Lucretia Black followed behind Arcturus. She was Orion's sister, married to Ignatius Prewett. Small in stature, wrapped in dark robes, her hair gone fully grey, she shared perhaps half of Orion's features, though her eyes were far gentler than his. She came to Walburga's side and pressed her arm lightly, saying nothing.
Narcissa trailed her parents. She spotted Regulus. Their eyes met, she gave a small nod, then looked away.
Lucius Malfoy walked a step behind her, platinum hair falling to his shoulders.
Abraxas Malfoy came last, hair silvered, stride steady, posture rigid. His face bore its share of wrinkles, but his eyes held no cloudiness at all. Bright, sharp, and he walked with more vigor than Lucius. His gaze traveled from the top of the graveyard to the bottom, lingered on Pollux's grave, then withdrew.
He passed Lucius and went straight to Orion, exchanging a few quiet words. The two Heads of House stood together, one dark-haired and in his prime, the other white-haired but keen. Orion nodded. Abraxas nodded back and clapped his arm.
Between two Heads of House of the same generation, at a funeral, there was little that needed saying, and no reason to say more. Orion needed no comforting.
Regulus watched Abraxas's retreating back.
The old man's got plenty of life in him. Looks sturdier than he did at the Christmas banquet.
He looked away. Abraxas was a skilled wizard of the old guard. A glance was enough. Staring got noticed.
The Rosiers arrived too. But no one from the Lestranges. No Bella. Andromeda hadn't come either.
Everyone who should be there had arrived.
A stretch of silence. Then the ceremony began.
Arcturus Black III stepped to the head of the grave. He would preside.
Pollux's coffin hovered above the pit. Yew wood, cut from the same stock as the trees surrounding the graveyard. When the Blacks first chose this ground, they planted the first yews. Every generation since had planted more. The oldest trees had grown for a thousand years; even the newest counted decades. Each yew here corresponded to a Black, and when one of them passed, a tree was taken for the coffin.
In wizarding tradition, yew stood for death and rebirth. For eternity. Death took the person, but the family's trees remained, and so the Blacks remained.
Arcturus raised his wand and began drawing runes above the coffin. Silver-grey light streamed from the tip, condensed into shapes in the air, and settled one by one into the wood. With each rune that landed, the coffin's glow brightened another degree. The new runes joined the ones already carved there, linking into a greater array that covered the entire lid.
When he finished, Arcturus lowered his wand, straightened, and began to chant.
His voice was deep, the words Old English, syllables echoing beneath the canopy. The incantation ran long, carrying the cadence of prayer. The yews threw the sound back, and the echoes layered over each new syllable, folding and building until the chant filled the whole graveyard.
Its meaning: let the departed walk on bravely, and do not look back.
Arcturus's voice rolled through the graveyard, and the runes on the coffin brightened by degrees, silver-grey to silver-white, silver-white to blazing white. The light was warm, utterly unlike the atmosphere of the place, carrying a comfort that resisted naming.
Brighter and brighter it grew, spilling off the coffin's surface, washing over the ground, turning the centuries-old moss on the surrounding headstones a silvery green until the whole graveyard lay wrapped in warm light.
It held for perhaps a dozen seconds. Then the radiance drew inward, starting from the outermost ring, runes dimming one after another, sinking back to their first faint silver-grey.
Arcturus stepped forward, and his voice carried again: "The family's magic passes on unbroken. It does not end with the passing of one."
He moved to the coffin's side and laid his right hand on it, feeding in a thread of magic. The runes flared once.
One by one, the members of the family approached.
Orion went first, standing at the coffin, right hand on the wood, palm pressed to the runes. They flared, he withdrew his hand and returned to his place.
Then Walburga. Her eyes stayed closed, her magic light and gentle. She stood a long time, and the runes glowed a long time.
Then Cygnus Black III. Lucretia. Druella. Narcissa. Then Regulus.
He stepped up and laid his right hand on the coffin.
The yew was cool and smooth, and through it he could feel what remained inside. Pollux's magic lingered still, faint, nearly dispersed, but traceable.
He fed in a wisp of his own. The runes lit, silver-grey light flowing for an instant between his palm and the wood, then dimming.
He withdrew his hand and stepped back.
Sirius went last. His hand touched the coffin and pulled away almost at once, quick as if the wood had burned him. The runes flickered, and before the glow even finished he'd already drawn back, face blank, hand returning to his pocket.
The family had all taken their turn.
Arcturus lifted his wand slightly. The coffin drifted over the pit and began its slow descent, sinking gradually into the earth. Soil folded in from both sides and covered it.
A new headstone grew from the ground, stone rising out of the earth on its own, hardening, taking shape, the surface surfacing the name of the dead, the years of his life, and the crest of the House of Black.
Pollux Black. 1912 to 1974.
New stone, new carving, new crest, joining the row. From this day, Pollux Black rested among his ancestors.
The ceremony ended. Quiet held over the graveyard for a long while, wind threading through the gaps in the yew canopy with the rustle of leaves.
Slowly, the gathering loosened.
Blacks clustered in twos and threes, murmuring. The non-Blacks kept a tactful distance at the edges, leaving the family its space.
Narcissa came over from her parents' side, weaving past a few conversing relatives, and stopped in front of Regulus.
The last time they'd been alone together was at Hogwarts. Since the Christmas banquet, something had stood between them. Bella. The ruins of Lestrange Manor. The grey magic and green curses of that night. She had been there. She had seen all of it, two of the people she loved most tearing into each other before her eyes while she could do nothing.
They hadn't spoken privately since. No opportunity, and no idea how to speak, or what to say.
Narcissa looked at him, and her eyes held a great deal. Care, worry and a grievance she couldn't put into words.
Then she raised a hand and straightened his collar, pressing flat an edge that had turned up.
"You've lost weight," she said softly.
Regulus looked at her and smiled, the same closeness as before. "Cousin, I've been eating properly."
She studied him a moment, and a smile crept slowly to her lips.
"Is the date set?" he asked lightly.
Narcissa paused, and then her expression brightened, her whole face easing into an unconcealable happiness. "June. Lucius wants to hold it at the manor. Preparations are underway."
She began sharing details. What variety the flowers would be, how the robes hadn't been finalized, how she'd gone through the guest list three times and Lucius still didn't think it was thorough enough. Partway through she laughed at herself and shook her head. "He's more nervous than I am."
"Lucius has always been meticulous."
"Meticulous to a fault," she said, exasperation warming her voice. "He insists on picking the napkin colors himself."
Regulus listened, the corner of his mouth curving.
Narcissa was happy.
"Cousin." Regulus's tone turned serious, his voice quiet. "If anything ever happens, come to me."
Narcissa went still.
She knew he didn't mean help with wedding planning, or everyday family chatter.
She knew what he meant.
Regulus smiled, a touch of lightness returning, and tipped his chin. "You know I'm quite formidable."
She looked at him, and then laughter broke through. Relief lived in it, and that particular ease that exists only between family, once the unsaid thing has finally been said. She reached out and patted his shoulder, close as they'd ever been, and answered softly, "I know."
Then her gaze slid sideways.
Sirius stood two meters off, hands in his pockets, mouth twisted, eyes drifting skyward, wearing the expression of a man who had seen nothing and heard nothing.
Narcissa walked over to him.
Discomfort crossed his face.
Narcissa looked him up and down, then reached out and straightened his collar too.
"You've lost weight as well."
"I have not." Sirius turned his head away and leaned back, but didn't pull free.
She ignored the reaction, released him, stepped back, and measured him against Regulus with a back-and-forth glance.
"Taller again, I think?" She eyed the top of his head, smiling. "But..."
His expression turned delicate. Mouth pulling down, eyebrows climbing, he swung around and widened his eyes at her, silently transmitting his position: you'd better not say it.
Narcissa wisely said nothing, only let her mouth curve, then instructed him, "Eat properly."
"I know, I know." He muttered it, gaze wandering off, hand coming out of his pocket and shoving back in.
She watched him with a mild, forgiving warmth.
She knew what Sirius was. Choosing Gryffindor, fighting the family, forever impatient, forever wanting out. But he was still her little cousin. And she'd noticed that things between him and Regulus were not what they used to be.
So Narcissa had warmed to Sirius too. Because of Regulus. Because of Black.
Watching from the side, Regulus's mouth lifted slightly.
Then someone approached.
Lucius Malfoy had been standing not far off. Seeing Narcissa talking with the brothers, he hadn't come over, giving them their space. Now that her conversation had wound down, he walked up.
He extended his right hand, no reserve, his whole face amiable. "Regulus."
Regulus took it. "Lucius."
They stood beneath the yews in the dim light, the Blacks still murmuring in the distance.
Lucius released his grip, glanced toward Narcissa, then back. "There's something I'd like to discuss with you."