The door was new.

  Raw oak.

  Looked thick, too.

  The last one had been left as little more than kindling—splinters of brightly painted wood scattered across the floor like dandelions.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  The sound was muted by a heavy fog pressing down on the village.

  It had been a couple of weeks since the attack on Pilton. The wounds inflicted on the village that night had been covered over. Though, the scars were there if you knew where to look. Beneath his feet, once smooth cobblestone lay cracked and uneven.

  A bolt slid back behind the thick wood, muffled but clear.

  And another.

  And another.

  The door swung open—just an inch—a chain visible. An eye peered through the crack.

  "Mornin', Arabella. I hope I'm not disturbing you, just thought we should talk."

  She froze. A few heartbeats later, she startled out of it, sputtering.

  "O’ course, Lord Peverell! Just a mo'."

  The door shut, he heard a rattling sound, then it opened fully.

  "Please, come in."

  He did.

  The air was musty and thick with dander. And dim. The shutters were still drawn, even with the morning well along. He felt eyes, piercing him from the gloom. The gazes came from every shadowed corner. Around every bit of cover. Either the Kneazles were still shaken, or Arabella had taken up collecting Demiguises now.

  The furniture that had barricaded the once shattered door had been patched up by whatever Ministry flunkies were given the clean-up assignment. Looking closely, the grain didn't line up quite right. Some surfaces were warped or swollen.

  And the floor—

  Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Rattle.

  He stepped further in as Arabella re-secured the door behind him.

  Crouching down, he ran his hand over the blemishes marring the floorboards. They were rough. Slightly raised, as though the wood was pockmarked. A memento he'd left behind—of a werewolf impaled in her dining room. A daily reminder of that night of terror, defiling the tranquillity of her only sanctuary in a callous world.

  He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding. Blood surged through his veins as his eyes flickered from the floors to the door.

  What the hell was with this patch job?

  Harry didn’t jump to crying ‘malice’ when incompetence was still on the table, but this… It was written on a door that was not repaired. On every warped board. Every pockmark.

  The message was clear: Squibs don’t matter.

  · · ·

  "It don't matter, Lord Peverell, honest!"

  The slipshod work had left Harry fuming. If being a lord and the hero of the hour meant a damn thing, he'd find the arseholes responsible and get properly stuck in. With his boot.

  He forced himself to focus. The repairs could wait, but this couldn’t.

  A slow breath later, he placed the latest copy of the Prophet on the table before her. The morning's front page was on full display.

  "THE HERO'S HEART: WHO'S WINNING THE BATTLE FOR BRITAIN'S BACHELOR?"

  A sharp, shaky inhale. Then, the woman crumpled in on herself. She seemed so small.

  The words leaked out thin and airy, almost a whisper.

  "I'm really sorry. I—I wouldn't dare—"

  She worried her hands on the table before her, picking at the skin around her nails. He saw flecks of blood. She'd been at it awhile. He kept a stiff upper lip, but bile churned in his gut and acid burned in his throat. His heart thundered in his chest.

  Slowly, steadily, he extended his arm across the table—careful not to startle her. Just like she'd taught him to approach the Kneazles as a boy. His hand settled over hers. The fiddling stopped. Startled, her gaze shot up, meeting his own.

  "I know. But you wouldn't be wrong to. You’ve just as much right as anyone else."

  She wouldn’t meet his eyes. She was still, fragile. He realized his anger was leaking. He pushed past the outrage and disgust, letting warmth through.

  His expression softened.

  "You're my friend, Arabella. I don't want to see you like this."

  That did it. But she had her pride—wouldn't want to be seen 'falling to bits.'

  So he didn't hear her sniffles.

  Didn't see the tears in the corner of her eyes.

  Didn't feel the trembling of her hand.

  "Th—Thank you… Harry."

  Having collected herself, the two sat down and chatted like it was just like any other day.

  It was just like any other day.

  "I've got room for three more. No troublemakers or injured."

  Two dozen hands shot up. The crowd shifted and shuffled in place.

  Cyrus walked the line, gaze travelling from hands to faces.

  Thick callouses. Bags under his eyes.

  "You."

  Looks Irish.

  "No."

  Leaning forward. Desperate.

  "You."

  Wedding band. Bright paint beneath his nails.

  "And you."

  Those chosen stepped forward. The rest sank back into the shadows of the alley to wait. His weren't the only fields that needed picking, but the Mudbloods far outnumbered open-minded employers that were willing to offer them work.

  Supply and demand were in his favour—throw a few Sickles their way, and they'd do just about anything. And say what you would about them, but they were a hardworking race. Probably to do with their Muggle blood. Used to working with their hands.

  He gestured to the carriage.

  "Get in."

  They did.

  They didn't even ask about the pay, the work, or the duration. Good, it always went far smoother when he chose the ones that had already been broken in.

  The carriage took off. His foreman would be waiting to take charge of the hands when they arrived. The man had skilfully worked with the livestock on his ranch for decades, and had, happily enough, proven equally adept at managing pickers.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Work done for the day, Cyrus stepped into his favourite tearoom to enjoy elevenses.

  The establishment was warm against the morning chill, all polished wood and soft lighting. He settled into his usual table by the window—upholstered chairs, proper linen, a view of the well-tended square beyond.

  A copy of the paper lay on the table. He perused it while he waited for his tea and biscuits.

  The server appeared with a silver service, steam curling from the spout. Fresh scones with clotted cream. Jam made from berries picked on his own estate. Though not by his own hands, naturally.

  He buttered a scone, thinking idly of the three men now bent over his fields under the climbing sun. They'd work until dusk, backs aching, hands raw. Honest work, really. Character building.

  He snorted as he read about the great families throwing their daughters at Peverell. A smirk crossed his face when he saw the name of the filly leading the pack.

  Cuckolded for the world to see.

  Poor Lucius.

  "Poor, poor Lucius!"

  Her mirth echoed about the room. She could hear several snickers playing along as accompaniment. Though… there were a few sour grapes.

  Rookwood sat beside her, face stoic as a bust. Boring, brilliant, bird, that man.

  At the end of the table sat Crabbe and Goyle, breathing from their mouths. Frightfully dull creatures.

  I daresay the rumours of troll blood are well-founded.

  Across from her sat the little cuckold himself, cheeks pink and glossy lips pressed tight. It was no wonder his charms had been found wanting, for he appeared more maiden than man.

  Slimy little Lucy thinks he's worthy of my sweet flower?

  Geld him

  Strap him in a corset to give a hint of décolletage.

  Add some rouge to highlight his high cheekbones.

  Oh, oh! Put his hair in ringlets!

  Bellatrix felt a bit of a blush rising to her own cheeks. He could be such a fine plaything. The thought made her nostalgic. She hadn’t had a proper doll to dress up since little Siri grew too old and serious to be seen playing with his favourite big cousin any longer.

  Perhaps a little frock on top, with a nice petticoat, and a parasol to protect his lily-white skin from—

  "Now, now, Bella. None of that."

  Oh, poo.

  She didn't pout. Her arms didn't cross, and her cheeks didn't puff out. Anyone who said otherwise was a lying liar.

  "Very well~~"

  She turned the paper towards herself, studying the grainy photograph beneath the garish headline. Her precious sister stood beside several other witches, but even in black and white newsprint, Narcissa outshone them all.

  Exquisite

  As she ought to be. My darling flower. My perfect little—

  But all those simpering girls throwing themselves at her sister’s intended, like bitches in heat.

  Revolting

  Her fingers traced along Narcissa’s image, stroking her smooth, angular cheek. So beautiful. So pure.

  Mine. Mine. Mineminemine.

  And what if Peverell touched her? With his filthy hands—

  NO

  She’d flay him. Peel the skin from his flesh and pluck out every last bone, until he was just a twitching pile of meat. Then, make him watch—

  Her gaze caught Peverell looking cooly at the camera, pausing her thoughts.

  He is rather handsome, though, isn’t he? And powerful. Perhaps he could be Narcissa’s handsome Prince. Yes. Perhaps she could let him live, so long as he remembered the order of things.

  Beneath me.

  "The question," Rookwood said, adjusting his spectacles, "is how the reverberations of this will affect our politicking."

  Bellatrix’s finger went back to tracing along Narcissa's image in the photograph. Her darling sister, caught up in this circus.

  "And how this Peverell might fit into our plans," silly Rudi said. "The werewolf incident demonstrated his strength. And his star is rising."

  Poor little Lucy, watching his prize slip away. She wanted to coo at him. Pat his head like a disappointed child.

  "Indeed. Like a stone dropped in a pond, his arrival is rippling out. It is simply up to us to ride the waves that arise," came the silken voice from the head of the table.

  Her spine straightened. Heat bloomed in her chest.

  "The sheep are all still afraid of the mutts," Avery said. "It’d be a shame if anymore made their way to our shores."

  "Or Greyback breaks out," Mulciber said.

  Bellatrix flicked her gaze between them, bored by their tedious analysis.

  What to do with the pretty new toy?

  "My Lord, might it not be better to tie this new Lord to someone in our camp?" Lucius said. "Flora, perhaps?"

  "Narcissa will never be yours, Lucius," she sang, voice treacle-sweet.

  Malfoy's jaw tightened.

  Delicious

  "But she was being... courted," he said carefully.

  "And now she's not." Bellatrix gave her sweetest of smiles. "Poor lamb."

  Perhaps I should send him a sympathy card. With pressed flowers. Dead ones.

  The Dark Lord leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled as he looked from Malfoy to her. "I’m sorry, Lucius. I truly thought your match solid, but I won’t interfere with Bella’s family. So long as the match will not dishonour her."

  Bellatrix felt a familiar flutter in her stomach.

  Oh, you beautiful man. Doting on your sweet little Bella!

  The small men around her nattered on as she kept her eyes glued to her Lord, dreams of him filling her vision.

  "The Squib registry proposals are advancing as well," Avery said. "The Minister's feeling pressure from all sides."

  "Excellent. And with the new Muggle-born employment restrictions taking effect..." The Dark Lord's smile was enthralling. "Desperation breeds such interesting choices."

  She kept her head propped on her hand, watching on as the pests continued to vie for Voldemort’s attention.

  Sighing, her gaze fellback down to her darling sister’s enchanting visage on the front page.

  "Well, well. If it isn’t the darling from the front page."

  Narcissa didn't look up from her easel, though her brush paused mid-stroke against the canvas. The morning light streaming through the conservatory windows had been perfect for capturing the way shadows fell across the garden's rose bushes.

  "I haven't the faintest idea what you mean."

  "Oh, come now." The rustle of parchment filled the room as Andromeda settled into the chair beside her, newspaper in hand. Platform shoes dropped carelessly by her feet—garish things of silver with cork soles that were apparently essential for whatever Muggle dancing had caught her fancy. "Britain's most eligible bachelor, and my dear sister featured so prominently."

  A delicate snort escaped before Narcissa could stop it. "Hardly featured. The Prophet simply enjoys manufacturing drama where none exists."

  "Mmm, yes. But you do look rather lovely in newsprint." The familiar lilt crept into her sister's voice. "That smile of yours... positively radiant."

  She squinted hard at the canvas and pursed her lips. It was best not to feed Andromeda’s mischief, else she’d grow insufferable.

  Though…

  She set down her brush with deliberate care.

  "I’ve noticed Mother's been practically attached at your hip all Season." She tilted her head, adopting an expression of innocent concern. "How did the Rosier garden party fare? I do know Evan was ever so interested in making your... acquaintance."

  Andromeda's grin faltered slightly. "That's different."

  "Is it?" Narcissa arched an eyebrow and picked up her brush again, adding a careful touch of burnt umber to a rose's shadow. "Mother seemed rather pleased with how that went. Something about meaningful glances across the refreshment table?"

  "You're deflecting."

  "I'm simply noting the irony." Another careful stroke. "Though I suppose it was the chicken who arrived first…"

  Andromeda’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What are you—”

  “Or perhaps it was the egg?” Narcissa allowed her lips a small twitch.

  Andromeda groaned, slouching in her chair with theatrical despair. "Stop with the Muggle idioms. Just stop."

  The sisters fell into comfortable quiet, only the soft whisper of brush against canvas filling the space. Outside, the morning sun painted the garden in gentle gold, but something in the quality of light had shifted. The roses she'd been capturing seemed less vibrant now, their shadows deeper.

  "It's rather like being displayed in a shop window, isn't it?" Andromeda said eventually, her voice softer now.

  Narcissa's hand stilled completely. The comparison was apt. Not that she would have ever voiced it herself. Though, Andromeda dared do much that she’d never seriously consider.

  "All these articles, these... arrangements." Andi continued, staring out at the garden. "As though we're wares to be examined and appraised." She glanced down at her plant-stained fingernails. “And nothing more.”

  "That's rather dramatic." But even as she said it, Narcissa felt the truth of it settle uneasily in her stomach. The careful orchestration of chance meetings with suitable young men. The way they were subtly encouraged to set aside any unbecoming avocations.

  "Is it, though?"

  Narcissa wasn’t quick to answer. She found herself thinking of shop girls she'd seen in Diagon Alley: Bright smiles and perfect posture, arranging themselves to best advantage for passing customers. The parallel was not lost on her.

  She resumed painting, each brushstroke more measured than before. "We have advantages those girls could never dream of."

  "Do we?" Andromeda shifted in her chair, and when Narcissa glanced up, her sister's expression held something she couldn't quite name. "Or do we simply have prettier cages?"

  The brush trembled slightly in Narcissa's grip.

  Her gaze drifted from the canvas to the roses beyond the glass. Perfect blooms, each one carefully tended within the conservatory's protective walls. Beautiful, prized, never knowing the touch of wild wind or rain.

  Lucius' practiced smile. Harry's unguarded laughter.

  Did it matter which cage had prettier bars?

  Her parents' shared glances across the breakfast table.

  Perhaps partnership was possible. Perhaps she could be fortunate enough to find what her mother had—genuine affection within the bounds of duty.

  The artefacts in the Black Manor library, gathering dust while she arranged flowers.

  But even with Harry, even with his passion for history and discovery, would she ever be more than an ornament to his collection? Would her mind matter, or only her bloodline and beauty?

  Her brush hovered over the canvas, paint trembling at its tip. She'd been painting shadows again without realizing it. The roses in her work were trapped in darkness, their petals perfect but cold.

  Just like everything else.

  Andromeda shifted, and when Narcissa glanced over, her sister's face held something she'd rarely seen before. A kind of quiet resolution that made her stomach tighten.

  "And if we are sacrificing everything that makes us happy? Maybe it would be better to—"

  "ANDROMEDA!"