The drawing room at Hammersmith shimmered with restrained extravagance, the kind honed over generations. Spells kept the fire perfectly balanced—warm but not stifling—and charmed glass orbs floated above the guests, casting soft golden light on velvet gowns and polished shoes. Beyond the tall windows, snow fell in slow, silent waves over the hedged gardens.
Grimmauld Place remained the house for the heir of House of Black, where Lycoris, Arcturus and Regulus had grown up but ever since Orion and Walburga got married, the Black siblings had taken residency in Hammersmith, one of the many ancestral properties of the family.
Andromeda looked radiant, hair swept up into a loose braid coiled at her crown, silver-pink baroque pearls gleaming where they were pinned—each one subtly irregular, some nearly grey, others tinged with soft rose. The hairpins held the shape like the frame of a diadem. The effect was understated. Striking. Unmistakably personal.
Druella's voice came like the slide of silk over cold stone. "Andromeda, darling. That's a new ornament, isn't it?"
Andromeda turned, her spine straightening slightly. "It is."
Druella's eyes narrowed—not cruelly, just precisely. She studied the glinting pins. "Baroque pearls. Rather… unique."
Andromeda nodded. "A gift."
Druella's smile sharpened just enough to show. "From?"
"Mizar," she said evenly. "He got them for me."
Druella sipped from her flute, gaze flicking to the pins again. "An early Yule gift?"
"No," Andromeda said. "He gave them just because."
Bellatrix, lounging nearby and feigning disinterest, gave a sharp snort that earned her a quick look from Cygnus, but he said nothing.
"Just because," Druella echoed. Her voice turned cool with amusement.
"He bought Callista jewellery as well," the brunette replied, tone still neutral.
"Mm," Druella murmured.
"You're the prettier one," Druella said, so offhandedly it might have sounded kind if it weren't so precise.
A pause followed, not quite shocked but silenced.
Andromeda's lips parted faintly. She stared at her mother, not affronted—just thrown. "I beg your pardon?"
Druella didn't blink. "That's not meant cruelly. It's simply true. You're striking in a way Callista isn't. Especially now." Her eyes dipped to the pearls again. "Very regal."
Narcissa, sitting by the window seat with a book on her lap, froze for half a second. Then, as if nothing had been said, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and kept her gaze on the snow.
She was the prettiest out of the three Black sisters. Her parents had always said so. What was her mother playing at?
Her older sister straightened, the heat of confusion simmering behind her ribs. "Mother… why would you say that?"
Druella tilted her head. "Because sometimes it matters. Who shines more. Who looks the part." Her tone was light, but it carried weight beneath.
Cygnus stirred then, barely. "Druella—"
"I'm not insulting anyone," she said airily. "I'm simply observing."
Andromeda stared at her mother for a moment too long.
Cygnus didn't interrupt again. He watched quietly, like a man hearing thunder in the distance but not yet rain.
Mizar, from where he stood with his mother and the rambunctious Sirius near the fireplace, caught the tail end of the conversation. His eyes flicked towards Andromeda, then lingered on the curve of one of the pearls nestled in her braid.
Sirius Black sat perched on a low velvet stool, swinging his legs restlessly, a biscuit in one hand and a mild smear of jam on his cuff. He had inherited the unmistakable Black profile, but there was a spark of rebellion already visible in the crease of his grin, in the way he muttered under his breath whenever Walburga entered the room.
Mizar knelt beside the fire, stoking the logs with a flick of his wand, and Sirius—sensing he had his cousin's attention—leaned closer.
"Grimmauld's awful," he said in a rush. "They've put Regulus and me in separate rooms, which isn't fair because he gets to sleep in the good one, and Mother says I'm to start reading the family history again. The full, uncensored version."
Mizar smiled faintly, not unkindly. "Sounds dreadful."
"It is." Sirius made a face. "And they won't stop talking about blood and duty like it's the only thing that matters."
Lycoris, seated nearby on a low divan with a glass of claret in hand, gave a quiet hum. "That sounds like Walburga, all right."
Mizar tilted his head at Sirius. "Would you rather stay here over the rest of the holidays? Reggie too, if he wants."
Sirius blinked. "Here?"
"Hammersmith is large enough," Mizar said. "And more tolerable than Grimmauld."
Lycoris nodded. "Much more tolerable. You wouldn't have to worry about dodging curses in the hallway."
Sirius grinned. "You're serious?"
"Usually," Mizar said dryly.
The boy laughed, clearly delighted.
But dinner, as always, was more complicated.
Mizar had just finished discussing a potion technique with Harfang Longbottom when Walburga's voice cut through the low hum of conversation.
"I'd like to revisit something," she said coolly. "I've heard talk—" her eyes flicked to Mizar, then Arcturus "—that Sirius and Regulus will be staying here. At Hammersmith. Instead of returning to their home."
The room quieted. Lycoris didn't look up from her wine, but her hand tightened faintly around the stem of the glass. Alphard rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath.
"Sirius is a boy," Walburga continued, her voice sharp. "And Regulus is younger still. It's not appropriate for them to be away from their parents, not without proper cause or permission."
Mizar met her gaze calmly. "They'll be under my protection. And my mother's. There will be structure. It's just for the rest of the holidays."
"They already have structure,"
Cygnus leaned forward slightly, his tone edged. "You're stepping out of line, Mizar. That's my sister's son. You don't get to dictate where he stays."
"I didn't dictate," Mizar said coolly. "I offered. My uncle can back me up and sanction it."
Walburga's lips curled. "Spoken like someone who's never had to discipline a child of his own. Sirius doesn't need more indulgence—he needs discipline. Firm structure. Not your pet theories on kindness."
Across from her, Pollux Black set down his goblet with an audible clink.
He didn't speak at first. But when he did, it was in the tone of a man who craved power but never had it.
"Sirius is my grandson," he said, voice slow and deliberate. "And I've known since he could walk that he's clever—and unmanageable. There's wildness in him. He needs a firm hand. Like his mother's. Not a cousin playing house."
Mizar met his gaze without blinking.
"I don't believe breaking a boy is the same as raising him."
Pollux's mouth thinned. "And you would know, would you? Raised soft by your widowed mother. My cousin Lycoris's boy, brought up with no siblings and too much gentleness."
Across the table, Lycoris turned her head slowly towards Pollux. She didn't speak. She didn't have to.
But her child did.
"No," he said, voice no longer mild. "I was raised with discipline. And dignity. Uncle Arcturus saw to that. And I'll remind you, Pollux, once—and only once—not to speak of my mother that way again."
Pollux's eyes narrowed.
"You forget yourself—"
"No," Mizar said flatly, "I remember exactly who I am. And where I stand in this House. You're welcome to challenge my manners if you like, but do not confuse them with permission."
Pollux's knuckles went white around his fork. He hadn't expected to be corrected—certainly not in public.
"You think you can do better than his parents? Better than my daughter?"
Mizar's voice stayed level. "Yes."
Cygnus stiffened beside Walburga. "You forget yourself."
"No," Arcturus said softly, setting his own glass down. The room turned towards him like needles towards the magnetic north.
"He remembers exactly who he is. And where his authority comes from."
His voice wasn't raised. It never was. But silence spread out from him like frost on glass.
"I am the Head of this House," Arcturus said, his voice smooth as glass but cutting beneath. He didn't raise it, but the weight in the air shifted immediately. "What they need is a place where they are heard. Safe. And reminded of their lineage's better qualities."
Walburga's lips parted. "But—"
"This is not a discussion, Walburga," he said. "It's been decided."
Orion said nothing, eyes dark but unreadable.
Sirius glanced between them, stiff in his chair, but Mizar didn't need legilimency to feel the relief radiating off him.
Dorea Potter, seated nearby with Charlus, offered a small approving nod.
"I, for one, think it's a wonderful idea," she said lightly, setting down her spoon. "Children flourish when they're given space to be themselves. That includes nephews—and grandsons."
Charlus smiled and added, "And our Quidditch court is always open, of course. Mizar's welcome to bring Sirius and Regulus whenever he likes. Someone ought to teach them how to keep the Quaffle off their face."
Sirius sat bolt upright, beaming. "You have a Quidditch court?"
"We do," Charlus said with a wink. "Full-size pitch, spelled for privacy. Mizar trained there when he was younger. Caught a Snitch in under ninety seconds when he was thirteen. Still brags about it."
"I do not," Mizar said blandly, though a flicker of amusement ghosted behind his eyes.
As he grew up, he had decided to get closer to Dorea and Charlus. They were his connection to the Potters when the right time came.
Regulus, quiet until now, looked up from his place beside their mother. "I want to try, too."
"And you shall," Dorea said warmly. "There's room for everyone. And perhaps Mizar will let you use one of his brooms."
"You're very kind," Lycoris said with a nod, her voice still faintly cold from earlier. "I think a visit would do them good."
Pollux said nothing. Walburga's jaw tightened. But Arcturus had not moved, and his presence still anchored the room like stone beneath silk.
"Then it's settled," he said with finality. "The boys will remain here until Mizar goes back to Hogwarts, and if my cousin Dorea and Charlus would like them for a few days, I see no objection."
Charlus raised his glass in salute. "You'll have them back in one piece. And with better balance on a broom, if I can help it."
Sirius practically vibrated in his chair, grinning ear to ear. "Best Yule ever," he whispered to Regulus, who smiled softly in return.
Walburga said nothing. But her eyes, hard as flint, flicked to Mizar across the table—cool, calculating, and unforgiving.
Mizar returned the look without flinching.
Dinner plates had not yet been cleared, and the soft clink of cutlery still echoed beneath the steady hum of conversation. A fresh bottle of elf-pressed wine had just been uncorked when Lord Arcturus laid his hand flat on the table and looked down the line of seated guests.
"Andromeda," he said, tone measured and unmistakably direct, "your sister has made her decision—she will be a wife to Rodolphus Lestrange, but what of you? You've always carried yourself with a different sort of poise. What do you intend to do after Hogwarts?"
The question drew a subtle hush. Across from her, Narcissa kept her eyes fixed on her plate. Bellatrix looked up briefly, then smirked and returned to drinking from her cup. Andromeda, caught between her parents and her cousins, glanced at Mizar—who was already watching her, calm and unreadable.
She drew a slow breath. "I'm still considering my options."
"She wants to be a violinist," Mizar confessed, his voice quiet but firm.
Andromeda's fork froze halfway to her mouth.
Arcturus didn't react. He simply nodded. "Ah."
The table responded differently.
Cygnus Black's expression turned instantly sour. "Don't be ridiculous. She's a Black. She doesn't need to stand on a stage and perform like some trained creature. It's beneath us."
"Not beneath her," Mizar said, unmoved. "She's brilliant."
"It's a hobby," Druella said coolly.
Calidora Longbottom gave a short, dry laugh from further down the table. "Andromeda playing for coin? Surely not. The Prophet would have a field day."
There was a tense moment as Arcturus looked down at his plate, then slowly wiped his hands on his napkin and placed it beside his wineglass.
"My sister," he began, voice quieter than before, but no less commanding, "Lycoris, works full time at St. Mungo's. As a Mediwitch."
Cygnus stiffened.
"My brother Regulus is an exceptional Curse-Breaker," Arcturus continued, his gaze scanning slowly across the table. "Cassiopeia, as you all know, is a world-renowned duellist. And Dorea—" he nodded towards her across the table, where she sat in elegant green beside Charlus—"has developed three potions now taught in advanced N.E.W.T.-equivalent classes at Castelobruxo."
"I didn't say it was shameful," Cygnus said tightly. "But it's not how we raised our daughters."
"Well, lucky for them, the Lord of their house will let them choose," Arcturus looked at Cygnus and Druella. "And Charis's children all work as well. All these Blacks work. Proudly. Legally. With skill. They do not live off of the family fortune like some of you."
Druella's jaw was tight, though she said nothing. Cygnus set down his glass with a quiet clink that didn't hide the tension in his shoulders. At the far end of the table, Walburga let out a faint scoff, but Orion merely tipped his goblet back and drank.
"You speak as if we've raised them poorly," Druella said, voice low and precise.
"I speak," Arcturus replied calmly, "as someone who remembers that this family was built by witches and wizards who did things. Who led. Created. Healed. Fought. Worked."
Across from him, Dorea inclined her head in agreement. "Andromeda's skill is rare," she said. "I've heard her play. It's not a parlor trick."
"Thank you," Andromeda muttered, the words catching slightly in her throat.
"I just don't see why she should cheapen herself," Cygnus voiced, and Pollux let out a quiet grunt of approval.
Melania pursed her lips in a straight line. "Your daughter wants to be an artist, Cygnus. A noble profession. She's not telling you she wants to marry a Mudblood, for Hecate's sake."
"She shouldn't," he said. "She's my granddaughter as much as Sirius is my grandson. If Sirius is expected to carry the name with discipline, so should she. This family used to understand its place. Not everyone needs to prove themselves to the outside world."
"Speak for yourself," Mizar said, suddenly sharp. "You tried proving yourself your entire life—through your children, your alliances, your bitterness towards anyone who ever outranked you."
Pollux's eyes narrowed. "Mind your tone, boy."
"I will not mind my tone. I'm a Lord, uncle Pollux. I've outranked you from birth and I didn't even need the Lordship for it. My grandfather was Head of this House," Mizar said, unblinking. "And I've heard how you speak of my mother when you think no one listens. You will not speak to me about pride."
Arcturus didn't interrupt. His silence was permission.
Pollux didn't respond. Couldn't. The old man's face had tightened around something like fury—but he looked away.
"Andromeda," Arcturus said again, this time with finality, "if you wish to become a violinist, then do it. And do it with excellence. When the world sees your name on a concert hall program, let them see Black printed beside it—not as scandal, but as legacy. You'll have the resources. You'll have the time. And if you require it, you'll have my patronage."
Andromeda exhaled slowly, caught between awe and quiet disbelief. "I… thank you, Uncle."
"You earned none of this thanks by birth," he added, not unkindly. "You earned it by daring to want something your parents would not permit."
Mizar raised his glass faintly in her direction. Narcissa glanced at her sister and, after a long pause, gave the slightest smile. Bellatrix said nothing but her grip on her knife had gone white.
Macnair Estate, Northumberland.
The Macnair estate sat on the slope of a narrow valley in Northumberland, its peaked roofs and slate chimneys dusted with frost. They Macnairs were the kind of family that had always been pureblood, always traditional, and never quite powerful enough to dictate terms. But clever enough to survive and splurge.
Mizar arrived by private Floo, stepping cleanly into the marble-floored receiving room where muted tapestries of battles long past hung beneath enchanted chandeliers. His boots didn't echo. He never allowed them to.
Ianthe was there to greet him, straight-backed as ever, her lilac robes pristine, hair immaculately straight, maroon lips pressed into a near-smile.
"My Lord," she greeted with practiced formality.
"Mizar," he corrected gently. "You said they were expecting me."
"They are." Her gaze flicked towards the hall. "They just don't know why."
Before he could reply, the drawing room door opened.
Reginald Macnair strode in first, thick-jawed and still dressed in formal robes, clearly having made an effort. His wife, Clytemnestra, followed with a stiff nod of acknowledgment. Walden trailed behind them, his expression unreadable, though his hands were clenched behind his back in the way of someone barely keeping control.
"Lord Black-Shafiq," her father said, offering a shallow incline of his head. "Welcome to our home. Ianthe told us you were coming—though not why."
Mizar offered a polite smile. "I thought it best I explain in person."
Clytemnestra's eyes were sharp behind their polished calm. "We'd assumed… well. Ianthe is of age, and she's been receiving more attention than usual this season."
Mizar didn't dignify it with a response. "Shall we sit?"
They moved to the dining room—dimly lit, silver set at the table, a roast goose steaming at the center. A quiet house-elf appeared only long enough to pour wine before vanishing again.
The first few minutes passed in tension-wrapped pleasantries. Ianthe barely touched her food. Mizar remained composed, folding his hands over his napkin once the plates had been cleared.
Then he spoke.
"I've come to offer Ianthe a business proposition."
Clytemnestra raised a brow. "A proposition?"
"She has agreed to become my partner in the apothecary I'm opening in Muggle London. My family owns one in Diagon Alley already. This will be something new. Discreet. Modern. And she'll be paid well, with full rights and protections."
Walden blinked. "You want her working in Muggle London?"
"I want her safe," Mizar said. "And I want her to have a future not dictated by someone else's ruin."
Silence fell like a curse.
"Ianthe is not for sale," the Macnair patriarch said stiffly.
"No," Mizar agreed. "But her safety shouldn't be negotiable either."
Clytemnestra spoke more softly. "She said nothing of this."
"Because she thought you'd do what you're doing now," Mizar replied. "Make it about pride."
"I'm her father," Reginald snapped. "I have a right—"
"To what? Send her into Flint's hands?" Mizar's voice was still level. "Let her be bought by someone offering hush money to mask your debts?"
Walden's jaw clenched. "That's a lie."
"No, it's not," Ianthe said quietly. "He offered. I nearly accepted."
Clytemnestra gasped.
Mizar turned to both men, voice colder now. "You should be ashamed. A real wizard would rather beg another than let a witch—his daughter, his sister, or his wife—accept the ill-guided charity of another man."
The words sliced through the room like glass.
"You would've let her trade freedom for your mistakes. I came to fix those mistakes. But don't confuse this for weakness."
Walden shoved his chair back. "We don't need saving—"
"Then why didn't you offer her a way out?" Mizar's voice rose, finally. "You call yourselves men, but you let her face the fallout alone."
He turned to Reginald. "It's not my name that's bleeding coin. And yet it's mine that will shield your family."
The silence after that was unbearable.
Ianthe broke it. "I already accepted."
Clytemnestra looked stricken. "You did?"
"I won't sit idle waiting for someone to claim me like a prize. I made a choice. One of my own."
Reginald looked like he wanted to object—then faltered. Whatever he saw in his daughter's expression stopped him.
Mizar stood, napkin folded neatly beside his untouched dessert.
"I'll have the contracts sent by owl. If you object, object to her directly. Not me."
He turned to Ianthe. "I'll see you at the Bones' New Year's Ball."
She nodded. Her expression was unreadable, but there was steel behind it now.
"Happy Holidays," Mizar said without warmth.
And then he left them—staring after him in silence, unsure if they'd just been insulted, rescued, or both.