Two days later...
Sirius glanced around the office, his eyes lingering on the traces of Odalie's occupancy. The room was washed in unusually bright, warm colors. Sweeping golden drapes, plush scarlet armchairs, and gilded trim that felt almost cloying. To a man raised in the austere, shadowy elegance of the Black family seat, the palette felt utterly jarring.
"Pardonnez-moi, Heir Black," Marie Delacroix said smoothly, her voice commanding despite the tightness in her posture. Her dark skin still carried a grey, drawn pallor, but her stance was every bit the reinstated matriarch. "My sister redecorated my office without my permission, and my house-elves have not yet had time to purge it. Odalie was always partial to warm colors. I prefer cool, earthy tones myself."
"It is... vivid," Sirius remarked dryly, his gray eyes turning to the couple on the other side of the mahogany desk.
In the two days since the safehouse raid, Marie had moved with terrifying speed. With Odalie neutralized, she had destabilized her sister's faction, reclaimed her seat, and locked Odalie alongside her loyalists deep in the ward-heavy dungeons beneath the Delacroix estate.
Sirius crossed his arms, his mind returning to the practicalities of the fallout. "I'm surprised your people haven't involved MACUSA yet. A high-profile kidnapping, dark hoodoo, a rogue faction. Usually, the local authorities would be swarming the estate by now."
Étienne shared a brief, quiet look with his wife before answering.
"We are remarkably wary of the Aurors and Hitwizards here, Heir Black," Étienne explained, his tone measured. "In the bayou, mediums, necromancers, and other uniquely gifted individuals do not willingly hand their own blood over to government agencies. We prefer to handle our own traitors internally."
"And MACUSA simply turns a blind eye?" Sirius asked, raising an eyebrow.
"MACUSA is well aware of our tradition," Marie replied, her eyes flashing with quiet authority. "They grant us autonomy over local matters, provided our disputes remain contained within the parish and no No-Majs are exposed. Bringing in federal Aurors would only invite bureaucratic vultures into our sanctuaries. Odalie will face our justice, under our ancestral law."
Sirius considered her words for a long moment. As an ICW Custodian, he knew how messy local magical jurisdictions could be. As a Black, he understood the unwritten rule of keeping family sins buried away from government eyes all too well. Beyond that, he knew the darkest truth of magical politics. No family wanted to hand a uniquely gifted individual over to the government, where they would inevitably be studied, weaponized, or exploited, despite what they had done.
"So long as she never breathes the same air as my daughter again," Sirius said softly, the warning beneath his calm voice crystal clear. "I don't care what dungeon you throw her in."
Marie took a slow, deep breath, adjusting her blue velvet sleeves. "How is your daughter?"
Sirius's posture softened slightly. He turned toward the tall arched window and looked out over the manicured grounds of the estate. Down below, bathed in soft afternoon light, Lyra was hopping between the stone paving tiles, giggling as she reached up to take Esme's hand. Despite the terrifying ordeal, his brave little girl had found her way back to her bright, bubbly self.
A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"She's fine," he murmured, his voice warm. "She seems much calmer now."
"I am glad," Marie said softly, stepping closer to the window. "Our estate is anchored by ancient ancestral wards. It repels stray bayou spirits entirely. For a medium, being able to sleep without constant spiritual disruption is the only way to truly rest and heal."
Sirius noticed the sudden, sharp wince that crossed Marie's face, her covered hand subtly dropping to rest against her waist.
"Are you alright, Madam Delacroix?" he asked, turning back to her.
"Better than before," Marie replied, her voice strained as she gently stroked her lower belly. "Mais... still struggling."
Sirius nodded slowly. "Étienne mentioned your condition earlier. I heard you are expecting. A girl? Congratulations."
A faint, bittersweet smile touched Marie's lips. "We are not certain it is a girl, though Odalie made her own desperate assumptions. Étienne and I already have two grown sons, and at our age, a late pregnancy was a complete surprise. If it is a girl, she would carry on the leadership of the Laveaus." She glanced affectionately at her husband, who offered her a warm, devoted smile in return, before her expression dimmed. "Sadly... I may not see mon bébé born."
Sirius frowned, shifting uncomfortably. "I don't think it is appropriate for you to share this with me, Madam. If you and your husband require privacy to discuss such matters—"
"Non, please, Heir Black. It is quite alright," Marie interrupted gently. She turned to face him fully. "Your wife's healing talents are extraordinary. Lady Black managed to restore my vitality enough for me to withstand the curse and reclaim my house, but... a curse is still a curse. It continues to drain me from within."
Slowly, Marie reached down and peeled off her silk gloves.
Sirius's breath caught. Spreading across the back of her hands was a ghastly network of ink-black, pulsing veins, darker even than her skin. They webbed beneath the surface like shattered glass, creeping steadily toward her wrists.
"I still cannot fathom how sè-mwen—how my sister managed to learn this," Marie admitted, staring down at her black-veined hands with a mixture of sorrow and disbelief. "It is an ancient, forbidden curse. There is no known counter-curse, no potion to purge it. It is designed to inflict agonizing pain as the body slowly breaks down, creeping through the blood until the vessel simply gives out."
She looked up at Sirius, her eyes filled with a quiet, heartbreaking resolve.
"It is fast-acting, Heir Black. Without a miracle, neither I nor this child will survive the season."
Étienne stepped forward and placed his broad hands firmly on her shoulders. His knuckles turned white with suppressed anguish, but his touch was infinitely tender as he anchored his wife against the harsh reality.
Sirius looked between the couple, the weight of her confession settling over the room.
"Your sister was truly intent on destroying you," he said gravely, his voice quiet. "I am sorry you must face such a cruel fate after everything."
Marie offered him a soft, weary nod and smoothed down the front of her gown. "Merci. And I must apologize to you, Heir Black. I am deeply sorry for the ordeal and terror my sister has inflicted upon you and your family. The House of Delacroix owes you a debt that can never fully be repaid."
She paused, her gaze drifting back to the window, where Lyra's laughter echoed faintly off the stone courtyard. A thoughtful, analytical glint entered her eyes.
"Though... I have to ask, Heir Black," Marie murmured, tilting her head slightly. "How was such an exceptionally powerful medium born into a lineage with no history of spiritual gifts at all? Neither the House of Black nor your wife's bloodline is known for it. It is... most unusual."
Sirius's posture stiffened, his gray eyes narrowing with guarded caution. He crossed his arms over his chest, his voice turning cold and uncompromising.
"My answer depends entirely on your stance toward betrothals," Sirius replied flatly. "Because if your intention is to secure my daughter for your lineage, my answer is a definitive no."
Marie blinked in mild surprise before letting out a soft, low chuckle and shaking her head.
"Ah, non, I assure you, Heir Black, I have no such designs," she said smoothly, waving a dismissive hand. "Arranged betrothals are a relic of the old world. I believe such bargains are far more common among the high society of European aristocracy, but here in the States and Canada, forcing a child into a political contract is... well, unheard of. Not to mention, my sons are grown men in their twenties. Partnering either of them with a four-year-old child is utterly absurd and highly inappropriate."
Sirius studied her face intently, searching her eyes for any trace of deceit or hidden ambition. Finding only genuine distaste for her sister's methods, the tension in his shoulders finally eased.
He gave a single, firm nod, finding her answer acceptable.
A quiet silence stretched over the office before Sirius broke it, his voice low and measured.
"We don't truly know," Sirius admitted. "We only discovered her ability a few months ago, after a spirit invaded her body during Samhain."
Marie's eyes widened slightly, a breath escaping her lips. "Mon Dieu... Samhain?"
She knew all too well the terrifying implications of that night. Samhain was the height of the spiritual harvest, the night the veil between the living and the dead thinned. Uncountable restless spirits roamed the earth, and an untrained young medium on Samhain was practically a helpless beacon for malevolent entities seeking a physical vessel.
"The only connection I can think of... is the House of Peverell," Sirius added thoughtfully.
Marie's posture straightened, a sharp flicker of recognition crossing her face. "The Peverells?"
"You have heard of them?" Sirius asked, raising a brow.
"Mais oui, of course," Marie replied, her tone hushed with profound respect. "We have extensive records of the Peverell lineage in our ancestral library. In ancient texts, they were known as one of the very few legendary medium-centric bloodlines, a family said to possess a relationship with Death far closer and deeper than any of us in the bayou can fathom. But... what does an ancient, extinct European house have to do with your daughter?"
Sirius didn't answer right away. His jaw worked. Every careful instinct he had, the same ones that had him stitching tracking runes into his children's clothes, told him to keep the name behind his teeth.
Marie watched him, and something in her expression shifted. She had read the hesitation correctly.
"Heir Black," she said quietly. "Whatever you tell me goes no further than this room. Not to my sons, not to my guards, not to the elders. You have my word as matriarch of this house, and the debt we owe you stands behind it."
Beside her, Étienne inclined his head. "Mine as well."
Sirius studied them both for a long moment. Then he gave a short, stiff nod.
"My daughter is the primary Heir to the House of Peverell," Sirius stated calmly.
Marie blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "Comment? What?"
"She inherited the lordship and estate through her godmother, Portia Peverell," Sirius explained smoothly, his face a flawless mask of aristocratic sincerity. "Portia was the last living descendant of the main branch, or any branch that still carries the name. She had no children of her own, so she passed the entirety of her name and estate to her goddaughter, my daughter, before she died. She and my wife were closest friends."
He paused, shaking his head slightly with practiced skepticism.
"Though... I highly doubt that merely inheriting a family's title and magic-anchored estate could grant someone their bloodline's gifts. It makes no sense."
Sirius lied with ease. He knew better than to reveal the truth.
Marie tapped her chin thoughtfully, staring out the window toward the garden where Lyra was playing.
"No... magic doesn't usually work that way," Marie murmured, still deeply intrigued. "And yet, magic works in strange, mysterious ways when ancient magic and Death are involved. It is still most unusual... It is as if the universe is restarting something."
Sirius fell quiet, the word restarting striking a heavy, resonant chord deep in his chest.
"And now you are left with a very young child, far too young, I might add, which is a massive complication in itself," Marie said bluntly. "As she grows, she will face an absolute onslaught of spiritual phenomena. She will have to learn how to communicate with spirits, navigate a realm filled with the deceased, master the Echo, and erect unbreakable mental shields. Sooner or later, she will begin seeing lingering memories, Death Marks, and even attempt Veil Walking, each skill exponentially more dangerous if done incorrectly, even accidentally, as you have already witnessed when spirits possess an unguarded vessel."
Sirius's posture snapped straight, his gray eyes darkening with sharp alarm.
"Wait, what?" Sirius interrupted, his hands coming out of his pockets as his jaw tightened. "Death Marks? Memories? What do you mean, a realm filled with the deceased?"
Marie looked at him with calm, unapologetic realism.
"It is a mandatory part of our tradition for young mediums to be exposed to death early," Marie explained smoothly, gesturing toward the shadowy bayou stretching beyond the manicured grounds. "Children of our blood are systematically brought before dead bodies in various states of decay and trauma. It is the only way to teach them to instantly discern the living from the dead, so they are not driven mad with shock when a flattened corpse or a beheaded spirit comes walking toward them in the dark."
She took a slow, heavy step toward him, her gaze piercingly intense.
"Especially if they accidentally walk into the Veil," Marie continued, her voice dropping into grim solemnity. "Yes, Heir Black, mediums can step inside the Veil. It is exceptionally dangerous. If a child takes a wrong turn in that fog, their spirit may never return to their flesh. Many young mediums wander in there without even realizing it, sometimes while simply sleeping in their own beds."
Sirius felt the blood run cold in his veins, his hands tightening into white-knuckled fists.
"And with how exceptionally young your daughter is, she will encounter these trials much earlier than an average medium," Marie warned grimly. "And that is where the true terror lies. You know how fragile a child's mind is, especially at four years old. One wrong turn, one glimpse of an abomination before she is prepared, and it could shatter her sanity permanently."
Marie paused, looking out the window once more at the bright, laughing little girl playing in the sunlight, before turning her gaze back to the stunned father.
"You must accept this reality now, Heir Black," she whispered, softly yet firmly. "Your daughter will never have a normal childhood."
Sirius stared at her, a cold knot tightening in his stomach as the reality of Lyra's future began to sink in.
"Then how can we help her?" Sirius asked, his voice strained, stripped of its usual aristocratic composure. "Neither Esme nor I possess the gift. We have no idea how to guide her. And I am well aware that your culture does not permit outsiders to learn your sacred craft. I respect that, but as her father... I cannot simply stand by and watch her suffer through this blind."
Marie's eyes softened with genuine empathy, though her tone remained resolute.
"I am infinitely grateful for what you and the Custodians did for my family, Heir Black," she said quietly. "And as much as I wish to repay that debt, I cannot simply hand over our ancestral grimoires or open our closed traditions to outsiders. You understand this better than anyone. When Lyra eventually claims the House of Peverell, you would never allow a stranger to strip away its family secrets. Our magic must remain within our bloodline."
Sirius's jaw tightened, but he couldn't refute her logic.
"The best I can do," Marie continued, "is offer you the foundations. I can teach you and Lady Black the fundamental preparations. I will grant your estate the warding rite of Le Cercle de l'Ombre to purge all wandering spirits from your grounds, ensuring Lyra has a sanctuary where she can sleep and rest. I will also construct a specialized containment ward for her to wear, one that must be recharged annually and recalibrated as her power expands. She is far too young for permanent spiritual tattoos or flesh-bound sigils, so a physical ward is her only defense for now."
Sirius frowned, the weight in his chest growing heavier. Wards and rest were vital, but they were merely bandages. Even if he and Esme managed to unlock the ancestral Peverell vaults, neither of them were mediums. They couldn't teach Lyra the delicate, dangerous nuances of her own mind. They couldn't guide her through the Veil, teach her control, or protect her from being consumed by the dead.
Before the silence in the room could curdle into despair, Étienne stepped forward.
"There may be another way, Heir Black," Étienne said in his low, resonant voice.
Sirius's head snapped toward him. "I'm listening."
"There are two siblings, Romani mediums," Étienne explained, crossing his broad arms. "Outcasts, technically, who travel outside the strict boundaries of the traditional covens. Because they do not answer to the local councils, they have no ancestral oaths forbidding them from training an outsider. They possess deep spiritual knowledge, and if compensated properly, they might be willing to take Lyra on as an apprentice."
Sirius's gray eyes narrowed, his Auror instincts flaring instantly. "Can they be trusted?"
Étienne exchanged a brief, meaningful look with his wife before turning back to Sirius. "With the craft? Yes. With a child? I believe so. But they are cautious people. I will need to reach out and speak with them personally before any meeting is arranged."
A heavy silence descended over the office once more.
Sirius let out a slow breath, his gaze drifting from Étienne to Marie's bare hands. The ghastly black veins were still pulsing beneath her skin, creeping almost imperceptibly higher toward her wrists with every passing minute.
He stared at the black-webbed decay consuming the matriarch's flesh. Deep within his mind, memories of dark European lore and ancient Black family magic began to stir. Curses like these might have no counter-curse, but there could be a way to save the matriarch.
*****
Days later, the iron-shod boots of the Delacroix guard echoed against the slick, damp stone of the dungeons.
Marie descended the final flight of stairs, her steps deliberate and silent. Standing a half-pace behind her was Étienne, his hand resting on his wand, flanked by three of their most trusted enforcers.
At the end of the dark corridor, behind bars etched with ancient, glowing suppression runes, sat Odalie.
Even stripped of her silk gowns and caged like a wild beast, Odalie held her chin high. When her eyes landed on her sister, a sharp, cruel sneer cut across her face.
"Look at you," Odalie spat, her voice echoing off the wet stone walls. "The great matriarch, dragging her rotting body down into my cell. You might have won the house, Marie, but you are already a corpse. That curse is eating you alive from the inside out, inch by inch. You won't live to see the spring and you certainly won't live long enough to birth that girl you think will replace me."
Marie didn't flinch. Her face remained a carved mask of cold, unyielding authority.
"Open the ward gate," Marie commanded softly.
The guards stepped forward, snapping their wands down. The heavy iron door creaked open. Before Odalie could even attempt to spring from her bench, the enforcers lunged into the cell. Powerful binding chains erupted from the stone floor, wrapping around Odalie's wrists, chest, and ankles, pinning her rigidly to a central stone pillar.
"What are you doing?!" Odalie demanded, her breath hitching as the enchanted iron bit into her skin. She thrashed against the chains, her eyes darting frantically between the guards and her sister. "What are you doing to me?!"
Marie slowly peeled off her silk gloves and dropped them onto the damp stone. Her hands were almost entirely consumed now, the ghastly network of ink-black, pulsing veins creeping ominously past her forearms.
"A certain someone reminded me that while standard healing magic cannot touch this darkness," Marie said quietly, stepping into the cell, "there are... alternative methods."
Odalie let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "Impossible! I spent years perfecting that curse! There is no cure! There is no counter-curse!"
"You are right," Marie agreed, stopping just inches from her sister. "There is no cure. I never said anything about a cure."
A faint, deadly chill settled over the dungeon air.
"It seems the House of Black possesses certain ancient, forbidden rituals, magic so dark it is strictly illegal across every continent," Marie murmured, her voice smooth as glass. "Heir Black was generous enough to share one such ritual with us in exchange for our secret warding texts. A spell that does not destroy the curse..."
Marie reached out and placed her black-veined hand directly over Odalie's chest, right over her pounding heart.
"...but forcibly transfers it to another living host."
Odalie froze. The color drained from her face in an instant, leaving her deathly pale.
"What?" Odalie whispered, her voice trembling with horror as she stared at Marie's pulsing palm against her skin. "No... no! You can't! You can't do that!"
"You created this vile thing to destroy me and my child, sè-mwen," Marie whispered, her eyes flashing with cold, ruthless vengeance as her core magic flared to life. "It is only fitting that it returns home."
*****
Agonized cries and raw, frantic wailing echoed off the damp stone walls behind them as Marie and Étienne walked down the subterranean corridor, leaving the cells far behind. Odalie's screams slowly faded into the shadowy depths of the estate.
Étienne kept his arm tightly anchored around his wife's waist, his chest heaving with lingering tension. He glanced down at her.
"Did it work?" Étienne asked, his voice trembling slightly.
Marie stopped in the center of the hall and slowly lifted her hands. The ghastly network of ink-black veins was completely gone. Her skin was smooth once more, immaculate and free of corruption, though a deep, bone-weary exhaustion still clung to her posture. Her body would need time to heal from the physical strain, but the parasitic decay was no longer consuming her flesh or her unborn child.
"It appears it did," Marie murmured, staring down at her unblemished palms.
High-tier dark magic was notoriously volatile. Spells from ancient family vaults rarely guaranteed success when attempted by non-bloods, and Marie had taken a terrifying gamble on Sirius's instructions.
She took a long, deep breath, feeling the warm, unhindered flow of her own magic surging back into her chest.
"It would seem the House of Delacroix owes the House of Black far more than a simple debt of honor," Marie said gravely, turning toward her husband. "Whatever alliance he asks of us in the future, we are bound by blood and honor to answer."