Chapter Text
CHAPTER ONE
August 12th, 1998
Harry was crying.
Not that it was a surprise, he often cried in the night while asleep and, in some cases, while he was awake.
The overwhelming grief of finally having an outlet after the war ended, Hermione claimed it was survivors' guilt, with the freedom to mourn. Harry understood this on some level, but no one wanted to listen when he said there was more to it.
Grimmauld seemed to echo a faint sensation of emptiness in his chest every time he consciously thought of it.
The dreams he suffered didn’t help either. Sometimes, they were beautiful and amazing, hinting at a world long gone, lost to time and history, but seeing a man referred to as King Arthur visually had filled Harry with a sort of longing, where it felt like that world wasn’t as complicated as the one he lived in.
At other times, it was of people long dead, such as Cedric, his parents, Fred, and now George, Mad-Eye, and Dumbledore. The rest of the time, it was Sirius, Remus or even Severus Snape haunting him, yet the confusing aspects of those dreams being that they were still alive, quarrelling in places all over the house, Harry wasn’t sure he had found, yet one conversation stuck with him, an argument about the real power of the Black family. Medea. Not that Sirius could explain who or what that was, but it had been intense conversations on the logic of magic. Remus was skeptical, disbelieving that magic worked that way; Severus was intrigued, arguing the difference between other ancient and noble magic and Sirius’s… Sirius had a sorrowful, haunted look, the expression staying with Harry even after he woke.
He saw whispered conversations in the kitchen between the Weasleys and a couple with Percy that devolved into arguments on using potions, loyalty charms, contracts and oaths. Harry couldn’t understand, even though he knew they spoke English. It was even more baffling because, as far as Harry knew, Percy had never been in the house, so knowing what was real or imagined was almost impossible.
It was easy to see how Walburga would have gone crazy living in the house if she had suffered the same thing Harry was. Yet he couldn’t force himself to leave either, unwilling to give up the idea that this could be his home, hiding himself in the library, buried in mountains of books, unable to talk about what he was reading or why. None of it seemed to make any sense, his focus feeling like it turned inward, looking for an escape.
Still between the phases of asleep and awake, Harry tossed restlessly in bed, finding himself floating outside his body, moving through the house, drawn forward. However, he didn’t fight the momentum, wondering who Grimmauld would show him today. With a start, he blinked, landing in a surprisingly comfortable chair he wasn’t sure was real before the tapestry containing the Black family.
It was something he tried not to dwell on now. Still, during the first month after the war, he spent an unspeakable amount of time staring at the fabric, willing Sirius' name to reappear, restored to its proper place, as it had now, leaving Harry confused and conflicted.
That it was ringed in a black box, like his brother’s, wasn’t surprising; it was expected after falling through the veil, but some small part of Harry had hoped.
Closing his eyes, Harry leaned against the back of the chair, trying to find the calm part inside of him that seemed to allow little communication with the house.
They didn’t talk in words, but with feelings, something Harry had overheard Ginny saying he had too much of after the war; it was like everyone had just expected him to shake it off and go on doing what they wanted. The only one with a mediocre sense of compassion had been Hermione, though even now, she seemed to be looking for patience.
His eyes opened, immediately finding a new box ringed in silver that appeared, leading directly from Sirius, like his godfather had had a child before he died, one that made no sense considering the date of birth was Harry's own, even if it wasn’t his name.
Or at least not the name he knew growing up. Leaning forward, he gently traced the letters, swallowing hard as questions bubbled on his tongue, knowing he’d never receive any answers.
Hadrian Cadmus James Brenin.
He could see and read it yet couldn’t process or understand it. Physically and mentally shying from the conversations that whispered on the outer edge of his consciousness, not wanting to know as if the house was trying to tell him something.
The house sighed heavily, creaking loudly before light flicked off the tapestry, drawing Harry’s gaze to Andromeda’s name, still greyed out. Tonks and Remus’s names faded, like an afterthought, shown to see the connection but had never been included. An argument could be made for that conclusion, as Teddy’s name wasn’t there either.
He skipped Bellatrix’s blackened name and found Narcissa’s, his breath catching as a date appeared beside her name. Glancing down sharply, he saw Draco’s name, the exact date appearing as his mother’s, as a black box appeared around both names.
Jerking upright from a dead sleep, Harry drew in a stuttering breath, his hand pressed against his chest, hoping to ease the pressure, and shook his head. “They’re lying to me.”
The house shifted, swelling around him, yet sitting in the chair, feeling too small in a large home, the pressure felt like a caress. A hug as if the house or Medea was trying to console him, it too, mourning the loss of what was.
Blinking tears from his eyes, Harry stared up at the graying canopy, stomach clenching at the half-remembered dreams, grief still there, but also a steadily growing presence that he wasn’t alone as he thought.
Glancing at the clock on the side table, Harry rubbed a hand over his face, wiping away the tears that still leaked from his eyes, and flipped the blanket back. Shivering in the pre-dawn light, Harry pulled on a hoodie, needing the warmth, uncaring that it was almost the middle of August. He adjusted his sleep pants and ambled into the bathroom to relieve himself.
Filled with grim determination to figure out exactly what sort of sentient being his house or Medea was, Harry moved through Grimmauld, checking each room once again and searching for a study. Considering the wizarding world was stuck at the turn of the century, it stood to reason that an ancient and noble house should have a dedicated room for that purpose.
Feeling a hint of amusement wash over him, Harry stopped on the threshold of a door, trying to figure out what he thought had amused the house when the door swung open, revealing a tastefully decorated study in dark oak and ivory-coloured wallpaper.
Considering the layer of dust and the state of the rest of the house, it was almost disturbing that this room appeared pristine and untouched by time. It was even weirder stepping into the room, the scent of unidentified flowers filling his senses, filling him with a craving to re-enter the dream from weeks ago that showed a world lost to time and memory.
With renewed vigour, he crossed the room, settling into the comfortable chair, unlike any in the house. Flipping open the book on the desk, staring blankly at it, leafing through the pages in a hint of agitation when none of it made any absolute sense until he got to the last page and stared sightlessly at it for a long time.
The dates were humbling when he realized the last entry was March 1560, a year after Queen Elizabeth I had been coronated, and the first proposal for their sovereignty was drafted. Sinking back into the chair, Harry took a calming breath, not knowing where that knowledge came from. He tried to sort through what he knew, trying not to panic as thousands of jumbled memories filled his head.
A sleepy murmur followed a flood of apologies, and he closed his eyes, centring himself and clearing his mind in a way that Severus Snape had never hoped he’d accomplish, and focused his thoughts.
It was easy to establish and accept that the house was at least semi-dormant, but what if it wasn’t the house trying to communicate with him? Sirius had insisted that the Black family magic came from somewhere, so what if it was that? A sort of semi-dormant sentience or entity that was using the house. Did that mean the entity wasn’t as gone as previously thought? What if she were sleeping? How or why would a sentient entity sleep if it were the source of the family magic?
The answer came to him slowly, like a trickle of water pooling in his subconscious, an image of an old man sitting at the same desk. Harry sat with a much younger woman, arguing too fast and furious to let the man get a word in edgewise.
It was weird to know they spoke English, yet his comprehension of the words meant he was only snatching a word in ten, so nothing the lady said made sense.
Yet the man’s actions did; he finally held up a hand, a tired sigh slipping from his lips as he pointed at the door.
The names came to Harry as Mariam Sadler - a Muggle-born witch lifted her chin and glared spitefully at the older man, Casimir Black. “You promise?”
“Of course, my love. When have I ever disappointed you?” The voice was as old as the man’s appearance, and he seemed to force him to stay sitting straight in his chair as the woman snorted but rose to her feet.
“I won’t be back until it’s done; that power is unnatural and unnecessary. We’re an enlightened society now, Casi.”
The old man struggled to his feet but didn’t even manage to do so, as the woman had already turned on her heel and swept from the room, leaving the old man to expel a tired sigh.
Waving a hand at the door, it swung shut, its locking charms activating automatically. As he slowly pulled an amulet from inside his shirt and set it on the desk, the moss agate of the stone swirled and rippled like a mini-universe.
Harry watched in utter fascination as the man’s face twisted in agitation as if he were having another argument, though this one silently. In a burst of anger, he pulled an anthem from his desk, sliced his palm, held the stone in his blood-soaked hand, and started chanting in Latin.
When he was finished, he let out a deep breath and then recoiled violently, eyes widening in alarm as he slumped over the desk, the amulet falling to land in front of him.
The stone rippled again, the moss agate flashing silver, red, then black before fading from sight, leaving the old man, Casimir Black, breathing his last. A tear of regret rolled down his cheek and hit the desk, and an inky blackness emerged from the tear and dissipated like mist.
The vision released Harry slowly, a soft caress along his magic, making his eyes flutter open. He wiped tears from his face as understanding filled him.
The old man, Casimir Black, had been courting Mariam Sadler for months, but she refused to sign the contract until the family magic was bound, as she would not be subjected to such a primitive concept. Casimir, infatuated with the Muggle-born, his first three marriages leaving him a widower and lonely, had consented to her demand, uncaring of the ramifications his actions would have - the start of the Black madness.
Sighing warily, Harry wiped his face again, overwhelmed at the knowledge but unsure what it meant. He stared sightlessly at the desk for a long time, trying to work through what he knew again.
There were no male Black’s left. He paused at that thought and tilted his head to remember the dream that had woken him. The restoration of Sirius’s name on the tapestry with a box indicating an Heir, a name Harry knew he didn’t recognize, not that he could remember what it was, but felt was important. That also brought the rest of the dream to the forefront, the death of Narcissa and her son, Draco Malfoy and the destruction of another ancient and noble family. It was as if the new government was working through what was left of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, attempting to finish and complete what Riddle and Grindelwald had attempted.
Stomach clenching at the implications, Harry half rose from the seat, blinking in shock as the tapestry appeared, merging into and spreading across the wall, growing and expanding in a never-ending arc of names and dates, clean and as pristine as the day it was created.
Harry stepped from behind the desk as if in a trance and approached the tapestry, focusing on the box under Sirius’s name. Knees buckling, Harry collapsed in front of the family tree, tracing the name Hadrian, which he knew to be his, though still not understanding how or questioning why the last name was blurred, even though he knew it hadn't been in the dream.
An irritated huff echoed in his head, but didn’t provide answers, the impression they walked away intensifying as a wall section on the opposite side of the room swung open, a faint glow the only light that spilled into the study.
Rolling his eyes at the dramatics, Harry rose to his feet, hesitating to run a hand across Sirius’s name, wishing he could change what happened to his godfather.
Out of everyone, Harry lost; that death was the one that still hurt the most, and the unfairness of Sirius’s life churned with a sort of guilt Harry wasn’t sure how to get over.
Tabling that circle of unending thought, Harry, hoping for more answers, crossed the room, stumbling to a stop in growing irritation as he stared at the crystal ball sitting on a black stone table carved with runes. Clenching his hand into a fist, Harry entered back, going rigid as the “door” swung shut, and he circled the room to confirm his suspicions.
The only items in the equally black room were the crystal ball, the black table, and a small matching black stool with a black cushion. It was almost disorienting; the subtle shades of black were used to differentiate between the floor, wall, ceiling, and furniture, and the glow from the crystal ball created enough light to see the runes etched into the wall.
Harry stopped moving, heart skipping a beat as he realized it wasn’t a glow from the ball, but the runes themselves that glowed, a faint silver filling the impression as it picked up speed, racing and feeling like a tidal wave, impossible to stop or slow.
Heart jumping into double time, Harry fought the urge to run as he stood in the middle of the room and spoke, feeling braver than he ever had before facing Riddle. “You do know I despise prophecy, right?”
A hint of faint laughter sounded in his head, making him sigh and, surprisingly, relax. “Is whatever this is going to hurt?”
There was an indefinable pause before the urge to touch the crystal orb overwhelmed him, and he glared at the crystal ball for lack of anything else to focus his ire on. “I wish people would stop using me. It doesn’t feel like it should be too much to be asked to do something. I feel I deserve that much after fighting in a war that started long before I was born.”
The urge to touch the orb vanished, leaving a sense of confusion as if Medea were unsure how to respond or react.
Neither did Harry, leaving him feeling unbalanced and unsure if it was a ploy to get him to do what she wanted. With a sigh, he reached out and touched the orb, blinking when nothing seemed to happen, and sighed dramatically, “Well, that was anticlimactic. What-”
The room exploded in light, smells and sounds that overwhelmed him, leaving him reeling. The distant ringing in his ears caused him to sway wildly, sending him crashing into the unforgiving stone table, feeling the bruises form immediately.
When he could clear the spots out of his eyes, and focus on his surroundings Harry looked around, the runes filled and pulsing, casting more light then the brightest Lumos charm, the orb was gone, yet in its place, was the amulet from his vision, the swirling specks beguiling and almost beseeching as he reached out a hand to touch it, fingers brushing the edge of the stone.
Warmth rushed through his fingers, encompassing his body, and he found himself fumbling the chain over his head and moving his shirt before he realized it, but he didn’t stop himself. The desire to feel that overwhelmed him, making him feel greedy and ungrateful for any affection he had previously received.
As the amulet settled against his chest, a heavy weight circled his pinky finger on his wand hand, making him glance down; his eyes widened in alarm as the ring seemed to glow faintly. A voice echoed around the small room, and inside his head, the runic array pulsing in time with the cascades of the tone.
“Do you, Hadrian Cadmus James, Master of Death and Fate’s Hands, swear your oath to uphold the values in which you live your life? Will you accept my teachings and knowledge for the betterment of yourself and our family, diminished as we are? Will you help rid the world of people fixated on a goal of annihilation, the result of three blood wars? A word of warning before you agree, in giving your agreement, it is with the knowledge that it could be setting you against perceived allies or enemies now and in the future.”
Harry didn’t even have to think about it and nodded, licking his dry lips a second later to vocalize his agreement, “I swear to all of that, with the understanding that I continue my education, Medea, as any knowledge I have becomes known to you, an even exchange between us.”
There was a flicker of appreciation then, a hand caressed his cheek, and he opened eyes he hadn’t been aware he had closed. He took in the vision of a beautiful woman, small in stature but with a warrior's build, possessing a natural grace that belied her appearance.
Black hair fell down her back, braided and loose woven through with beads, and scarfs fell down her back, the famous silver eyes of the Black legacy shone with happiness as she stared at him, and held up both hands, an ash blond wand sitting in the center, a mixture of black and purple swirls twisting around the stick.
“A gift for the new Mávros, my first wand and a gift from another time, the last wand created from Yggdrasil’s, a tooth from Jörmungandr is the core.”
Staring at the wand, Harry swallowed, fingers clenching around nothing, realizing he’d forgotten the hollywood wand on the bedside table, “I have a wand.”
Medea snorted in amusement and agreed slowly, “You do, but it won’t do you any good here; one is useless against Riddle, the other under another’s control; this one is an unknown, and I believe Ollivander would be hard-pressed to believe it exists. If the Elder wand is more myth and legend, this one by right isn’t even fabled.”
Harry reached out to accept the want, jerking his hand back at the last second as the sentence finally penetrated, his eyes snapping to hers in growing horror, “Riddle? What?”
Banging on the closed portion of the wall echoed in the room, making Medea roll her eyes. “he never had any patience, and that was before he merged with the Grim.”
Harry jerked again, eyes snapping between Medea and the door. Yet, she caught his hand, halting his movements, “Hadrian, accept the wand; you’ll need all the leverage you can get; trust in our family and lead them pure of heart and magic, and know that if you have questions, I will help in any way I can.”
Swallowing the emotion, Harry slowly accepted the wand. The icy cold that flowed through his veins was reminiscent of the basilisk venom before it was dispelled with the rush of warmth, vanishing the cold that crept along his back, filling him as much as Medea’s affection had. He closed his eyes, soaking in the magic that flooded his system.
Cool lips pressed against his forehead, and he cracked open his eyes against his will as the door finally swung inward, spilling light and a slightly dishevelled and half-dressed Sirius Black looking at him in wonder and awe, a hint of grief flickering across his face as he stepped into the room, glancing around the room suspiciously, “Harry?”
The single questioning of his name was more than enough for Harry, as he burst into tears, wand forgotten as he rushed into Sirius’s arms, wrapping around the older man, who automatically caught him, and let him cry, a few tears that splashed on Harry’s face, showing Sirius was crying too.
***
August 12th, 1995
Draco woke up screaming. A regular occurrence since the summer of Riddle’s resurrection, the difference in this timeline was his door bursting open, and his mother rushing in, dressing gown askew and hair tumbling from an uneven braid.
Draco stared wildly at his mother, who flicked her wand at the door, erecting a shimmering shield he wasn’t sure he even knew the name for, as she raced to his bed, hand coming up to caress his face.
Her cold fingers made him flinch back in a panic, and he shook his head, desperate to dispel the vision seared into his mind of skeletal hands reaching for his face.
“Draconis!”
Jerking at his full name and tone, Draco drew in a shuddering breath, wiping the wetness from his face, voices sounding unbearably young as he whispered, “Mommy?”
Narcissa's pale silver eyes filled with tears, “Yes, my love, it’s me.”
“I don’t- what?” Draco shook his head in confusion, closing his eyes, trying to focus, before he abruptly jerked back, pulling the arm of his sleeve up, staring at the smooth, unblemished flesh in a mixture of growing horror. “Mom?”
Narcissa stared at his arm, licking her lips as if she couldn’t find words to speak, before shaking her head, “Come, let’s go.”
“What? Go where what’s going on?” Draco demanded, even as he followed her urging, and crawled from the bed, “Why is my last memory watching a dementor pulling its hood back?”
“Something happened,” Narcissa said, passing him his dressing gown, “I don’t understand what exactly, but it’s the Black family magics.”
Sighing in mounting frustration, Draco shrugged into the fabric, belting it and accepting his wand that Narcissa handed over. “I don’t understand.”
At the door, Narcissa paused and drew a deep breath. “Neither do I, but I know I refuse to let a second chance pass us by.”
“Second chance?” Draco repeated in confusion, grabbing her arm before she could move, groaning, “Please stop speaking in riddles. What’s going on?”
Draco wasn’t sure his mother would answer for a long moment, yet she finally lifted her head, eyes hard and determined, “Something woke Medea, the fabled Black family magics, and she’s sent us back in time.”
“I…” Draco trailed off, knowing his mouth was moving but unable to articulate the chaos in his head. He wanted to argue and deny the implausibility of the statement, but something told him that not only was his mother completely serious, but she also spoke the truth.
Listening to the whisper of a voice, Draco closed his eyes, unsure if he wanted to laugh or cry, and when he opened them again, he met his mother’s questioning gaze.
“You hear it?”
Swallowing hard, Draco ran a hand through his hair, flinching at the texture of his hair, half expecting the coarseness he last remembered. “Yeah, it’s Harry.”
“What?” Narcissa asked in confusion, “You hear, Harry?”
“No,” Draco whispered, “Harry woke Medea.”
“Harry Potter?” Narcissa closed her eyes, swaying dangerously, “How?”
Draco averted his eyes, shrugging uncomfortably but gripped his mother’s upper arm to prevent her from falling, “I don’t know; it’s what the whispering is saying, though.”
Taking an unsteady breath, Narcissa gripped Draco’s arm, nodding shallowly, “Then you know what that means, right?”
“We definitely can’t follow Lucius’s path?” Draco responded dryly, earning a pointed look from his mother, “That goes without saying, Draco.” She straightened to her full height, expression turning calculating.
Seeing plans emerge and reshape was unnerving as she regarded Draco before nodding decisively at whatever conclusion she came to and opening the door, “It doesn’t change my immediate intention. Let’s go.”
Deciding not to question his mother, Draco followed behind her, trying to figure out the date; he knew it was sometime before he took the mark, but that period stretched on all the fifth year before he’d been singled out for the dubious honour. He opened his mouth half a dozen times to ask if his mother knew. Before swallowing the question, he was unsure if he wanted the answer. A lot had happened in his fifth year, including his unofficial recruitment of members within Slytherin house, something he wasn’t planning on doing this time around.
The guilt he felt at Greg Goyle’s senseless death was something that had stayed with him in the few months he’d lived after the war ended.
Draco followed his mother down the corridors of Malfoy Manor, moving deeper into the part of the house his father had never let him visit. Something that, in hindsight, made him frown at his mother’s back, “This is the way to the heart stone.”
“It is.” Narcissa replied, almost serenely, dismissively, waving her hand, “Your father is currently off doing something for his Dark Lord and won’t return until later this morning, as Lord Black is supposed to appear before the Wizengamot.”
“It’s the beginning of August?” Draco asked, interrupting his mother, flushing and mumbling sorry as she turned back to look at him.
“It’s almost mid-August; Harry’s trial is set for August 12th.” Narcissa explained as she continued walking, “I think today’s session will go much differently, considering two lords will not be voting.”
“Two?” He repeated in confusion, hurrying to catch up with his mother when he realized he’d fallen behind.
“Well, I doubt Lord Black will vote against himself if he even publicly releases that he’s claimed the Black title,” came the cool reply, “unfortunately for Lucius, he won’t be attending today's session.”
“Why not?” Draco asked in surprise.
Narcissa sighed and stopped before a stone wall, sans any decoration or aesthetics indicating its importance. “Because you’re going to challenge and claim the family magic from your father.”
Draco tore his eyes from the wall and stared at his mother in horror, “What?”
Tiredly, Narcissa rubbed the bridge of her nose, “Okay, look at it this way, you are a son of both Malfoy and Black blood. It stands to reason that because the Black family magics sent us back, the Malfoy magic will know it was the end of its existence.” She swallowed hard and drew in a harsh breath that Draco couldn’t help but copy, “I’m hoping that because of that, it will know and accept an alternative; magic wants to live, and to live….”
“It needs a host.” Draco finished softly, feeling tears sting his eyes, “But that means father...”
“Made the wrong choice.” Narcissa snapped, anger and betrayal layering her tone, “He made his choice twenty years ago when he blindly followed a trumped-up half-blood and spouted the same rhetoric. He made it again when he flocked to his side and celebrated his return. Lucius brought this on himself and should have remembered. I am a Black by blood, and my duty is to my patriarch as the head of the family, who is in the hierarchy above the Malfoy line.”
Narcissa touched the wall, and it swung in silently, the heart stone pulsing a soft light that arched and reflected off the ivory-coloured sandstone walls.
Pushing aside the dread Draco felt, he allowed his curiosity to come to the forefront and entered after his mother, shivering as magic reached out, sliding over his skin like it was tasting him, “Father never brought me here.”
It wasn’t a question, though Narcissa treated it as such, “No, he didn’t because Lucius is paranoid. Truthfully, it made me realize he feared exactly what I planned.”
Eyes flitting around the room, devoid of anything but the heart stone, Draco swallowed, “Sanctimonia Vincet Semper.”
“Yes, Purity Will Always Conquer. Just like Toujours Pur… it doesn’t mean blood superiority or power of Muggles or Muggle-born, it means Always Pure.” Narcissa wiped a single tear from her cheek, “To my shame in allowing them to mark you, I destroyed that.”
Catching his mother’s hand, Draco caught her other shoulder until he turned her to face him, “and in doing so, allowed us both a second chance to get it right. If you hadn’t, Harry may not have survived to do whatever he did.”
A wan flicker of a smile crossed Narcissa's face before it fell, “Be that as it may, I’ll feel guilty about what I allowed to happen for some time.”
Not arguing, as he understood the sentiment perfectly, Draco nodded to the faintly glowing stone, “So what do I do?”
“You must slice your palm and set it on the stone.” The subdued response came a second before a sheathed Athame was presented, “Upon my conception of you, I was escorted through the Malfoy family vaults and given a choice of a gift.” She caressed the sheath, a beautifully tooled leather case, a haunted look in her eyes, “out of everything, this called to me, though neither Abraxas nor your father could tell me whose it was, only that I was the first in four generations to touch it as it violently rejected anyone who attempted it.” Another single tear slid down her cheek, one she didn’t bother brushing away as she met his gaze, “I think looking back on it, it’s because it was meant for you.”
“I-it’s Mithril.” It sounded stupid when he spoke out loud, but he was dumbfounded, too. “The only other piece I’ve seen is the duelling swords in the study over the fireplace.”
“Yes, your fascination with it as a child and your father’s reaction should have been a clue then, but in my naivety or upbringing, I neglected what was right before me.” The toneless quality in his mother’s voice told Draco more than he expected to hear, and his heart went out to her. He squeezed her hand, “I don’t blame you, not for my childhood, the subsequent years and experiences, or where we are now because you’re right, we have a chance at a do-over, and we’re going to do it differently this time.”
A smile tugged at Narcissa's lips before she offered the Athame again, “Then let’s do this.”
Draco took a deep breath and released his mother’s hands, brushing a kiss along her cheek before accepting the Athame. His fingers tingled immediately as magic rushed up his palm, testing and tasting. The single word, what? And who? Echoed with a childlike innocence that warred with Draco’s teaching of the family magics.
When his father assumed control of his education, Lucius drilled continuously and made no argument that the family magic was stern and unyielding, a harsh taskmaster unwilling to tolerate failure. For a time, Draco had been terrified of the family magics, always watching over his shoulder lest he be punished for not being perfect.
For all that the Malfoys were considered an ancient and noble household, the family magic had only been around since their arrival in England with William the Conqueror. In comparing it to the Black family magics, it was easy to see how much of a child it was. Even with much of the Black history obscured and lost to time, it was known and accepted that they’d been in England since the Middle Ages, but the magic itself felt older than that.
It was the juxtaposition of the heady intoxication of age and innocence. Draco lost himself in the feeling, unaware that he’d meditatively sliced his palm instinctively, and started to speak, “As Heir of the Malfoy line, pure of corruption and devote of Lady Magic, I Draconis Armand Malfoy, contest my father, Lucius Nicoli Malfoy’s status as Lord, and deem him unworthy of that and his name, judge us both, and declare and eject the traitor to our family name.”
Then, with a hitch of breath, he touched the heart stone, and the childlike feeling of excitement swelled up in him, surrounding him in a cocoon of love and acceptance. The repetition of mine reverberated through his head, only interrupted by the high-pitched scream of his father as the man in question slammed into the ritual circle.
Startled, Draco’s eyes flew open and jerked from his father to his mother, before a voice, older and more dignified, spoke, “It's been many years since one of pure intent has summoned us, you lead by blood and right. Would you have us do what you demand of the impure usurper?”
Flicking a glance at his mother, who stood barely daring to breathe, face an expressionless, impassive mask, Draco focused on his father and felt nothing but pity and grief for the man he could have been, “Can he be healed?”
“Of the taint?” The voice questioned and answered without waiting for a response, “No, young one, he thrives on his pedestal, unwilling to acknowledge how much it will hurt when he falls. He willingly tied his fate with that of his fathers when he knelt at the feet of an abomination.”
Swallowing his bile, Draco nodded, “Then it is for you to decide. He wronged you before I was even born.”
Lucius stopped screaming mid-pitch, eyes widening in growing horror and rage. “You would- “
“NO!” The voice boomed, echoing around the room, making Lucius flinch, cracking his head on the stone floor, “No, Lucius, son of Abraxas, no. You no longer have the right to berate Draconis, you’ve known since his birth we wanted him, our one and only communication with you. You refused, unwilling to hold stewardship and give up the perceived power you thought you held, that was your undoing.”
A rumbling filled the room, overcoming the sharp panting that Lucius was letting out, as his back arched off the floor, mouth dropping open in a soundless scream.
The signet ring ripped off his father’s finger and flew towards Draco, who caught it with a heavy heart, fisting his hand around it as he watched his father suffer the punishment he’d decreed.
It lasted no time, yet felt like forever, but when it was done, the former Lucius Malfoy lay panting weakly on the floor, long, trait-marked white-blond hair a dull straw colour, matted and clumped together with sweat. The pale grey eyes had changed to a swamp brown colour, which was now set in an age-lined face as if magic had kept him young.
Given what Draco knew of his father, he wouldn’t be surprised if his father had participated in a black magic ritual or two during the last war.
After a few minutes of silence, the voice spoke again, “Young lord, it is done, do what you will. He is of no blood or name anymore. Marked with the brand of a traitor as of old, his name is Lucius Sine Nomine. If you have questions, call Armand, and I will answer.”
Draco nodded, not responding as he closed his eyes, sliding into the wards with ease, and then, with a flick, banished Lucius from the grounds, using the runic symbol his ancestors had burnt into Lucius' back as the key to lock him out permanently.
When he opened his eyes, he took a measured breath before looking at his mother and waiting for her response.
It wasn’t exactly a surprise when a single tear rolled down her cheek, along with her whispered confession, “The marriage bond is gone.”
Draco waited to see if she would add anything before prodding her gently, “Is it gone or faded like a death?”
A frown marred Narcissa's face, and she swallowed hard, “death. I’m a widow, at least according to magic.”
Not relaxing at all, Draco rolled the family ring in his hand and then set it on the heart stone, tapping it with his wand.
“What are you doing?” Narcissa asked in confusion.
“Asking the family magics to cleanse it, no telling what Lucius infected it with.” He glanced towards his mother, who moved to stand beside him. “Would it have been easier if he’d died?”
Shrugging helplessly, Narcissa sighed, “I honestly don’t know. Riddle won’t be pleased either way. Lucius has no access to the home, money, or influence; he’s a paperweight now, even more so than Wormtail ever was.”
“I almost wish the rat were here. I’d hand-deliver Peter to Potter as a goodwill offering,” Draco muttered, watching the ring turn slowly, circling what looked like a miniature sun.
“It’s something we can add to our list of possibilities, but I think I need to purge my rooms and have some tea. You need to contact Gringotts and schedule an appointment with the account manager.”
Making a face, Draco nodded, “Maybe I’ll request a meeting with Ragnok. It might make relations better, giving this sort of news to the head.”
Narcissa paused and nodded, “That’s a good idea. Fostering a positive relationship with the Dverger will be important moving forward.” Draco felt her eyes on him, but he focused on the ring. “Do you wish me to write Lord Black?”
Eyes fluttering closed, Draco shook his head, “Not yet.” He held a hand up when his mother drew in a breath as if to argue, “I know we must, and we will. Let’s see what news is reported from the trial today and then plan, alright?”
Releasing a sigh, Narcissa nodded, “Very well, it might be a good idea to give you both a few days to adjust.”
Snorting at the pointed barb, Draco heard his mother leave, humming a haunting melody under her breath, while Draco focused on the ring, thinking of all it represented, already wondering if he’d made the right choice.
***