—a feat that came far easier now than ever before—and Minerva smiled wryly at her own reflection. She was still shrunken, her face was still wrinkled, crowned with white-haired as if half a foot in the grave—doubtlessly a result of suffering the curse for nearly three years. Perhaps her lifespan was shortened, but it would no longer be measured in months but years, even decades if she was lucky.

This shouldn’t have been possible.

Her gaze returned to the desk.

A ball of purple light was hovering over a list of papers. Minerva felt no threat or danger from it, and even its power was slight. After hesitating for a long moment, she pulled out her wand, reaching out to cautiously poke it. 

It twitched, spreading out into puffs of smoke that formed a sentence. 

Taken to the extreme, even poison can be brewed into medicine. Enjoy my gift, Professor, and teach the students well.

Minerva let out a long, weary sigh. 

22nd of October 1994, Saturday (6 days later)

The Black Seamstress

Andromeda paced across the kitchen with a nervous intensity that made even Ted frown.

“You should calm down, dear, it’s just your niece.”

“Juno is my niece, yes,” she said darkly. “But she comes here as the Lady Black.”

Her husband looked up from the pot he was stirring and gave her a firm look. “And that’s why we shall meet her as the Tonks family.” 

Andromeda wished she had refused the offer for a visit. She had done so twice before, with an easy heart, but the third time, the handwriting was far sharper, and the decline would be taken as a slight. Once upon a time, she wouldn’t have hesitated to slight her estranged kinsmen, but Juno… hadn’t done anything to deserve it. She hadn’t even been born back then. 

In truth, all of them had dressed smartly for today. The pants, shirts, and sweaters, all formal wear made with great care by Andromeda, could easily pass muster for anything short of a Ministry Gala. Perhaps they were quite overdressed for a simple guest, but Andromeda knew better—nothing about House Black was ever truly simple. She still remembered the Basilisk hide order that made her shudder; even her grand uncle Arcturus would have killed or worse to get his hands on such a treasure, but her niece had brought it out casually. 

Perhaps sensing her apprehension, Ted’s gaze flicked on their daughter. “Nym, what can you tell us about your cousin?”

Nymphadora lifted her eyes from the velvet ball dress she was working on. 

“She’s very big on manners and is polite to a fault.” Her grin widened as her hair turned a bright pink. “Cleverer than most, and dangerous with a wand.”

Eros, lounging on the sofa, snorted. 

“Very astute,” he said blandly, keeping his eyes on the handheld mirror as he combed his hair with the other hand. “You just described most purebloods of some skill that don’t act like arse. Tell us something more. Something closer and more intimate.”

Her daughter frowned. “Well, Juno keeps most of her thoughts to herself,” she said, tapping on her chin. “If I have to describe her with one word, it would be careful. She’s very mindful of what she says, and I feel that all of her actions are calculated… unless it concerns Harry Potter.”

“Ah, yes, the crippled boy wonder.” Ted rubbed his hands. “I wonder if he’ll let me examine him. Injuries and maladies to the magic are so rare—”

“Daaad!” Nymphadora’s face surrendered no emotion, but her hair betrayed her, turning a vivid red. “He’s my friend, and he did write he’s all better now. You can’t just… suggest you experiment on my friend as if he’s some guinea pig!”

“Just a friend?” The edges of Eros’s lips twisted in amusement. “Or perhaps you’ve developed a fondness for younger boys and you wish he were more.”

Nymphadora’s reddened for real this time, sputtering, but before she could retort, Ted’s face grew glacial.

“Eros, that was poorly said.”

Their son straightened up, guilt flashing through his face as he threw away the mirror and his comb. “Right,” he muttered. “Sorry, sis.”

“Yeah, don’t sweat it,” she allowed, not looking one bit offended. Then, her eyes turned into crescents. “I mean, Harry is a bit young, but he is hot, easily the fittest wizard in Hogwarts. And the stuff he can do with magic can even make my mind spin, and I can probably listen to his voice and look into those green eyes of his forever—”

“Okay, stop, stop.” Eros let out a groan, hiding his face between his palms. “I really, really didn’t need to hear all of this.”

“But you asked for it,” Nymphadora said back with an innocent smile. But then, her smile quickly dimmed.

It was hard to say how much of it was a quip and how much of it was serious.

For a moment, Andromeda considered the matter seriously. After her own suffering in her youth, she had firmly decided not to meddle in her children’s love lives, a decision she stood by even after Eros and his stunts threatened to turn her hair grey.

A difference of four years was not that great a chasm, truth be told. In another decade, neither side would think of it at all. Harry Potter was raised by Sirius Black, but that was not an issue, as the boy was already too mature, even for her cousin’s taste. Perhaps… if the liking was mutual, she could help Nymphadora out in a year or two. Or when Harry graduated from Hogwarts.

Her daughter could certainly do far worse than someone who was dead-set on becoming the next Merlin and, by all accounts, had a decent chance at it. Even if he failed, Harry Potter would never be the run-of-the-mill average wizard, but was already approaching the prowess of a warlock, and for those with great power approaching the limit, almost all doors were open. But that wasn’t as important as his character, which, by all accounts, was quiet and polite.

Aspiring warlock and a seamstress-in-training. It made for a rather… ordinary pair, but ordinary was quite good in the matter of the heart.

But first, she had to see this Harry Potter for herself to decide whether to support her daughter or to let things run their course. 

Meanwhile, Nymphadora had a lot to learn—proper tailoring was not something that could be mastered in a year, let alone a month. But her daughter was eager to learn after discovering a trick that even Andromeda envied.

She could grow out her hair endlessly, force it to weave itself into proper threads in the desired colour, toughness, and other properties that wouldn’t fade after being cut. Of course, it depended on her daughter’s control, her magic, and hair nutrient potions. 

That alone made her daughter a natural-born seamstress, since no other could ever rival the nigh-endless possibilities of fabric creation. Once her skills in weaving and cloth-making grew to mastery, Nymphadora would become richer than Andromeda dared to dream. Perhaps even the richest witch in the world!

Just last month alone, she had sold a special gown of a fabric that was just as soft as silk and breathable as wool to a lady of the Danish high society for the staggering sum of sixty thousand galleons.

A knock at the door saw Andromeda’s spine instantly straighten.

Ted turned to move, but she swiftly rose from her chair. “Let me.”

Her heart raced as she stood before the door, hand hovering over the handle. A sense of caution had her glimpse through the peephole, even though the house’s protections had not sensed any ill intent or danger, remaining dormant. 

Juno was dressed in a flowing black dress with the simple silver embroidery over the neckline, her hair woven into a braid. But she was not alone. By her side stood a boy with a face that painfully resembled James Potter, with the same sort of unruly hair and green eyes that belonged to Lily. But there was only one reason why a young witch, regardless of whether she was a lady of a house, would bring forth a male companion for a family visit. Worse, the colours of his vest and her dress matched, save for the poisonous green tie that went with his eyes, and the way their elbows were linked together, confirmed her suspicions.

Andromeda sighed, pushing the door open, and gathered her skirts for a curtsy. “Lady Black.”

A soft smile tugged at Juno’s lips. “Aunt. There’s no need for this amongst family.”

The tightness in her chest lessened ever so slightly. Sighing inwardly, she looked at the boy. 

“And Mr Potter is family?” 

“Yes,” Juno replied without hesitation. “Both as my fiancé and Sirius’s godson.”

“Fiancé?” Andromeda mouthed. Perhaps her daughter had already known or at least suspected. “Not lord-consort?”

“He’s stronger than me,” she said softly, glancing at the young wizard with a star-struck look. “So he gets to choose the terms, and even which name the children shall bear.”

When Harry Potter smiled in a way that lit up his whole face, Andromeda knew her daughter had never stood a chance. To have the haughty, proud Black of Black lower herself to bow to another to the point she was willing to abandon the hallowed name of her ancestors…

Strength alone would not be enough—her grand aunt Cassiopeia had bent to Grindelwald, but not like this. This was not just submission to power, but a far deeper feeling. Perhaps Harry was far more capable than even his godfather had claimed, and in more ways than one.

The two of them looked right together, but it left Andromeda with mixed feelings. Tonight would no longer be about a simple family meeting, but about dealing with her daughter’s heartbreak.

“I hope you’ll keep it a secret,” Juno added. “We’re trying to remain away from public scrutiny—at least until we both reach the age of majority.” 

Andromeda nodded—the easy display of trust put her at ease. It also displayed her niece’s craftiness. The age of majority meant their magic would have fully settled, and both would be stronger than they were now. It also meant three years to develop their mastery over wizardry and witchcraft. By then, Juno would be able to take her seat in the Wizengamot, and the pair would be a power couple to be reckoned with in more ways than one. 

“Come in, then,” she said, leading them inside, trying to keep her calm.

Surely enough, Nymphadora was not surprised when she saw Harry and Juno together—her daughter was clever enough to grasp the implications even without the full picture. Perhaps Andromeda had been mistaken. Even Eros was on his best behaviour, glancing at Harry Potter with something akin to caution.

They introduced themselves, and the tension eased as they sat around the table for dinner—a pickled salad and a great roast of pork with mushroom sauce.

“That’s quite tasty,” Harry said after swallowing a mouthful of meat. His intense gaze fell onto Andromeda. “Can I please have the recipe, Mrs Tonks?

Andromeda tried to fight off the heat of shame that rushed to her face as her son stifled a chuckle and Ted cleared his throat loudly.

“I’m sure I can lend you my recipe book… once I finish writing it,” her husband said lightly. “I’m afraid my dear wife’s talent in cooking is reserved for tea, even if she sometimes manages to burn it regardless.”

“Yeah, it’s Dad who did the cooking since forever,” Eros chimed in, mouth twitching. “Taught me everything I know. It’s not just my looks that get the ladies all hot and—”

“Truly?” Andromeda quirked a brow, and her son held her gaze for a few moments before wilting. “I’m most certain you picked up your philandering ways on your own. But perhaps you can learn from your father and bring home a daughter-in-law and a grandson for me to spoil.”

Eros sputtered, lowering his head.

“So,” Nymphadora said after swallowing a mouthful of pork. “How’d you two get to leave Hogwarts in the swing of the school year?”

Harry gave her an odd look. “Emancipated students can leave at any time with the permission of their head of house and the deputy headmistress. It’s rather easy to secure it for a weekend like this, especially with a week’s notice or more. I thought you knew?”

Her daughter gaped. “Why’d nobody tell me?!”

The chatter grew lighter as the plates were swiftly cleaned up and all the juice and butterbeer were drained with relish, leaving empty cups behind.

“I won’t mince my words,” Juno said once the last of the cutlery was put away. It was now the Lady of Black speaking. “I am here for a single reason. I want you all back into House Black, and am willing to acknowledge it—even keep it a secret if you desire.”

She shared a glance with her husband, worry written all over his face. But he gave her a firm nod, placing the decision in her hands. Nymphadora and Eros stood stunned for a long moment, but eventually their lessons kicked in and their faces grew even, betraying no emotion.

“And what if I refuse?” Andromeda asked lightly. 

Juno cocked her head. “Then, I would offer you to accept my personal patronage with all that it entails.” 

“That’s just being part of House Black without the name,” the older witch shot back. “What if I refuse that too?”

Her niece spread out her hands helplessly. “Then, I’d leave empty-handed. But you know that true family is important, Aunty, and I don’t care about the foolery Arcturus and others got up to. There are, of course, things you need to know before coming to a decision.”

Andromeda quirked a brow. “Such as?”

“Lord Voldemort has returned.” The words were calm enough on their own, but the iron surety Juno spoke them with made her skin crawl. “We have a spy amongst his ranks who confirmed, and,” she glanced at Eros, “I’m reasonably certain my cousin should know too, being a member of the Order of the Phoenix.”

“Eros?” Andromeda called out, her voice quivering. “Don’t tell me you—”

“Yes, I did,” her boy said, holding her stern gaze without blinking. “I didn’t become an Auror just to stand by and watch bad things happen, Mum. This is much the same—”

“It’s not much the same!” she exploded. “Do you know how dangerous working with Dumbledore is? Two-thirds of those with him died in the last war. Two-thirds! And those who followed the Dark Lord fared only slightly better. There are no winners in war, only those who are left and those who are dead…”

Her vision began to swim, and she had to struggle to hold back the tears.

Eros Tonks stood straight, and his next words broke her heart. “I know. And I will apologise for dragging you into this mess, Mum, Dad. But I will not apologise for trying to do the right thing.”

“You can still quit—”

“No, I can’t.” He hadn’t hesitated even for a moment. “I won’t. The Dark Lord shall eventually come to the Isles, and we cannot forever run or hide, hoping for another toddler to save us.”

He glanced at Potter, and the two of them exchanged an amused nod. 

God, she was proud of her boy. And she wanted to box his ears in, but he was no longer a child. If only he could be a bit less brave…

Damn Dumbledore!

Ted remained impassive, merely giving his son a brief nod, and a wide-eyed Nymphadora stared at her own brother as if seeing him for the first time.

Andromeda Black Tonks turned to her niece, struggling to control the storm of emotion whirling in her chest. Juno must have suspected the boy had kept it a secret and chose just this moment to reveal it. And now, it was no longer a question of whether they’re involved, but how to deal with it.

“Clever,” she said, shoulders sagging. “You’re far sharper than the previous lout who called himself the Lord Black, and certainly don’t wield the same foolish arrogance. I have one single question, and if you answer it to my satisfaction, then I shall rejoin that cursed house, but only me. Whether my husband or children desire to follow… I’ll leave it to them to decide.”

“No thanks,” Eros muttered. “I’d rather not join and have someone else decide who I marry.”

“You’ll be free to choose even if you join,” Juno allowed graciously. “Both you and your sister. But no matter what you do, you must comport yourself with dignity in public and present a united front in all things. House Black can allow itself to be many things, but not discordant. Never discordant, especially not in trying times like these.”

“What if I marry a Muggle girl?” Eros said with a snort.

Juno’s lips curved. “As long as you do it with dignity. Don’t worry, whichever woman you fancy, I’ll get you a glimpse of the skeletons hiding in her closet—any that could be found anyway. Are you planning on marrying a Muggle girl?”

Eros clicked his tongue. “No, but this was the most offending deed I could think of. Damn, you sure are cooler than I imagined, little cousin. But I’ll only join if Mum does.” 

Nymphadora wordlessly nodded from the side, and even Ted gave her a slight smile, as if to say, ‘you got this.’ 

Andromeda felt warmth all over at their trust, but the weight on her shoulders only grew. 

Juno’s smile remained unchanging throughout the display, and unlike the rest of her pretentious kinsmen, it reached her eyes. “I’ll answer whichever question you have, Aunt.”

“Very well,” Andromeda said, taking a deep breath. “Why’d you surrender the Lestrange seat to Malfoy?”

Her niece’s eyes lit up. “You’ve chosen quite the question. It’s quite simple, really. First, Cousin Calisto is to be my handmaiden once she grows up. Aunt Narcissa and Uncle Lucius are to try for two more children, and all of their marriages shall be decided by me. The marriages of their children, too. The House of Malfoy is to vote along with me in the Wizengamot as long as I live and support me and mine in public and private.”

Eros whistled, looking at Juno as if she were the devil. No wonder her niece didn’t care about the marriage of her children. She already had Narcissa and her bloodline by the throat. And those… had to be her spies with Voldemort. This was a dangerous game, and Andromeda was invited straight into the mess. No, perhaps she was already there, with Eros part of the Order and stubbornly refusing to budge on it.

Andromeda’s shoulders sagged. This was how defeat tasted. She was outplayed in a game she did not even know she was part of. “I assume you had them all give vows on this?”

“Of course.” Amusement crept into Juno’s silky voice. “Aunt Narcissa is more eager than she shows—she’s already with child again.”

Ted gave her a meaningful look that made Andromeda far too guilty. 

“What… of the second reason?” she squeezed out. “You said there was a first one, so…”

Juno hesitated for a long moment. “It’s not something I can honestly disclose. All I can say is that the Lestrange Lordship became a burden, let’s say, and it was wiser to dispose of it.”

And control the Malfoys with the same move. 

But she did not lie or deceive, and was honest in her rejection, and Andromeda only respected her more for it. ‘Perhaps even that was in her calculations,’ she thought bitterly. Lies did not hurt, but the truth was the sharpest knife. For good or bad, Juno’s understanding of the human heart was dangerously high. Even as the last of her line, her niece had the potential to be the greatest Black of Black, if she lived long enough. Lord Voldemort was not known for his mercy to his enemies, and if he had indeed returned…

Andromeda shuddered at the memory of those terrible times. She had so many questions, and yet, they could wait. It was no longer a matter of victory but survival, both for the House of Black and Andromeda and her family. 

“I… I’ll join,” she said at last, voice numb.

Juno beamed. “Welcome to the family, Aunt.”

Author’s Endnote. A meatier sort of chapter. Fleur faces rejection for the first time in her life, Minerva gets yoinked from the jaws of death by a student she had much disliked, and Andromeda finds herself in family drama she had thought she had successfully avoided.