The middle of January, Louisiana, United States.
Sirius glanced around nervously in the private room of the hotel where they are renting at. He was not comfortable crossing the Atlantic into MACUSA territory. When Isaac first told him that the Delacroix family was willing to meet them regarding his daughter, Sirius still held deep doubts.
Back in Britain, Regulus had spent weeks scouring the family library, conducting exhaustive research into the nature of these abilities. Mediumship, clairvoyance, and prophecy all fell under the umbrella of psychic gifts. They were rare, deeply inherent forms of magic that tended to run strictly in specific family lines, almost exclusively manifesting among women.
Because of this strict hereditary nature, having a true medium suddenly manifest in a family with absolutely no history of psychic gifts raised immediate questions and quiet skepticism. It was precisely why they had struggled immensely to get responses from those families. To the established lineages, an out-of-nowhere medium from a non-psychic bloodline was an anomaly at best, a fraud, or an unanchored hazard at worst.
And Sirius refused to let his daughter face that kind of harsh judgment. Lyra was only four years old, and neither he nor Esme fully understood the psychological and spiritual toll her gift was taking on her mind. The thought of her being branded a fraud, a curiosity, or a threat by cynical outsiders terrified them, driving them to protect her privacy and safety by any means necessary. Which is why Sirius and Isaac are the only two people in the private room. Sirius prefers to talk to the person first before allowing them access to his daughter.
Clairvoyants were the most common type of psychic gifts, followed by true Seers, with Mediums being the rarest of all. Because of their profound implications, such gifts were heavily regulated by Ministries of Magic worldwide. In times of political strife or war, governments coveted them. Seers were prized for strategic foresight, while Mediums were weaponized to gather intelligence through the dead or uncover secrets buried with the deceased.
However, Divination was notoriously imprecise. Throughout history, charlatans, frauds, and opportunists had falsely claimed to possess these gifts, sparking widespread paranoia, legal disputes, and historical scandals. This legacy of deception bred deep skepticism across the wizarding world, leading most authorities to treat psychic claims with suspicion until irrefutably proven. Consequently, the few families who possessed those gifts became fiercely protective of the nature of their abilities, guarding their secrets closely and vetting every outside claim to preserve their bloodline's absolute credibility.
Seers were relatively simple to track. The moment a true prophecy manifested, the Department of Mysteries in British Ministry of Magic and corresponding oracle chambers around the globe were immediately alerted by ancient recording magic. Mediums and clairvoyants enjoyed no such automated tracking. Consequently, fake mediums thrived, preying on the grieving. Even worse, those born with genuine, unanchored mediumship often suffered terrible fates such as driven to madness by the relentless chorus of the spirit world, or worse, becoming hollow hosts for whatever lingering entities latched onto their open minds.
This was precisely what terrified Sirius and Esme. They were dealing with a force that European magic dismissed, feared, or misunderstood, leaving them almost entirely in the dark about how to handle their four-year-old daughter so she can safely used her abilities.
Lyra was already showing significant, unsettling signs around their home. She was constantly seeing people who weren't there, singing eerie, forgotten songs passed down by dead spirits, and voicing thoughts far too heavy and mature for a four-year-old child. Worse still, Lyra had admitted that the spirits often disturbed her sleep; some so terrifying that she would wake up screaming in the dead of night. The constant night terrors were wearing down her health and shattering any sense of peace in the house.
Yet, despite their mounting desperation, Sirius and Esme refused to accept help without extreme caution. Families carrying true mediumship were exceptionally rare. The Romani were famous for their psychic abilities—boasting seers, clairvoyants, and mediums alike—but even among them, true mediums remained a rarity.
Regulus had theorized that the ancient Peverell family, with their legendary connection to Death itself, might have been one of the few bloodlines gifted exclusively with mediumship rather than general psychic sight. Yet, as Sirius and Esme searched for answers, a puzzling truth emerged. The vast majority of the surviving, powerful medium lineages no longer resided in Europe. Worse still, they flatly refused to travel back across the Atlantic to even meet with Sirius and Esme regarding Lyra, leaving them with no choice but to make the journey themselves.
Sirius knew the driving forces behind why so many of these bloodlines had settled in the United States. Unlike Europe, where magical lineages remained rigid, insular, and heavily policed by conservative ministries, the American South—especially Louisiana—had evolved into a unique convergence zone of West African rootwork, indigenous spirit traditions, French Creole magic, and European obscure practices.
Many psychic families had fled westward to escape European persecution and institutionalization, while others had tragically been caught up and displaced through the horrors of the transatlantic slave trade, weaving their ancestral spirit-work deep into the fabric of the New World. Above all, Sirius understood the fundamental law of their craft. Mediumship thrives where the barrier between life and death is culturally honored rather than suppressed. The rich, syncretic spiritual environment of the American South acted as fertile soil, keeping mediumistic bloodlines strong, active, and thriving across generations in a way Europe had long since forgotten.
Through extensive research, Isaac had managed to map out six major mediumship bloodlines across the United States.
There were the Gordons tucked away in New York—a very small, insular family lacking the widespread influence of the others, and entirely unwilling to speak with outsiders. Then there are the Addams' in New Jersey, a notoriously eccentric lot who happened to be completely out of the country on parts unknown.
The truly powerful, influential dynasties, however, were concentrated in the South. The Mayfairs and the Laveaus. But the Mayfairs were currently out of the question. Isaac had uncovered that the family was reeling from a devastating generational curse, leaving them in no state to entertain foreign queries or assist with Lyra.
That left the Laveaus. As Isaac had explained to Sirius and Esme, "Laveau" was less of a traditional surname and more of a dynastic title, sustained by three powerful branches who were descendants of their powerful matriarch. The Delacroix, the St. Cyr, and the Beaumonts.
And now, sitting in this ancient, damp Louisiana hotel room, they were scheduled to meet the current head of the title, Madame Marie Delacroix VII.
"They're late," Sirius commented, his arms crossed tightly over his chest while his knee continued its restless, rhythmic up-and-down tapping against the floorboards.
"That is rather unusual," Isaac mentioned, frowning slightly toward the shuttered window. "When I met her, she was rather prompt."
"What's she like?" Sirius asked, his eyes darting back to Isaac.
"Powerful. Ancient. Old-school," Isaac replied. "Honestly, she kind of reminds me of your family, Sirius."
Sirius looked confused, his brow furrowing as he glanced back at his former boss. "My family? You mean a bunch of paranoid, dark-art-hoarding aristocrats?"
Isaac chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Not quite. The Laveaus may not have a formal noble title—nobody here in the States or Canada uses peerage like that—but they command the exact same level of entrenched, generational respect as the House of Black does back in Europe. Though they are less concerned about family image than the European Aristocrats," Isaac added with a dry tone, "If we're talking true royalty over here, the indigenous shamanic lines are treated with a level of reverence that makes even the old magical dynasties look like newcomers. They are treated well in the magical world compared to their No-Maj counterparts."
The sudden click of the latch echoed through the quiet room as the heavy wooden door swung open. Surprised by the quiet entrance, both Sirius and Isaac immediately stood up. They weren't alarmed enough to draw their wands, but their instincts instantly put them on high alert.
A woman stepped into the private room, carrying herself with a distinct, undeniable air of authority. She had rich, dark skin and was dressed in vibrant, Creole-inspired attire—a fitted jewel-toned blouse paired with a long, flowing skirt patterned in deep terracottas and golds, with a headwrap carefully knotted above her brow. In Sirius's opinion, her robes were remarkably colorful compared to the dark, somber robes favored by European aristocracy, but there was no mistaking the raw, quiet power radiating from her.
Flanking her were two burly, imposing men who looked like seasoned bodyguards. Broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed, they moved with silent precision, taking position on either side of the entrance and scanning the space with calculated efficiency.
Sirius leaned in slightly toward Isaac, his eyes fixed on the woman. "Is this her?" he asked in a low whisper.
Isaac looked thoroughly confused, his brow furrowing as he studied the woman. "Just a moment," he murmured, stepping forward to approach her.
He stopped a few paces away, keeping his posture respectful but cautious. "Hello... are you lost?" Isaac asked, his flat American accent echoing in the quiet room. "I believe this private room was reserved for a different party."
"You are Isaac Thornwick, oui?" Her voice was low and unhurried, the Creole lilt softening every consonant.
"Yes?"
"Then I am in the right room."
Isaac was still confused. "I'm sorry. We are supposed to meet Madam Marie Delacroix. I've met her, and you are not that person."
"I am not." She smiled, though the expression never reached her eyes, and a cold prickle crept down Isaac's spine. Something was wrong. "My sister, she has been much occupied. She suffered a rather unfortunate accident and is unable to carry out her duties as head at the moment, so I am taking over. I am Madam Odalie Delacroix."
She didn't miss a beat, brushing past Isaac as if he weren't even there, and turned her attention directly to Sirius.
"You must be Lord Black, I presume," she said, her tone dripping with smooth, honeyed Creole warmth. She extended a dark, hand adorn with gold rings, offering a firm, confident handshake. "I must admit, I have not had the pleasure of entertaining European aristocracy before. Forgive me for keeping you waiting, chéri, and I hope your stay in Louisiana has been agreeable thus far."
Sirius met her hand, offering a polite, well-practiced squeeze before letting go. He cast a quick, uncertain glance over his shoulder at Isaac. Isaac merely offered an open-palmed shrug—a subtle gesture that clearly communicated, I have no idea what's happening either, so play along.
Sirius turned back to Odalie, dipping his head in a courteous nod. "Thank you, Madam Delacroix. The stay has been agreeable enough, though the local climate doesn't seem to care much for me. And it's Heir Black, actually. Heir Sirius Black."
Odalie tilted her head slightly, her dark eyes flashing with sharp curiosity. "Heir?"
"Yes, I am not Lord Black yet," Sirius replied with a small, wry smile. "My grandfather is still quite robust and has no intention of stepping aside anytime soon."
Odalie let out a low, warm laugh, the heavy gold bangles at her wrist clinking together softly. "Ah, line of succession. That is a heavy weight to carry across an ocean, non? But where are the rest of your party? The arrangement was for the Black family, yet I see only you."
Sirius and Isaac exchanged a swift glance. Isaac stepped up beside Sirius, his brow deeply furrowed.
"Madam Odalie," Isaac began carefully, choosing his words with precision, "if you don't mind me asking... how much did Madam Marie tell you about our arrangement before her accident?"
Odalie smiled thinly, though her dark eyes remained cool and assessing. She gestured casually toward one of her bodyguards, who pulled out a chair for her. She settled into it with effortless grace, smoothing the vibrant silk of her skirt before looking back up at the two men who also followed and sat down.
"My sister told us nothing," Odalie said plainly, her Creole lilt softening the sharp truth of her words. "When Marie was... incapacitated, my branch had to scramble overnight to assume her duties and keep our affairs in order. While going through her desk and clearing her ledgers, we found an entry in her private calendar. A discreet meeting booked in this hotel with 'The Black Family of Britain.' That was all."
She leaned back, resting her chin lightly on her hand, her gaze lingering intently on Sirius.
"There were no notes, no letters, no details explaining why you were coming nor why she is going to meet with you," Odalie continued smoothly. "But when one sees a name as formidable as the House of Black in our records, you do not simply let the appointment lapse. I couldn't risk disappointing or offending such a powerful European house by failing to show up, so I came myself to honor it."
She tilted her head, her dark eyes narrowing with measured curiosity. "So, Heir Black... suppose you tell me what business brought you all the way from Britain to our bayous, seeing as my sister left not a single word behind."
Sirius leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands loosely clasped. He knew Isaac was tense beside him; Isaac didn't know Odalie, couldn't predict how she held her power compared to her sister, and certainly didn't know how she would handle the delicate truth. But Sirius didn't have the luxury of returning to Britain empty-handed. He had to probe—safely, but directly.
"Before we discuss the specifics of our business," Sirius began, his voice calm, measured, and laced with the quiet authority of his lineage, "I need to understand the extent of your family's craft. We crossed the ocean because the Laveau name is known for its ties to the Veil. I want to know... how your family handles mediumship. Specifically, how you handle those who carry the gift without the lineage to anchor it."
The room grew perceptibly colder. Odalie did not blink, her expression smoothing into an impenetrable mask. The warmth in her eyes retreated instantly, replaced by a guarded, sharp stillness.
"That," Odalie said softly, her lilt turning dangerously smooth, "is not a topic we discuss casually with outsiders, Heir Black. No matter how grand your estate in Europe may be. The gifts of the Veil are sacred to our blood. We do not barter our secrets, nor do we satisfy the idle curiosities of foreign nobles."
She leaned forward, her dark eyes pinning Sirius where he sat.
"If you came here looking for academic lore or to pry into the blood rites of the Laveaus, you have wasted your journey," she warned quietly. "So, I ask you again... why are you truly here?"
Sirius let out a long, weary sigh, the heavy weight of the past few months catching up to him in a single breath. He ran a hand over his face before meeting her sharp, unyielding gaze head-on. Honesty was a risk with someone he didn't know, but stonewalling a woman who held the key to his daughter's sanity was a luxury he couldn't afford.
"I am not here for academic lore, Madam Delacroix," Sirius said, his voice dropping into a low, raw tone devoid of pure aristocratic pretense. "I am here because of my daughter. She is showing signs of mediumship."
Odalie's brow arched slowly, a flicker of cold disbelief passing across her features. She leaned back in her chair, steepling her long, ringed fingers together beneath her chin.
"Is that so?" she murmured smoothly, her voice steeped in quiet irony. "That is most interesting, Heir Black. I was not aware that mediumship ran in the House of Black."
"It doesn't," Sirius admitted directly, holding his ground without hesitation. "We don't carry psychic gifts. The Black line is known for battle magic, curses, and the occasional Metamorphmagus. Not this. Which is why this is entirely new ground for us and why my wife and I have spent months trying to make sense of it."
Odalie watched him for a long, silent moment. Beside her, her two bodyguards remained utterly still, their presence imposing in the dim amber sconce light.
"Forgive me for being skeptical, Heir Black," Odalie said, her tone softening just enough to sound polite, though her eyes remained hard as flint. "As you know, those of us who carry the blood are fiercely sensitive when it comes to our gifts, especially given the charlatans, frauds, and tragic fools who have tried to lay claim to the Veil throughout history. An out-of-nowhere medium appearing in a non-psychic European pureblood line is... highly improbable."
She tilted her head, her gold bangles shifting with a soft clink. "So, I apologize for being so direct, but what actual evidence do you have that your child is a true medium, and not simply a frightened girl with an overactive imagination or a rogue burst of accidental magic?"
"Because a genuine medium doesn't just imagine things, Madam Delacroix," Sirius said, his voice dangerously low. "Last Halloween, during the old rites at our home, an uninvited spirit breached our wards, seized total control of her body, and spoke through her. Her eyes turned completely white. And when the entity pushed too hard, she bled from her nose and her eyes. If my son hadn't intervened with raw, ancestral magic to force it out, that spirit would have consumed her from the inside out."
Odalie's carefully constructed composure faltered for a fraction of a second. The cold skepticism in her eyes shifted into something much sharper, then sudden realization that she was dealing with a very real, very lethal crisis.
"Now, my daughter is seeing things constantly," Sirius continued, his voice tight with suppressed fear and anger. "She told me about the wet man who drowned in the bog near our residence. She talks about the burnt woman living in our grounds. And now she can't sleep because someone—or something—keeps waking her up in the middle of the night. It's getting worse, Madam Delacroix. Her health is deteriorating, and every night is a fight to keep her safe."
He let the heavy silence settle over the room before finishing, his tone dropping into a stark, humble plea. "So yes. That is why I am here. We are asking for your family's assistance regarding this."
Isaac remained completely silent beside Sirius, watching Odalie closely.
Odalie stared at Sirius, her fingers slowly relaxing as she digested his words. The descriptions, the bleeding eyes, the white-eyed possession, the specific lingering entities attached to the land were undeniable markers of an unanchored, highly vulnerable medium whose mind was acting as an open doorway to the spirit realm.
"Mon Dieu," Odalie murmured, her Creole accent softening as her formal guard dissolved into the grave seriousness of a true spirit practitioner. She looked at Sirius not as a suspicious foreign noble, but as a father standing on the precipice of losing his child to the Veil.
"And may I ask how old the child is?" Odalie continued, her gaze sharpening as she studied him. "Judging from your age, she shouldn't be too old, I presume?"
"She's four."
"Four?!"
The exclamation slipped past Odalie's usual composure, her eyes widening in genuine astonishment. "Most children with mediumistic abilities do not manifest until they are eleven—around the time their magical cores begin to stabilize and expand. Four is... that is dangerously young. Her mind cannot possibly carry that kind of weight on its own."
She didn't hesitate, her demeanor shifting from clinical evaluation to an urgent, commanding focus. "I would like to meet with her."
Sirius and Isaac instantly stiffened, exchanging a sharp, cautious look. There was something about Odalie—an undercurrent of cold calculation beneath the honeyed Creole charm—that still gave them both uneasy, off vibes. They didn't fully trust her, and bringing a stranger anywhere near Lyra went against every protective instinct they possessed.
For a long moment, the room was dead silent save for the faint crackle of the streetlamps outside. Sirius thought of Lyra's pale, exhausted face, the terrifying memory of her bleeding eyes in the corridor, and the relentless spirits robbing his daughter of her peace. They had hit a dead end and waiting meant risking a catastrophe they might not survive a second time, especially since Imbolc—another threshold event—is going to happen by the end of this month.
Sirius took a slow, measured breath, letting the heavy tension settle in his chest before he gave a stiff, decisive nod.
"All right," Sirius said quietly.
*****
Sirius and Isaac led the way down the long, carpeted hotel corridor, with Madam Odalie and her two imposing bodyguards falling into step behind them toward the private suite where Esme and Lyra were resting. But before Sirius could even reach the door, a sudden wave of piercing screams and desperate crying echoed from inside, shattering the quiet.
Without a second thought, both Sirius and Isaac surged forward and barged through the door.
"What happened?!" Sirius demanded, his voice laced with fierce panic.
The entire suite was in absolute disarray. Heavy hardcover books, decorative vases, and loose items were hurtling wildly through the air. The overhead chandelier and wall sconces flickered violently, strobing light and shadow across the chaos. In the center of the room stood four-year-old Lyra, her tiny hands pressed tightly over her ears, her eyes squeezed shut as she sobbed and screamed at the top of her lungs.
"I want to go home! Go away! Go away!"
Esme was on the floor right beside her, shielding her daughter with her own body while frantically trying to keep the flying debris from hitting them. She was stroking Lyra's face and hair, her voice lost beneath the din of the rattling room.
A heavy iron lamp tore off the side table and launched itself straight toward Sirius and Isaac.
"Protego!" Sirius barked, stepping in front of Isaac as his wand whipped out. The blue shimmer of his shield charm deflected the lamp with a resounding crack, sending it crashing harmlessly against the far wall.
Sirius dropped to his knees in an instant, wrapping his arms around Lyra and gently taking her tear-streaked face in his hands.
"What's wrong, love?" Sirius asked urgently, his heart hammering against his ribs as he searched her eyes. "Papa's here. What's wrong?"
"They won't stop, Papa!" Lyra sobbed, clinging to his shirt, her small frame trembling violently. "Make them stop! Make them go away!"
"Ah, mon Dieu..." a smooth, heavy Creole voice murmured behind them.
Madam Odalie stepped past Isaac into the chaotic room. Her face was grim, her dark eyes sweeping over the flying objects and the terrified child with instant recognition. Without a hint of hesitation, she drew a slender, dark wand woven with silver inlay from her sleeve and swept it through the air in a swift, commanding arc, vocalizing a low incantation in old Creole French.
Instantly, the ambient pressure in the room vanished.
The flying books and trinkets dropped to the floor with a series of dull thuds. The strobing lights stabilized, casting a steady, warm glow across the room. The oppressive, icy air evaporated, and Lyra's frantic screams broke into quiet, hiccupping sobs as the relentless spiritual noise abruptly went dead silent.
"What just happened?" Sirius asked, his breathing heavy as he looked around the room, still trying to make sense of it all.
"I do not know," Esme admitted, her voice shaken as she gathered Lyra against her chest. "Lyra was taking a quiet nap on the sofa when she suddenly jumped up, screaming go away, go away. And then everything in the room just... well, you saw what happened."
"Well," Madam Odalie spoke up softly, her tone carrying a heavy, deliberate weight as she stepped forward, her dark eyes fixed intently on the trembling girl. "It seems you were not exaggerating, Heir Black."
She moved closer, her long, skirt swishing silently over the scattered books on the carpet. The wand in her hand slipped smoothly back into her sleeve.
"You have a remarkably gifted daughter," Odalie murmured, her gaze lingering on Lyra with an unsettling intensity. It wasn't the warm, pitying look of a Healer, nor was it the gentle comfort of a mother. It was a look of sharp, calculating fascination. The gaze of someone staring at a rare, unpolished gem to be coveted.
Sirius didn't know the full technical depth of what Odalie's magic had just accomplished, but his instincts immediately flared red. He shifted his posture, instinctively putting his shoulder slightly in front of Esme and Lyra, blocking Odalie's line of sight.
He did not like the way Madam Odalie was looking at his daughter. Not one bit.