The weeks following the Meadowes murders brought a subdued atmosphere to Hogwarts. Teachers spoke in hushed tones between classes, prefects enforced curfew with renewed vigilance, and the Daily Prophet arrived each morning to be frantically scanned for news of further attacks.
For most students, the distant violence remained abstract—concerning but removed from daily life. For Slytherin House, however, the war's progression sparked heated private debates in dormitories and whispered conversations in shadowed corners of the common room.
I observed it all with the analytical detachment my unique position required. My knowledge of how events should unfold provided context, but I quickly realized the books had presented a simplified version of the First Wizarding War. The reality was messier, more complex, with shifting allegiances and murky motivations that defied neat categorization into "light" and "dark."
"Heard they found two more bodies in Manchester," Rosier commented one morning at breakfast, spreading marmalade on his toast with disturbing casualness. "Muggle family living next door to a wizarding household. Message carved into the wall: 'Proximity is contamination.'"
"Not in the Prophet," Rookwood noted, scanning the newspaper.
"Of course not," Rosier scoffed. "Father says the Ministry's suppressing half the incidents. Bad for morale."
Barty, who had gradually found his place in our dormitory hierarchy, looked distinctly uncomfortable. "My father says the opposite—that rumors exaggerate the scope of attacks."
"Your father," Rosier said with deliberate emphasis, "is part of the suppression."
I intervened before the conversation could escalate. "Both perspectives likely contain partial truths. The Ministry minimizes while rumors expand. Reality lies somewhere between."
This diplomatic observation earned appreciative nods from the others, reinforcing the careful reputation I'd been cultivating: thoughtful, politically neutral, focused on facts rather than ideology. It was a precarious balance—showing enough pureblood sensibility to avoid suspicion while subtly questioning the more extreme prejudices.
Regulus, who had been silently buttering a scone beside me, finally spoke. "I received a letter from Mother yesterday. She says our cousin Bellatrix is engaged to Rodolphus Lestrange." He glanced at me. "Did Narcissa tell you?"
"Not yet," I replied, though the news was expected. Bellatrix Lestrange would become one of Voldemort's most fanatical followers, responsible for countless atrocities including torturing the Longbottoms to insanity. Currently, she was likely already in his service, though not yet with the maniacal devotion she would later develop.
"Mother is hosting an engagement celebration at Christmas," Regulus continued. "We're expected to attend, of course."
The holiday would provide my first adult encounter with Bellatrix since my rebirth, as well as potential meetings with other future Death Eaters. I nodded, mentally preparing for the complex navigation such gatherings would require.
"Will Andromeda be invited?" I asked, knowing the answer but wanting to gauge Regulus's reaction to the recently disowned sister of Bellatrix and Narcissa.
His expression tightened. "After marrying that Muggle-born? Certainly not. She's no longer family."
"Yet she carries the same blood as Bellatrix," I observed neutrally. "Magic doesn't disappear because of marriage choices."
Barty looked up with interest, while Rosier and Rookwood exchanged glances.
"It's not about her magic," Regulus replied, lowering his voice. "It's about loyalty to our kind. Choosing a Muggle-born over suitable matches dishonors centuries of magical heritage."
I merely nodded, letting the matter drop while noting that Regulus recited the family doctrine without the visceral disgust that true prejudice would evoke. His beliefs weren't yet crystallized—they were inherited rather than internalized. There might still be hope for steering him away from the path that would lead to his premature death.
The arrival of the morning owl post interrupted further discussion. A handsome tawny owl swooped down to deliver a sealed parchment to me, the heavy Black family crest stamped in the wax.
"Father's handwriting," I noted, breaking the seal carefully. Inside was a brief message confirming Christmas arrangements and, more interestingly, inquiring about my academic progress with particular emphasis on Defense Against the Dark Arts—a subject where The Serpent's Fang's affinity for combat magic gave me a natural advantage.
"My father asks the same," Regulus said, reading his own letter. "Seems they're both especially interested in Defense this term."
I understood the subtext. Our fathers weren't merely showing parental concern for our education; they were gauging our potential usefulness in the growing conflict. Children from prominent pureblood families were already being assessed as future assets in Voldemort's cause.
"We have Defense this morning," I remarked, folding the letter away. "With the Gryffindors."
Regulus grimaced. "With Sirius, you mean."
"And the rest of his house," I agreed mildly. "It should be... instructive."
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom on the third floor featured windows that faced the Forbidden Forest, casting dappled morning light across rows of desks. Professor Heathcliff Harbinger—a former Auror with a dramatic scar bisecting his right cheek—had arranged the seating with Slytherins on one side and Gryffindors on the other, an organizational choice that seemed designed to emphasize house rivalry rather than alleviate it.
"Wands out, books away," he announced as we entered, his voice carrying the clipped precision of someone accustomed to command. "Today we begin practical application of defensive magic."
A ripple of excitement passed through both houses. Thus far, Defense had consisted primarily of theoretical discussions and identifying dark creatures in textbooks. The prospect of actual spellcasting had everyone straightening in their seats.
"But first," Harbinger continued, "a question for you all. What distinguishes defensive magic from offensive? Black—Corvus, not Sirius," he clarified with a gesture toward me, "your thoughts?"
All eyes turned my way, including Sirius's from across the room. I considered my response carefully, aware that my answer would position me politically in the eyes of both students and professor.
"Intent forms the primary distinction," I replied. "The same spell can defend or attack depending on the caster's purpose. Stupefy can incapacitate an attacker or initiate an unprovoked assault."
Harbinger nodded slowly. "Five points to Slytherin for a nuanced answer. Intent matters, certainly." He paced the front of the classroom. "Anyone else? Potter?"
James Potter, his dark hair already displaying the characteristic untidiness that his son would inherit, grinned with confident enthusiasm. "Defensive magic protects yourself or others. Offensive magic harms or controls."
"A more conventional distinction," Harbinger acknowledged. "Five points to Gryffindor as well. The reality, students, encompasses both perspectives. The legal classification system used by the Ministry categorizes spells based on their most common applications, but as Mr. Black correctly noted, intent transforms magic's nature."
He flicked his wand, and the blackboard filled with a diagram showing overlapping circles labeled "Defensive," "Neutral," and "Offensive."
"Most spells exist in multiple categories simultaneously," he explained. "Today, we'll practice one that is primarily defensive but can be adapted for offense if necessary: the Knockback Jinx, Flipendo."
For the next half hour, Harbinger demonstrated the spell's mechanics—the sharp jabbing wand motion, the precise pronunciation, and the controlled force needed to repel an opponent without causing serious harm. When he finally paired us for practice, I was unsurprised to find myself matched with Sirius.
"Deliberate, don't you think?" Sirius murmured as we took positions at the back of the classroom. "Harbinger putting the Black cousins together? Probably expecting a family duel."
"Then let's disappoint him," I suggested quietly. "Professional practice only, no house rivalry."
Sirius raised an eyebrow, a hint of approval beneath his surprise. "Alright, cousin. You first."
I raised The Serpent's Fang, feeling it warm eagerly in my palm. This was the type of magic it had been created for—direct, forceful, with potential for combat application. I needed to be careful not to reveal its full power.
"Flipendo," I cast, deliberately moderating the spell's strength while maintaining proper form.
A jet of blue light struck Sirius squarely in the chest, pushing him back several steps but not knocking him down as it might have at full power. He regained his balance quickly, nodding with appreciation for my control.
"Nice one. My turn." He raised his own wand—cypress wood with dragon heartstring, I recalled from somewhere in the books—and mirrored my restraint. "Flipendo!"
His spell hit my hastily raised Shield Charm, dissipating against the invisible barrier. Sirius's eyes widened.
"Protego?" he said, impressed. "That's third-year material."
I lowered my wand, realizing my mistake. I'd reacted instinctively with more advanced magic than a first-year should know. "Narcissa taught me the basics this summer," I improvised. "I haven't mastered it yet."
"Could've fooled me," Sirius replied, but before he could question further, Professor Harbinger approached our corner.
"Well executed, Mr. Black," he said, and both Sirius and I turned before realizing he meant me. "A Shield Charm is beyond first-year curriculum, but effectively demonstrated. Five points to Slytherin for advanced preparation."
He turned to Sirius. "Your Knockback Jinx shows excellent form as well, though I'd advise more wrist flexibility for increased control. Five points to Gryffindor."
As Harbinger moved to observe other pairs, Sirius leaned closer. "So, defensive prodigy, where'd you really learn that shield? Narcissa's good, but she's not teaching advanced protective magic to first-years over summer holidays."
"I read extensively," I replied with partial honesty. "And practice comes naturally with the right motivation."
"The right motivation," Sirius repeated thoughtfully. "Like growing up in the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black? Not much choice but to learn protection early there, is there?"
There was understanding in his voice—the shared experience of navigating a family where magical prowess was demanded from childhood. For a moment, I glimpsed the bond that might have existed between us under different circumstances.
"Something like that," I acknowledged. "Your turn again. Try for more power this time—I want to test the shield's limits."
We continued practicing, gradually increasing intensity while maintaining the appearance of a standard class exercise. By the end of the session, we had developed an unspoken rhythm, each push met with appropriate resistance, a dance of controlled power that drew occasional glances from Harbinger but no further comment.
As class ended, Sirius lingered while his friends waited by the door. "You should join us for flying practice sometime," he offered casually. "James is brilliant on a broom, and we're planning some... extracurricular maneuvers."
The invitation surprised me—a Slytherin being asked to join Gryffindor activities, especially by a Black who had rejected his family. "Your friends might object to my house colors."
"James judges people by their actions, not their sorting," Sirius replied. "And you're... not what I expected from Uncle Cygnus's son."
Before I could respond, Remus Lupin approached, looking slightly ill—a reminder that the full moon must be approaching. "Sirius, we need to get to Transfiguration," he said quietly, eyeing me with polite caution.
"Right," Sirius agreed. "Think about it, cousin. Saturday morning, Quidditch pitch. Informal flying session." With a casual salute, he rejoined his friends, James throwing an arm around his shoulders as they departed.
Regulus materialized at my side, his expression conflicted. "What was that about?"
"Flying practice," I said truthfully. "Sirius invited me to join their group on Saturday."
"Are you going?"
I considered the question carefully. Accepting would establish a connection to the Marauders—potential allies with significant future roles. It would also raise eyebrows in Slytherin, potentially complicating my position there.
"I might," I decided. "Knowledge of how Gryffindors think and operate could prove useful." This framing—gathering intelligence rather than forming friendships—would be more palatable to Regulus's current worldview.
He nodded slowly. "Logical approach. Though I'm not sure Mother would approve of any association with Sirius."
"What happens at Hogwarts need not feature in holiday conversation," I suggested with a slight smile. "Discretion is a family trait, after all."
For the first time since our arrival, Regulus laughed—a genuine sound untainted by the weight of expectations. "True enough, cousin. True enough."
October arrived with spectacular autumn colors transforming the Hogwarts grounds and bringing the first genuine test of my abilities in Transfiguration, where Professor McGonagall had announced practical examinations on turning matches into needles.
While I had deliberately maintained a profile of above-average but not extraordinary performance in most classes, The Serpent's Fang's affinity for transfiguration made restraint particularly challenging in McGonagall's domain. The wand seemed to anticipate the necessary magic before I even cast, humming with eagerness whenever transfiguration was required.
"Remember," McGonagall instructed as she circulated the classroom, "visualization is key. See the match becoming metal, sharpening, developing an eye. The incantation matters less than the mental transformation."
When my turn came, I grasped The Serpent's Fang and felt an immediate surge of power. Carefully modulating my intent, I performed the transfiguration with deliberate precision—not perfect, but certainly accomplished. The match silvered, tapered, and formed a serviceable needle with a small eye.
"Well done, Mr. Black," McGonagall assessed, examining my work with her characteristic thoroughness. "Clean transformation with minimal flaws. The eye could be more defined, and the tip slightly sharper, but excellent for a first-year attempt. Eight out of ten points."
I nodded acceptance of her critique, though I knew The Serpent's Fang could have produced flawless transfiguration had I fully utilized its capabilities. The wand practically vibrated with restrained power as McGonagall moved to evaluate Barty's attempt.
"Good heavens, Mr. Crouch," she exclaimed, viewing his perfect needle. "Full marks! I haven't seen such precision from a first-year in years."
Barty flushed with pleasure, his nervous demeanor momentarily replaced by quiet pride. I congratulated him sincerely, interested to observe this early manifestation of the magical talent that would later make him dangerous enough to impersonate Alastor Moody undetected.
"I've always found it easier to change things than create them," he admitted softly. "Father says transformation comes naturally to our family."
A statement with unintended prophetic weight, considering his future use of Polyjuice Potion. I filed away this insight, along with the observation that McGonagall clearly underestimated Barty's magical potential—a blind spot that would prove consequential years later.
As we packed our materials at the end of class, Professor McGonagall approached my desk. "Mr. Black, a moment, please."
Regulus hesitated, but I nodded for him to go ahead. When the classroom emptied, McGonagall regarded me with the penetrating gaze that seemed to characterize all her interactions.
"I've noticed something interesting about your transfiguration work," she began. "Your practical results, while good, don't match the theoretical understanding demonstrated in your essays."
My heart rate increased slightly. I had been careless—writing with too much advanced knowledge while keeping my practical magic deliberately restrained.
"I'm more comfortable with theory than application at this stage, Professor," I offered. "The concepts make sense intellectually, but my execution still requires development."
She studied me for a moment longer, unconvinced. "Perhaps. Or perhaps you're deliberately holding back. Your wand movements show exceptional control for a first-year—more consistent with practice than natural talent."
Sharper than I'd given her credit for, despite my foreknowledge of her perceptiveness. I decided on partial honesty.
"My father expected proficiency before Hogwarts," I explained. "I had... incentives to learn control early."
Something like concern flickered across her features. "I see. The Black family's educational methods are well-known in certain circles." She sighed slightly. "Nevertheless, Mr. Black, artificial restraint in class does you no favors. I encourage you to work at your true level, whatever that may be."
"I'll consider your advice, Professor."
She nodded, then added more casually, "I understand your cousin Sirius has invited you to join an informal flying session with his friends."
I blinked, surprised at her knowledge of what I'd considered a private conversation. "Word travels quickly."
"Hogwarts has few secrets from its faculty," she replied with the faintest hint of amusement. "I merely wished to say that inter-house friendships are to be encouraged, particularly in... turbulent times."
The subtle encouragement was unexpected. McGonagall, like Dumbledore, recognized the value of bridges between houses traditionally at odds—especially given the growing external conflict that would eventually require unified resistance.
"Thank you, Professor. I'm still considering the invitation."
"Very well." She gestured toward the door. "You'd best hurry to your next class. Professor Slughorn dislikes tardiness, even from his favored students."
As I departed, the implications of McGonagall's interest settled into place. The teachers were watching closely, identifying students with potential—both for achievement and for recruitment to either side of the coming war. My balanced performance had attracted attention rather than deflecting it, though not necessarily in a negative way.
I would need to be more careful, or perhaps, as McGonagall suggested, stop pretending to be less than I was. The path of mediocrity clearly wasn't working as intended.
Saturday morning dawned clear and cool—perfect conditions for flying. After breakfast, I found myself walking toward the Quidditch pitch, The Serpent's Fang secure in its holster and a borrowed school broom over my shoulder.
I had ultimately decided to accept Sirius's invitation, though I'd told Regulus I was going to practice independently. He had seemed relieved to avoid the potential conflict of seeing his estranged brother, opting instead to spend the morning in the library with Barty, who was helping him with Charms work.
The pitch was empty except for four figures zooming through the air—the Marauders, already engaged in what appeared to be a modified game of catch with an enchanted ball that changed direction unpredictably. I watched for a moment, appreciating their natural coordination and the easy camaraderie that defined their friendship.
Sirius spotted me first, breaking away from their game to descend in a steep dive that he pulled out of with impressive precision.
"You came!" he greeted, genuine pleasure evident in his voice. "Wasn't sure you would, being the proper Slytherin heir and all."
"Curiosity overcame propriety," I replied with a slight smile. "Though if Regulus reports me to our parents, I'll deny everything."
Sirius laughed. "Family survival tactics 101. Come on, I'll introduce you properly."
The other three had landed nearby, watching our interaction with varying degrees of interest and suspicion. James Potter stood tallest, his posture conveying natural confidence and athletic grace. Beside him, Remus Lupin looked tired but alert, his watchful eyes missing nothing. Peter Pettigrew hung slightly back, uncertain but eager to follow his friends' lead.
"Everyone, this is my cousin Corvus," Sirius announced. "Corvus, meet the misfits—James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew."
"The infamous Marauders," I acknowledged with a nod, then caught myself—that name wasn't public yet, if they'd even adopted it this early.
James raised an eyebrow. "Marauders? I like that. Has a troublemaking ring to it, doesn't it, lads?"
"Better than 'those Gryffindor menaces' that Filch calls us," Peter agreed eagerly.
Remus studied me with intelligent eyes. "You're not what I expected from Sirius's descriptions of his family."
"Sirius has a flair for dramatic exaggeration," I observed dryly. "Not all Blacks fit the same mold."
"Clearly," James replied, twirling his broom with casual expertise. "Sirius says you've got some flying skill. Care to show us?"
It was a test, of course. I mounted the borrowed broom—a serviceable but uninspiring Cleansweep Four—and kicked off, rising smoothly into the morning air. Flying came naturally in this body, muscle memory from childhood lessons making up for my previous life's inexperience.
I executed a series of basic maneuvers, adding a few more challenging turns and a decent dive to demonstrate competence without showing off. The truth was, I enjoyed flying more than I'd anticipated—the freedom of movement, the wind rushing past, the temporary escape from earthbound concerns.
James watched with the critical eye of a natural Quidditch talent. "Not bad for a first-year," he called as I returned to their level. "Good instincts, decent balance."
Coming from the boy who would become one of Gryffindor's star Chasers, it was significant praise.
"Thanks. I know enough to recognize I'm watching a future Quidditch Captain," I replied, nodding at James.
He grinned, pleased by the accurate assessment of his ambitions. "Planning to try out next year? Slytherin could use decent flyers."
"Perhaps. For now, I'm focusing on academics."
Sirius snorted. "Always the perfect student. Come on, join our game—enchanted Quaffle, basic rules, no bludgers because Remus claims they give him 'unnecessary stress.'"
"They actively try to cause bodily harm," Remus protested mildly. "That seems reasonable to avoid during casual play."
For the next hour, I participated in their improvised game, gradually relaxing into the simple joy of flying and competitive play. The Marauders operated with the efficient communication of those who instinctively understood each other's movements, but they adjusted to include me with surprising ease.
During a water break, while James and Peter debated a contested point, Remus approached me with quiet deliberation.
"You're different around them," he observed, nodding toward Slytherin Tower visible in the distance. "More genuine, I think."
His perceptiveness was unsettling. "Different circumstances call for different versions of ourselves," I replied carefully.
"True enough," he agreed with a weariness beyond his years—the burden of lycanthropy already teaching him about masks and segregated identities. "But it's worth considering which version brings you actual happiness."
Before I could respond, a commotion from the castle caught our attention. A group of students was running toward the Quidditch pitch, their urgent movements suggesting something beyond normal weekend enthusiasm.
"What's happening?" James called, shielding his eyes against the morning sun.
The lead runner—a Hufflepuff prefect I recognized from Herbology—reached us breathlessly. "Attack," he gasped. "London... Diagon Alley... they're saying dozens killed."
My blood ran cold. The First Wizarding War had featured numerous attacks, but a major assault on Diagon Alley didn't align with my timeline knowledge. Something had changed.
"When?" I demanded, sudden intensity causing the prefect to step back.
"This morning," he replied. "It's all over the Wireless Network. Death Eaters—they're calling them that officially now—attacked shoppers. The Dark Mark is over half the alley."
Sirius's face had gone pale beneath his tan. "Any names of victims?"
"They're still identifying... but they're saying mostly Muggle-borns and half-bloods targeted. Some pure-bloods caught in the crossfire."
James threw down his broom. "We should get back to the castle. Dumbledore will have information."
"I need to find Regulus," I said, already moving toward the castle entrance. "And Narcissa. Make sure they're not..."
I didn't finish the thought, but Sirius nodded in understanding. Many pure-blood families had members on both sides of the conflict, creating painful divisions like the one between himself and the rest of the Blacks.
The Great Hall was chaos when we arrived—students clustered around portable wizarding wireless sets, prefects attempting to maintain order, teachers conferring urgently at the staff table. I spotted Regulus and Barty at the Slytherin table, their faces grave as they listened to an older student reading from a hastily delivered special edition of the Prophet.
"Corvus," Regulus called when he saw me. "Have you heard?"
I nodded, taking a seat beside him. "The Hufflepuff prefect told us at the pitch. Do they have casualty names yet?"
"Still coming in," Barty said, his voice tight. "My father's been called to an emergency Ministry session. They're saying it's the worst attack on magical citizens since Grindelwald's war."
Across the hall, I noticed Dumbledore entering with Professor McGonagall, their expressions solemn. The headmaster moved to the podium, and the hall gradually fell silent.
"Students," he began, his normally twinkling eyes grave, "as many of you have heard, a terrible attack has occurred in Diagon Alley this morning. While we are still gathering information, I can confirm that there have been casualties, including family members of Hogwarts students."
A wave of gasps and muffled sobs rippled through the hall.
"The following students are asked to come to my office immediately, where family representatives are waiting to speak with you." He unfolded a parchment and began reading names—about a dozen in total, from all houses. With each name, another student rose shakily and was escorted out by their Head of House.
No Slytherins were called, I noted. Either our families had been spared, or—more likely—those with Death Eater connections already knew which of their relatives had participated rather than perished.
"For all other students," Dumbledore continued, "classes will be suspended for the remainder of the day. Prefects will organize house gatherings where you may process this news together. The staff and I are available to any who need additional support."
As the hall began to clear, Narcissa appeared beside our table, her composure intact but her eyes betraying tension. "Family meeting," she said quietly. "Slytherin common room, private alcove, fifteen minutes. Pass the word to any Black cousins you see."
I nodded, understanding the gravity of her request. The Blacks were mobilizing, assessing positions, ensuring unified public response regardless of private allegiances.
"Will Sirius be included?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral.
Her expression tightened. "If you can find him and he's willing to attend, yes. Whatever our differences, information sharing benefits all."
An unexpected answer that suggested Narcissa's pragmatism exceeded her ideological commitment—a trait that would eventually lead her to lie to Voldemort about Harry Potter's death. I filed this insight away as she departed, her responsibilities as prefect calling her to organize the younger students.
"I'll find Sirius," I told Regulus. "Meet you in the common room."
He looked as though he might object, then nodded reluctantly. "Be careful what you say to him. Remember whose son you are."
The warning carried layers of meaning—family loyalty, pureblood expectations, the complex politics of our position. I merely nodded and set off to find my Gryffindor cousin.
The Marauders had gathered near the entrance hall, their usual exuberance subdued by the morning's events. Sirius straightened when he saw me approach.
"Family gathering," I said without preamble. "Slytherin common room, fifteen minutes. Narcissa specifically said you're welcome if you want information."
Surprise flickered across his features. "Narcissa invited me? To a Black family meeting in Slytherin territory?"
"Times of crisis shift priorities," I replied. "This attack changes things. The family is assessing positions."
Sirius glanced at his friends, conflict evident in his expression. James placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Go," he said firmly. "You need to know where they stand, and they need to know you're not intimidated. We'll wait for you in the Tower."
"I'll come," Sirius decided, turning back to me. "But I won't pretend to support their politics, Corvus. Not even for show."
"No one's asking you to," I assured him. "This is about information, not ideology."
As we walked toward the dungeons, Sirius studied me with renewed interest. "You're handling this very... practically for someone raised by Uncle Cygnus. I expected more pureblood rhetoric."
"Dead bodies in Diagon Alley make rhetoric rather hollow," I observed. "And I prefer forming opinions based on facts rather than family dogma."
He smiled slightly. "Definitely not what I expected from a Slytherin cousin. Maybe there's hope for the Black name yet."
If only he knew how right he was—how his godson would one day redeem the family legacy, how Regulus would die defying Voldemort, how Narcissa's lie would help save the wizarding world. But those were secrets for another time, futures that might never come to pass if my presence had already altered the timeline.
The Slytherin common room fell silent as we entered—Sirius Black, Gryffindor rebel, escorted by his first-year cousin into the heart of serpent territory. Narcissa, ever the diplomat, immediately stepped forward.
"Cousin," she greeted Sirius with formal correctness. "Thank you for coming. This way, please."
She led us to a secluded alcove where Regulus already waited with several distant Black relatives in various Hogwarts years—Lycoris, a seventh-year Ravenclaw; Arcturus, a fourth-year Slytherin; and Cassiopeia, a sixth-year Slytherin prefect. All wore the guarded expressions of those raised in a family where information was currency and weakness was unacceptable.
"I've received a letter from Bella," Narcissa began without preamble once privacy charms were in place. "The attack was not random. Specific targets were selected—blood traitors who have been vocal about Muggle-born integration, Ministry employees working on anti-discrimination legislation, and symbolic locations representing what they call 'the dilution of magical culture.'"
"They?" Sirius interrupted sharply. "You mean Death Eaters. Call them what they are, Narcissa."
She met his gaze steadily. "Yes, Death Eaters. Including, I believe though cannot confirm, our cousin Bellatrix and her fiancé."
The directness of her admission silenced even Sirius momentarily.
"Why tell us this?" Arcturus asked, voicing the question hanging in the air. "Some here might have sympathies that don't align with such information sharing."
"Because," Narcissa replied coolly, "whatever our individual politics, we are Blacks first. The family is entering dangerous waters, taking sides in a conflict that will fundamentally reshape our world. Each of us must make choices knowing the full context of what those choices mean."
"You're suggesting we might choose differently than our parents," Cassiopeia observed with narrowed eyes.
"I'm stating that informed choices are the only ones worth making," Narcissa corrected. "And that family protection extends to all Blacks, regardless of house affiliation or political stance."
Her gaze lingered meaningfully on Sirius, who appeared stunned by this unexpected overture.
"The attack today will accelerate everything," I said, drawing attention for the first time. "The Ministry will implement new security measures. Dumbledore will likely formalize whatever resistance he's been organizing. And those supporting the Death Eaters will face pressure to declare themselves more openly."
Narcissa nodded approvingly at my analysis. "Precisely. Which means each of us, as representatives of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, must consider our positions carefully. Our family's influence spans both sides of this conflict, which gives us unique protection—and unique vulnerability."
"You're saying we should hedge our bets," Sirius summarized bluntly. "Keep family members on opposite sides as insurance."
"I'm saying," Narcissa replied with exaggerated patience, "that family transcends politics, especially in war. Whatever paths we individually choose, we do not target blood."
It was a remarkable statement from a future Death Eater's wife—essentially establishing a Black family non-aggression pact regardless of which side members supported. I wondered if such an agreement had existed in the original timeline, explaining why Bellatrix never directly targeted Sirius despite his Order membership.
"I can agree to that," Sirius said finally. "I won't compromise my principles, but I've no desire to duel relatives."
"Nor I," echoed Regulus quietly, speaking for the first time.