Blackwood Castle was an entirely different beast tonight. Though formally called a castle by ancient decree, the estate was a sprawling, monumental mansion that was vast enough to swallow a small village and easily house the dozens of high-society guests currently drifting through its grand halls.
Tonight, the mansion screamed opulence, ancient power, and boundless wealth. The theme for the evening "Winter Frost" executed with a level of magical precision that left the arriving guests in absolute awe.
Massive, enchanted chandeliers crafted from eternal ice hung from the vaulted ceilings, casting a brilliant, diamond-like refraction across the crowds below. Frost patterns danced intricately along the dark wood paneling of the walls, moving in time with the soft, classical waltz echoing from the orchestra. The air itself carried a crisp, invigorating chill that stopped just short of being cold, keeping the atmosphere sharp and magical.
The ballroom was a sea of white and blue, velvet, silk, and glittering jewels. Nobility mingled seamlessly with high-ranking Ministry officials, none more conspicuous than Cornelius Fudge. The Minister of Magic was practically giddy, puffing his chest out and floating from group to group, ecstatic to have secured an invitation to an event that firmly cemented his own political importance.
Up on the second floor, hidden behind windows warded to look like ordinary glass from below, was a private gallery. One only the Black family could see out of, and no one below could see into. From it, they watched the people beneath them with the level of scrutiny who had never once had to worry about being watched in return.
Rigel, Corvus, Lyra, Alphard, and Draco were noticeably absent from the gallery tonight. Strictly speaking, children under the age of eleven were not supposed to attend high-society galas anyway, but the entire flock had been safely left behind at Blacktide under Esmeralda's capable care due to a sudden outbreak of a wizarding cold.
It had all started when little Alphard decided it was a splendid idea to rub fresh snow directly into his face during their afternoon play—a bout of mischief that quickly trickled down to every single child in the castle.
It certainly didn't help matters when Esme discovered a family of shivering Kneazle kittens tucked snugly under Corvus's bed. Corvus reluctantly admitted he had smuggled them inside because "it was far too cold for them outside," completely unaware that their enchanted dander would trigger a fierce allergic reaction in Rigel.
Between sneezing fits, sparkling coughs, and swollen eyes, the dual outbreak left Esme with no choice. For the very first time since arriving at Blacktide, Rigel and Corvus had to sleep in separate bedrooms to recover. Both boys were deeply upset about the arrangement, sulking under their respective duvets in miserable, lonely silence.
Because of the sudden bout of sneezes and colorful spark-coughs, Narcissa had been hastily relocated away from the children to safeguard her pregnancy. She now rested in a plush armchair inside the gallery alongside the rest of the family. Though she was expected to make a brief appearance down on the ballroom floor to satisfy high-society expectations, no one intended for her to stay long before slipping away for much-needed rest.
Dora peeked through the arched window, glancing back and forth nervously at the crowds swirling on the dancefloor below. She looked entirely unrecognizable. The spiky, neon-pink hair she usually wore as a badge of honor was gone, replaced by a cascade of thick, wavy black hair that fell past her shoulders. Her dark eyes had been morphed into the striking, stormy grey typical of the classic Black family features.
Dressed in a heavily ornate, deep sapphire gown that felt far too tight and far too restrictive, she looked every bit the tragic, aristocratic pureblood maiden. She was trying her absolute best to hide her nervousness, twisting a small lace handkerchief until her knuckles turned white.
"Nervous, Dora?" Sirius asked softly from behind her, leaning back against the gallery barrier with his hands tucked in his pockets.
He was dressed formally in tailored, dark dragon-hide robes—impeccably sharp and fitting for an heir of the house yet completely stripped of the heavy silver thread and ostentatious jewelry the rest of the aristocrats favored. He wore the aristocratic expectations naturally but effortlessly shrugged off their stuffiness.
She whipped around, her dark grey eyes flashing with frustration. "Of course I'm nervous, Sirius! Look at me—I'm wearing enough corset to stop a Bludger, and I'm hiding the face I've had my entire life! Why do I even have to do this? I don't want to do this."
"Because you are young girl, and far too reckless to understand the snakes swimming in that room," Lord Arcturus's gravelly voice cut through the air. He didn't turn from his vantage point at the center, but his posture was rigid, imposing as ever.
He tapped his heavy silver cane against the stone floor with a sharp clack.
"A true Metamorphmagus is a rarity in the wizarding world. A prize for dark minds to covet or a weapon for political vultures to control," Arcturus stated coolly, turning his stern, storm-grey eyes upon her. "If high society sees you as a clumsy half-blood child with wild pink hair, they will mark you as vulnerable. But if they see a proper daughter of the House of Black—poised, guarded, and backed by our full weight—they will think twice before attempting to cross you."
Dora swallowed hard, looking down at her gloved hands as the true weight of his words sank in.
"It is not about hiding who you are, Nymphadora," Arcturus added, his voice softening by a fraction. "It is about ensuring you survive long enough to decide who you wish to be."
"That, and when the Ministry inevitably requires you to register your gift, they won't dare try to leverage or exploit you," Sirius added smoothly, leaning closer to Dora with a knowing tilt of his head. " Bureaucrats are spineless creatures, cousin. The moment they realize touching you means picking a fight with the House of Black, your file will sit at the bottom of a very dark, very quiet drawer where no one will ever bother you."
Lord Arcturus let out a dark, approving hum, resting both hands over the silver head of his cane. "Precisely. The Ministry preys on the unprotected. When you step down into that ballroom looking every bit a daughter of this house, you are not parading for their entertainment. You are showing them who stands behind you."
Dora swallowed hard, her chest tight inside the stiff sapphire gown, but the sheer panic in her eyes slowly gave way to understanding.
"So..." she murmured, adjusting the heavy velvet lace over her wrists. "I'm not hiding. I'm putting up my shield."
"Spot on, girl," Arcturus grunted, a sharp glint in his storm-grey eyes. "Now lift your chin. A Black does not cringe before sheep."
Dora let out a long, heavy sigh, her shoulders slumping before she forcibly straightened her posture against the restrictive boning of her corset. Turning toward Sirius, she gave him an incredulous look.
"Easy for you to say, Grandfather," she muttered, before peering at her cousin. "How did you manage it when you had to do this, Sirius? How did your presentation to society go?"
Sirius winced slightly, raising a hand to rub the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. "Well… truth be told, I didn't."
Dora blinked. "What?"
"Well, after I was sorted into Gryffindor—disgracing the noble line right out of the gate—I decided to top it off by refusing to come home for the holidays," Sirius explained cheerfully. A faint snort escaped Andromeda from across the room, while Arcturus merely rumbled in his chest at the memory. "That thoroughly pissed off my mother, so I made sure to make it entirely impossible for them to drag me to formal galas after that. And, of course, I skipped my own debutant ball altogether because I ran away from home before my sixth year, so..."
Dora's eyes widened in disbelief. "So, you've never done this before?"
"Oh, I've attended plenty of formal high-society events," Sirius corrected smoothly, crossing his arms. "Though, to be fair, most of them I was undercover. In a few cases, I was acting as security."
Dora looked thoroughly bewildered. "Security?"
"I used to be an Auror, Dora. And after that, I served several years as a Custodian agent for the International Confederation of Wizards."
A stunned silence fell over the gallery.
Andromeda froze with her teacup halfway to her lips, while Narcissa's head snapped up in sheer astonishment. The rest stared at Sirius as if he had suddenly grown a second head. So that's where he had been all those years!
Only Arcturus, Marius, Ophelia, and Melania remained completely unfazed—the elders merely taking calm sips from their glasses, entirely privy to Sirius's history long before tonight.
"An Auror?" Dora muttered, a flicker of awe crossing her face before her eyes darted slyly toward the gallery exit.
Sirius caught the subtle shift in her posture instantly. "Don't even think about it."
Dora's head snapped back to him, defensive. "I wasn't thinking anything!"
"Dora, running away isn't going to fix this just because you don't want to stand in front of a room full of high-society vultures."
"You ran!" she shot back in a furious whisper. "You skipped out on all of this!"
"My situation was entirely different, and I didn't have a rare bloodline talent that required official Ministry tracking," Sirius replied smoothly, his gray eyes narrowing with solemn authority. "And frankly, the Ministry should be the absolute least of your concerns. Out in the real world, an unregistered Metamorphmagus is a goldmine. I've broken up syndicate rings that hunt down rare bloodlines to sell to the highest bidder on the international black market. I am not joking with you, Dora."
A heavy, sobering quiet settled across the gallery.
Andromeda's teacup rattled slightly as she set it back onto its saucer. All this time, her mind had been consumed by the Ministry—their regulations, their prying eyes, and their relentless bureaucracy. It had never truly occurred to her that out beyond Ministry borders lay far darker syndicates who would view her daughter not as a nuisance, but as a product.
"Merlin's beard," Andromeda breathed, her face draining of color as she reached out to grip Ted's sleeve. "I was so focused on the Ministry's leverage... I never even thought—"
"Most people don't, and frankly I wish I don't," Sirius said gently, stepping closer to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. He glanced around at the gathered family before rubbing the back of his neck with a faintly sheepish grin. "Look, you all know about Alphard already. I was so paranoid that I went ahead and stitched tracking runes into every single piece of my children's clothing."
A collective beat of astonished silence fell over the gallery. Lucius arched a sleek eyebrow, while Narcissa stared at him in utter disbelief.
"I know, I know—it's bloody overkill," Sirius held up his hands defensively, wincing slightly. "Esme's already given me a proper earful about it, believe me. But I was downright terrified. When you've seen the sort of filth that operates in the shadows, you don't take chances with your family."
"It isn't paranoia if the threat is real, Sirius," Ted said quietly, wrapping an arm around Andromeda's waist to steady her.
Arcturus gave a sharp, approving nod from his armchair, his dark grey eyes glittering with fierce pride. "Precisely. A proper head of house protects his flock by any means necessary. There is no such thing as 'overkill' when it comes to blood."
Dora took a deep, steadying breath, smooth dark waves framing her morphed visage as she smoothed down the stiff silk of her sapphire dress. "Fine."
"Good," Arcturus said, his tone instantly shifting into the crisp, unyielding cadence of formal patriarch. "Now then, Nymphadora. Do you require an escort to present you to the floor, or do you intend to make your entrance unassisted?"
Dora blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in vocabulary. "An escort?"
"It is customary for a young lady of your standing to be presented alongside a gentleman of comparable lineage and age," Arcturus explained seamlessly, resting his hands atop his silver cane. "Protocol dictates that family members may not serve as your formal escort for the opening floor rotation. Therefore, looking upon the assembly below—which of the young wizards present do you wish us to summon?"
"What?" Dora gasped, her eyes widening as she glanced between Arcturus and Sirius in sheer horror. "Summon someone? Like... pick a stranger off the floor?!"
"You are a daughter of the House of Black tonight," Narcissa chimed in with a calm, elegant smile from her armchair. "You do not ask. You select, and they obey."
"What?!"
"It doesn't have to be a wizard," Sirius smirked in a teasing way, leaning back against the rail. "If you prefer a witch... that can be arranged too."
"Do I have to?" Dora groaned, her hands clutching at the heavy silk of her skirt.
"Having an escort would also help make sure you don't fall flat on your face if you accidentally trip over your own dress," Sirius pointed out smoothly, a wicked glint in his eye.
Dora froze, a cold wave of utter mortification washing over her.
Sirius had hit her absolute worst nightmare right on the head. She was notorious for her clumsiness—tripping over flat stones, catching her heels on hem lines, and knocking over entire displays at Hogwarts. In a dress with three layers of heavy petticoats and heels, the probability of her taking a humiliating, face-first dive down the marble grand staircase wasn't just likely; it was practically guaranteed.
If she fell in front of all British high society, she wouldn't just embarrass herself, she would humiliate the noble House of Black on the very night they were presenting her to the world.
Her stomach did a sickening drop. Suddenly, having a strong arm to hold onto didn't sound like a ridiculous pureblood tradition anymore. It sounded like a life-saving tether.
Dora swallowed hard, her confidence completely evaporating as she hastily leaned back over the barrier to scan the floor below. "Right. Okay. Escort. Definitely an escort."
"A wise conclusion," Arcturus hummed in approval. "Now, look carefully. Who shall it be?"
Dora leaned further over the barrier, watching the 'Winter Frost' gala below, her expression one of utter disbelief. Her family—Sirius, now leaning back against the rail, smirking, Narcissa, offering serene but pointed commentary, and Lord Arcturus, seated and using his cane to subtly direct attention—were actively debating the credentials of the young wizards they could spy among the guests.
"What about young Montague? Fine line, that one. Slytherin, of course," Arcturus rumbled, his stormy grey eyes narrowing.
"A bit... robust, isn't he, Grandfather?" Sirius countered dryly. "And his father keeps pushing that trade deal with the Goblins. Might send the wrong message."
Narcissa added softly, "The Parkinson heir is present. He has a grace that some lack." She glanced pointedly at Sirius, who winked. "But, yes, perhaps too close to the... other side."
"This is absurd!" Dora whispered, a touch of panic creeping into her voice. "You're judging them like prizes at a crup show!".
"Welcome to the Black family, Nymphadora," Andromeda said with a dry chuckle.
Dora's eyes scanned the crowd, her stomach churning. The 'noble' families were overwhelmingly Slytherin, their heirs identifiable by the way they carried themselves—the subtle curl of the lip, the practiced, distant gaze. Hufflepuff, her own house, had the most 'commoners,'. They were wizarding families, but not noble, which meant they weren't in this room. If any of her friends—Penny Haywood, Rowan Khanna, or Leonora dela Zerna—had even been invited, they certainly weren't among this elite inner circle. They were safely back at their respective homes.
Her frown deepened as she noticed Merula Snyde and Barnaby Lee holding court nearby. They were looking predictably smug, likely having been 'judged' and approved. Merula, she noted with distaste, was giving a cold glare to anyone who wasn't currently flattering her. They bullied Dora's friends so much. The idea of selecting one of them was repulsive.
Then her gaze shifted further, scanning the edge of the dance floor. She noticed someone. Her brows instantly shot up, her frown softening into absolute disbelief. He is her age, but she knew that distinct profile and unruly fiery hair anywhere. He was from a well-known, respectable wizarding family.
"Would... would that one be acceptable?" she asked hesitantly, careful not to point directly as she motioned with her chin toward the crowd below.
Sirius, intrigued by the unexpected shift in her tone, leaned over the barrier to see who she meant. Narcissa tilted her head gracefully, while Arcturus rumbled from his chair, "Which one? Point them out, girl."
Dora gave a tiny, subtle nod toward a fiery-haired boy standing near the periphery of the floor, looking mildly uncomfortable in his formal but outdated dress robes.
Sirius traced her line of sight, paused, and then—
"Pfft!"
Sirius burst out laughing, clapping a hand over his mouth as he doubled over against the barrier.
Arcturus looked thoroughly shocked, his thick eyebrows drawing together into a fierce scowl as he squinted down at the ballroom. "Him?"
"Well... they are a respectable family, grandfather," Andromeda offered quickly, stepping up beside her daughter to try and mend things before Arcturus blew a gasket. "Sacred Twenty-Eight, after all..."
"But him?" Arcturus repeated, looking as if Dora had just suggested escorting a troll into the room. "Are you serious?"
Sirius grinned, wiping a tear of amusement from his eye. "No, that would be me, grandfather!"
"Not now, Sirius!" Andromeda hissed, glaring at him while Dora buried her face in her gloved hands, groaning softly.
*****
Down on the far edge of the ballroom, miles away from the glittering center floor, Arthur and Molly Weasley stood in uncomfortable, rigid silence. Beside them were their two eldest sons, Bill and Charlie, both of whom kept adjusting their high collars with awkward twitches.
They had never been invited to an event of this caliber before. Though the Weasleys were historically an ancient noble family—holding a marquis rank in the old ledgers—their sharp financial decline over the generations had long since ousted them from high-society circles.
When the parchment bearing the seal of the House of Black had arrived at the Burrow, Arthur and Molly's immediate instinct had been to decline. But Albus Dumbledore had personally intervened, pointing out that snubbing an official summons from Lord Arcturus Black would be taken as a direct insult—one that the ruling elite would undoubtedly use to make life even harder for their family.
And so, they had come.
Arthur's robes were a velvet dark maroon, heavily frayed around the cuffs and styled in a cut that had gone out of fashion three decades prior. Molly's gown, a deep plum silk passed down from an aunt, was clean and neatly pressed, yet noticeably faded under the brilliant refraction of the enchanted ice chandeliers. Charlie and Bill were clad in altered second-hand dress robes that hung just a bit too loosely over their growing frames. Surrounded by a sea of tailored dragon-hide, spun silver, and rare jewels, Arthur and Molly felt painfully, acutely underdressed.
They were not alone in their isolation. Clustered near a grand marble pillar on the quiet periphery of the room was the Light faction contingent. Dumbledore stood serenely in midnight-blue robes, whispering softly to James and Lily Potter, while Alastor Moody kept one whirling magical eye fixed firmly on the crowd. They remained tight-knit and defensive, perfectly aware that most of the room was dominated by the dark faction—influential Ministry department heads, wealthy aristocrats, and old-blood patriarchs who cast cold, disdainful glances toward their small enclave.
"Keep your chin up, Charlie," Arthur murmured under his breath, giving his son's shoulder a brief, reassuring squeeze as he caught a few socialites snickering in their direction. "We are here out of courtesy, nothing more."
Charlie tugged at his stiff lace cuffs, shifting his weight. "I just hope we can leave soon Dad. Everyone's looking at us like we're stray gnomes."
"Let them look," Lily Potter said softly from a few paces away, stepping closer with a warm, supportive smile. "You look very sharp, Charlie."
Before Charlie could respond, the soft pop of Apparition barely registered against the gentle waltz playing in the grand room, but the sudden, sharp silence that followed it rippled through the entire ballroom like a shockwave.
Two house-elves clad in immaculate, starched silver-and-black tea towels bearing the crest of the House of Black appeared directly in front of the small Weasley family. They bowed deeply, their long ears brushing the polished marble floor.
"Mr. Charles Weasley," the head elf announced in a clear, carrying voice that echoed across the quieted hall. "Lord Black and family request your presence on the upper floor immediately."
A collective gasp went up from the surrounding crowd.
Whispers broke out instantly, sharp and incredulous. Everyone in high society knew the rules of Blackwood Castle. The upper sanctuary was fortified by ancient, unyielding wards; guests were strictly confined to the ballroom floor, and even high-ranking Ministry officials like Cornelius Fudge hadn't been granted access. To be invited into the private gallery by Lord Black himself was an extraordinary honor—and for the house-elves to single out a young, second hand-robed Weasley boy was utterly unfathomable.
Charlie blinked, his jaw dropping as he pointed a finger at his own chest. "Me?"
Molly's protective instincts flared instantly. She stepped directly in front of her son, her hands on his shoulders as her eyes flashed with fierce motherly alarm.
"Now see here," Molly protested firmly, her voice trembling slightly under the weight of a hundred staring eyes. "What business could Lord Black possibly have with my twelve-year-old son alone? If there is something to discuss, he can address his parents!"
Arthur stepped up beside her, his expression unusually stern as he placed a supportive hand on Molly's back. "My wife is right. We appreciate the invitation, but we will not allow our child to be taken up to the private quarters without us."
The head elf remained entirely unmoved by their protest. "Lord Black's instructions are explicit, Lady Weasley. Only Mr. Charles Weasley has been summoned. The rest of the family is expected to enjoy the festivities on the floor."
"Enjoy the—?" Molly gasped, her face flushing bright red with indignation. "He is a child! We are not letting him out of our sight in a house full of—"
"Molly, quiet," Arthur cautioned gently, though his own heart was hammering against his ribs. He looked down at the house-elf. "Is he in some sort of trouble?"
"Mr. Weasley is in no danger," the elf replied stiffly, gesturing toward the sweeping marble staircase with a polite, unwavering arm. "However, Lord Black does not like to be kept waiting. If you would please come with us, young sir."
Lily Potter exchanged a worried glance with James, while Alastor Moody's magical eye whirled wildly, scanning the upper gallery for any signs of movement. Dumbledore, however, stepped forward with a serene smile, resting a gentle hand on Arthur's arm.
"Arthur, Molly," Dumbledore murmured softly, his blue eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles. "Lord Arcturus Black is many things, but he is a stickler for bloodline protocol. He would not bring harm to a guest under his own roof—especially not a young man of noble lineage. Go on, Charlie. It will be alright."
Charlie swallowed hard, looking between his terrified mother, his apprehensive father, and the grand, looming staircase. "It's alright, Mum. I'll go see what he wants."
"Charlie, no—" Molly whispered, but Charlie gave her hand a brief, reassuring squeeze before stepping past her.
Under the stunned, bewildered gazes of the entire wizarding elite—and the furious, suspicious glares of the Slytherin socialites—the young Gryffindor followed the house-elves toward the warded staircase, embarking on his long climb up to the Black family's inner sanctum.