000- prologue
October 31st, 1981,
Godric's Hollow,
third person POV,
ERB:
The Potter house was unusually quiet. The usual laughter of two children and the five adults who cared for them was nowhere to be heard. It would never be heard together again, not when two of them, Lily and James, had just been murdered in their own home.
Elizabeth Black, a three-year-old girl, whimpered quietly in the spacious kitchen cupboard. She didn't know how long she had been there, but she had heard everything. Her aunt Lily had swept her into the kitchen, practically shoving her into the cupboard before racing upstairs with baby Harry in her arms. Elizabeth heard Uncle James open the front door. She heard the stranger's voice shout those terrible words: "Avada Kedavra!" She heard her uncle's body hit the floor with a dull thud.
She liked to believe she wasn't stupid, even at three. She knew who the stranger was. She had heard Daddy talking about him with Uncle James, Uncle Moony, and Wormtail. Wormtail, what a terrible secret-keeper he was! The man whose name must not be spoken had been in Aunt Lily's house. He had made them fall into the forever-sleep! What a meanie! What a big, scary meanie!
Elizabeth hugged herself tighter, trying to stop the trembling. She would tell on him when Daddy came!
She flinched when the front door burst open again, immediately covering her mouth. What if the bad man had come back for her?
But the footsteps rushed toward the second floor, ignoring Uncle James's still form.
Elizabeth couldn't tell how much time passed. The person upstairs, a man, she could tell from his deep, anguished cries, seemed to stay forever. She had just begun to calm down when new footsteps thundered into the house.
"Fuck! James! JAMES!"
Her eyes widened. Daddy!
"Daddy! Daddy!" she cried, pushing open the cupboard doors. She couldn't stop the tears from coming again.
"Elizabeth!" Sirius dropped to his knees beside James's body and rushed to the kitchen, scooping her into his arms immediately. "Are you okay? Are you hurt? Oh, Merlin..." He checked her over carefully while she cried and nodded at his questions. "I'm so glad you're safe... Merlin..." He held her close, his voice breaking. "James is dead... Lily's dead... Harry... Harry!"
He adjusted Elizabeth on his hip and ran upstairs, bursting into the bedroom. He glanced at Lily's motionless form before rushing to the crib where baby Harry sat, a lightning bolt-shaped cut on his forehead.
Elizabeth stared at the strange mark. It looked like the lightning in her picture books, but red and angry.
"He's alive..." Sirius breathed in relief. As he reached for the baby, a massive figure filled the doorway.
Elizabeth was happy Harry was okay, but one word echoed in her head: dead. She didn't fully understand it, but she remembered when they said Auntie Marlene was "dead," and she never saw her again. So she knew. She would never see Uncle James or Aunt Lily again. A single tear slipped down her cheek. At least she still had Uncle Moony and Uncle Wormtail.
"Sirius! Wait!" the giant man called. "Dumbledore's told me ter take Harry ter him!"
Elizabeth's face lit up despite her tears. She knew this man! "Mister Ha-Ha-Hagrid!" she beamed, turning in her father's arms.
"Lizzie! Lovely ter see yeh, little one. How're yeh doin'?" Hagrid's voice was gentle despite his size.
Sirius set Elizabeth down and whispered in her ear, "Why don't you pack your stuffed animals and pajamas? Your birthday's tomorrow, and Atlas is waiting at home."
She nodded eagerly and ran to gather her things from the guest room.
★·.·'¯'·.·★·.·'¯'·.·★
When she returned, Hagrid was gone. So was baby Harry.
"Where's Mister Hagrid? Where's Harry?" she asked, struggling with the pronunciations.
"Hagrid took Harry to Dumbledore, sweetheart. Let's go home now. Atlas is waiting for us." Sirius took her pink backpack, his voice hollow.
"Oh..." Elizabeth's face fell. "I wanted to go with Harry."
"We'll see them another day," Sirius lied, taking her tiny hand protectively.
Elizabeth nodded and stretched her arms up. "Up?"
How could he deny her anything? She was his baby princess. Sirius sighed and lifted her into his arms. "You need to rest now."
Elizabeth closed her eyes as they left the house, never to return.
★·.·'¯'·.·★·.·'¯'·.·★
November 1st, 1981,
Ministry of Magic,
third person POV,
ERB:
Elizabeth didn't like unfriendly-looking people. She felt bad about judging them, but she couldn't help it. She also didn't like waking up in strange places.
She sat in a small, dark room beside Atlas, both of them gripping each other's hands tightly. A stern woman with sharp features sat across from them. Neither twin paid attention to what the adults were discussing. They only wanted to know where their father was.
"Atlas," the woman began with a harsh voice, "Roxaine." Both children flinched at their names. Elizabeth was confused; why was the woman using her middle name? "You'll be living with me from now on."
Elizabeth's eyes widened. She turned to Atlas, who spoke first. "W-what about Daddy?"
Elizabeth looked back at the woman, who tensed. "Your father... is unavailable to care for you. It's likely you'll never see him again."
Tears immediately filled both children's eyes. Elizabeth broke first, wailing loudly, with Atlas joining her moments later.
★·.·'¯'·.·★·.·'¯'·.·★
November 1st, 1984,
12 Grimmauld Place,
third person POV,
ERB:
Living with their grandmother wasn't as difficult as Elizabeth (or Roxaine, as the older woman insisted on calling her) had expected. The rules were stricter and the house was colder, but it was manageable. She actually enjoyed spending time with Grandmother Black, even if the etiquette lessons were deadly boring.
It was the morning of their seventh birthday. Neither twin felt much excitement anymore, knowing they'd only receive stiff, uncomfortable new clothes. They had learned not to expect much else.
The twins sat on the living room sofa. Atlas hummed softly while Roxaine leaned against his shoulder. "Grandmama isn't awake yet," she murmured, swinging her feet. "Maybe we should wake her?"
"Yeah..." Atlas replied after a moment, sitting up straighter.
Roxaine stood and stretched. "I'll go," she muttered, heading upstairs.
She had been worried about their grandmother lately. The older woman had been getting sick more often, and Kreacher spent most of his time hovering nearby.
As Roxaine approached the bedroom door, dread filled her chest. Her mind went blank as she raised her hand to knock. She didn't understand why, but something felt wrong about Grandmother's condition.
Before she could knock, the door slammed open. Walburga Black stood tall before her, though Roxaine could have sworn she heard a tremor in the woman's voice. "Roxaine. Where is your brother?"
"Atlas is in the living room, Grandmother." Roxaine curtsied slightly, as she'd been taught when addressing elders or superiors.
Roxaine glimpsed into the bedroom and saw a bloodstained handkerchief on the floor. She was about to mention it when her grandmother nudged her aside.
"You two must be hungry," Walburga said quickly, closing the bedroom door behind her and changing the subject when she saw Roxaine about to speak.
"Kreacher gave us breakfast," Roxaine replied. "Don't worry about us, Grandmother. What was the handker—"
"Then we'll go out. You need new clothes." Walburga placed a firm hand on Roxaine's shoulder, guiding her down the hall.
Roxaine grumbled but didn't argue further. "There's a dress in Diagon Alley that was very pretty... Remember? We saw it last week."
Walburga nodded. She remembered; Roxaine hadn't stopped talking about it. "I'll buy it for you."
Roxaine's eyes sparkled. "Really?!" She bounced with excitement until she had to navigate the stairs carefully. "Thank you, Grandmama!"
She practically skipped to the living room where Atlas sat stiffly, staring ahead.
"We're going shopping, Atlas! Get your coat and shoes!" Roxaine said excitedly, tying her shoelaces; a skill she'd only recently mastered.
Atlas sighed and stood, looking directly at their grandmother. "She wants to shop for her birthday," he said, putting on his coat. "I want to see our dad."
"We can't see Daddy. He's in Azkaban," Roxaine said absently, unaware of the tension building between Atlas and their grandmother.
"He's our father and he's innocent. We should be able to visit him," Atlas replied curtly, frowning.
"You will not see your father. That is final." Walburga crossed her arms. "I'll buy you a broom instead. Hurry up." She took her own coat from the hook.
Roxaine pouted. "I want a broom too! They're so cool!" She jumped up, hands on her hips.
"You're not getting a broom," Walburga replied curtly, walking toward the door.
"What? Why not?" Roxaine whined.
"It's not appropriate for a young lady to ride brooms," Walburga said firmly.
This was one thing Roxaine hated about Grimmauld Place; no brooms allowed. Her grandmother said it wasn't feminine, and no amount of begging would change her mind.
Roxaine huffed but said nothing more.
"I want to see my father," Atlas repeated, his frown deepening.
"I said no, Atlas." Walburga's patience was clearly wearing thin.
"Atlas..." Roxaine mumbled, eyeing their grandmother cautiously. "Don't push it..."
"Shut up! Don't you understand? It's not fair! Everyone else gets to spend their birthday with their parents!" Atlas screamed, tears streaming down his face as he wiped them angrily.
"Atlas." Walburga's hand moved to her wand. "Be quiet."
"No! I want to see Dad! You can't stop us!"
"Your father is imprisoned. You will not see him. That is final." Walburga opened the front door. "You're staying with Kreacher, you insolent child. Roxaine, we're leaving."
"I... but... Atlas..." Roxaine stuttered, torn between loyalty to her brother and fear of their grandmother's wrath. In the end, she followed Walburga out the door.
★·.·'¯'·.·★·.·'¯'·.·★
May 1st, 1985,
12 Grimmauld Place,
third person POV,
ERB:
Roxaine had learned not to show worry easily. Her grandmother had taught her that lesson well. "Don't be dramatic, Roxaine," the older woman would say. "It's not appropriate for a young lady to behave so scandalously." Roxaine had resisted at first, but eventually learned to comply.
Atlas wasn't as adaptable. He continued to talk back, argue, and make comments that earned him punishments. Roxaine would try to warn him, but he never listened.
The pattern had become their new normal, even as both children wondered if they would ever see their father again.
Roxaine laid on her bed with her legs crossed, humming softly as she read. It was late morning; around half past eleven, she guessed. Lunch would be ready in an hour, and she had nothing else to do. Their grandmother had grown softer with her over the years, though Atlas was a different story. He still rebelled constantly, which only made Walburga stricter with him. Because of this, the twins rarely spent time together anymore.
She sighed and closed her book, sitting on the edge of her bed. She was bored and wanted to play with Atlas. She wondered if he had any free time; they hadn't even crossed paths in at least two weeks.
Roxaine stood and walked out of her bedroom, yawning and stretching before letting out a soft huff. "Atlas?" she called, walking through the second-floor hallways while looking around for her brother.
She hummed a melody she couldn't quite place anymore. She must have heard it from Aunt Lily, who had loved to sing. Roxaine couldn't remember anything beyond the tune, though. "What a shame," she mumbled under her breath, walking slowly down the stairs.
"Atlaaas?" she called again, louder this time, as she turned the corner toward the kitchen.
"Oh." The color drained from her face at the sight before her: Atlas was curled up in the corner of the kitchen while their grandmother stood over him, wand in hand.
"Uh... hi?" she mumbled, frozen in the doorway as she looked at her brother, then at her grandmother, then back at Atlas.
"Roxaine." The older woman greeted her without flinching, then turned back to Atlas. "You should be more like your sister. Look at her; she's managed to adjust perfectly. Look at yourself, child. You're just like your father."
Atlas flinched. He knew that was meant as an insult. He looked at Roxaine, silently pleading for help.
Roxaine frowned. She knew she should defend Atlas, but that would mean punishment, and she hadn't been struck in eight months. "Uh..." She walked slowly toward them both. "Atlas... you really should stop this. It's not doing you any good."
Atlas's face crumpled with betrayal and hurt before hardening into anger. Roxaine had chosen their grandmother's side.
Walburga's lips curved in the faintest smirk.
"Is this about Father again?" Roxaine continued, her voice growing stronger. "You know he's in Azkaban. We can't see him, and... and..." She swallowed hard, glancing at her grandmother from the corner of her eye. "And he's a blood traitor. We really shouldn't want to see him. It's not... it's not right."
Walburga nodded approvingly and stepped back. "Go to your room, Atlas. You won't be having lunch today." The woman swept out of the kitchen without another word.
Roxaine released a breath she didn't know she'd been holding, closing her eyes for a moment before looking at her brother. "Atlas..."
But Atlas was already standing, his eyes blazing with fury.
"I hate you!" he screamed, storming past her and up the stairs. His bedroom door slammed with enough force to shake the walls.
★·.·'¯'·.·★·.·'¯'·.·★
May 19th, 1985,
12 Grimmauld Place,
third person POV,
ERB:
Walburga had begun to cough more, she had gotten way less strict with both children, which surprised both of them, but neither complained.
Embers crackled in the fireplace as Roxaine sat curled on the sofa, her feet tucked beneath her nightgown, a closed book resting in her lap.
She wasn't reading. She was simply listening to the silence; the grandfather clock in the hallway, the whisper of flames, and the slow, slightly labored breathing of her grandmother, who reclined in the large armchair.
Walburga was wrapped in a charcoal wool shawl. Her glassy stare had fixed on the dancing flames and hadn't moved in nearly an hour.
Roxaine said nothing. She just watched.
Until:
"Grandmother..." Her voice was barely above a whisper, almost fearful. "Did you wear braids when you were little too?"
Walburga's eyes narrowed slightly, and to Roxaine's surprise, she nodded.
"I despised them. They pulled at my scalp. My mother was gentler than the governess, at least."
Roxaine remained perfectly still; Walburga rarely spoke of the past. "Did you learn to take tea silently too?"
"At five years old. I was punished once for making a slurping sound. Mother made me repeat the entire ceremony twelve times." Walburga's voice was distant, matter-of-fact.
Silence settled between them again, but it wasn't uncomfortable; it was soft, almost tender.
"Did you like being a Black?" Roxaine asked, her voice barely audible.
Walburga looked at her. For a long moment, she didn't respond. When she finally spoke, her voice lacked its usual steel. "It's not a matter of liking it, child. It's what we are. What we must be."
Roxaine nodded solemnly, and without asking permission, she slipped from the sofa and approached the armchair. She settled at her grandmother's feet, resting her head against the older woman's knees.
Walburga didn't move. But after a moment, a weathered hand, still surprisingly strong, began stroking Roxaine's hair.
Slowly.
Clumsily.
Warmly.
"Your father never would have understood this," Walburga murmured without malice. Her voice held only distance, sadness.
"Why not?"
"Because he was soft. Foolish. A dreamer."
Roxaine didn't respond. She simply closed her eyes, and for the first time in years, Walburga told her a story, not about war, not about bloodlines or family duty. It was a story about when she was twelve and climbed out her bedroom window to watch the stars with her younger brothers.
That night, for one fleeting moment, Roxaine wasn't the carefully molded heiress or the broken child, she was simply a granddaughter resting against a dying woman's knees, and both of them, unknowing, clung to that warmth as if the world wasn't about to change... again, even if they knew it would, too soon for their liking.
★·.·'¯'·.·★·.·'¯'·.·★
May 20th, 1985,
St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries,
third person POV,
ERB:
The morning after their tender moment by the fire, everything shattered.
Roxaine woke to terrible sounds; retching, then a crash, then Kreacher's high-pitched wailing that made her cover her ears. She crept out of her room in her nightgown, her bare feet silent on the cold floor.
"Kreacher is getting help! Kreacher is calling the Healers!" the house-elf shrieked, his magic crackling through the air.
Roxaine found her grandmother collapsed in the hallway outside her bedroom, her gray nightgown stained with something dark and wet. Walburga's face was pale as parchment, her breathing shallow and rattling.
"Grandmama?" Roxaine whispered, dropping to her knees beside the older woman. "Grandmama, wake up."
Walburga's eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy. "Roxaine... child..."
"I'm here. I'm right here." Roxaine took her grandmother's cold hand, squeezing it tight. "You're going to be okay. Kreacher called for help."
The St. Mungo's emergency team arrived in a whirlwind of lime-green robes and urgent voices. They spoke in words Roxaine didn't understand: "massive internal hemorrhaging," "critical blood loss," "advanced deterioration." She pressed herself against the wall as they levitated her grandmother onto a floating stretcher.
"Is she going to die?" Roxaine asked one of the Healers, her voice small but steady.
The woman paused, her expression softening as she looked down at the composed seven-year-old with too-old eyes. "We're going to take very good care of her, sweetheart. Are your parents—"
"There's only Atlas and me," Roxaine interrupted. "He's my brother. He's upstairs."
"We'll need to contact your guardians—"
"Grandmama is our guardian." Roxaine's voice was patient, as if she were explaining something simple to a very slow adult. "There's no one else."
The Healer exchanged glances with her colleague. "Well, you can come with us to the hospital, dear. We'll sort everything out there."
★·.·'¯'·.·★·.·'¯'·.·★
May 20th - May 28th, 1985,
St. Mungo's Hospital,
Third Person POV,
E.R.B:
The hospital became Roxaine's second home.
She sat in the uncomfortable visitors' chair beside her grandmother's bed every day, her legs swinging because her feet didn't quite reach the floor. Kreacher brought her meals and fresh clothes, fussing over her like an anxious mother hen. Atlas had come once, stood awkwardly by the door for five minutes, then left without saying a word.
"He's angry," Roxaine explained to her unconscious grandmother on the third day.
"Not at you being sick. At you being... you. At me for..." She trailed off, picking at the hem of her dark green dress. "For choosing you over him."
Walburga remained still, her breathing assisted by a complex array of magical monitoring devices that hummed and chirped softly. The Healers had explained that she was very sick, that her body was failing, that they were doing everything they could to make her comfortable. Roxaine understood what they weren't saying. She wasn't stupid.
She read to her grandmother from the books Kreacher brought; Pure-Blood Directory, Magical Genealogy of Ancient Families, Proper Etiquette for Young Witches. Sometimes she just talked, telling Walburga about her dreams, about how the food at the hospital was terrible, about how she missed their evening tea times.
"I've been practicing my posture," she said on the fifth day, sitting up straighter in her chair. "Look, Grandmama. Perfect straight back, just like you taught me. The Healers say I'm very well-behaved for a little girl. They don't understand that I'm not little anymore. I can't be little anymore."
On the seventh day, Walburga's eyes opened.
"Roxaine," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"I'm here!" Roxaine jumped up, nearly knocking over her chair. "I'm right here, Grandmama. How do you feel? Do you want some water? Should I get the Healers?"
"Sit," Walburga managed, gesturing weakly to the chair. "Come... closer."
Roxaine pulled the chair right up to the bed and climbed up, kneeling on the seat so she could be at eye level with her grandmother. Walburga's hand found hers, cold and trembling but determined.
"I need to tell you something," Walburga said, each word an effort. "Something very important. Can you listen carefully?"
"I'm always a good listener," Roxaine said solemnly. "You taught me that too."
A ghost of a smile crossed Walburga's lips. "Yes, I did. My clever girl." She paused, gathering strength. "Roxaine, you are going to be the head of our family now."
"What do you mean?"
"The heir. The heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Do you know what that means?"
Roxaine frowned, thinking hard. "It means I'm in charge? Like you were in charge of me and Atlas?"
"In a way, yes. But it's more than that. It means you carry our name, our history, our responsibility. You are the last true Black, Roxaine. The last who understands what our family means."
"What about Atlas? He's a Black too."
Walburga's eyes darkened slightly. "Your brother... he may choose a different path. And your father..." She coughed, a harsh sound that made Roxaine wince. "Your father abandoned what it means to be a Black. But you... you understand. You've always understood."
"I try to be good," Roxaine said quietly. "I try to make you proud."
"You do. You always have." Walburga's grip tightened slightly. "But being the heir means more than being good. It means being strong. It means making hard choices. It means putting the family first, always."
"Even before myself?"
"Especially before yourself." Walburga's voice was growing weaker. "The individual is nothing compared to the family name. You must remember that, Roxaine. Promise me you'll remember."
"I promise, Grandmama."
"And you must remember that you are alone now. You cannot depend on anyone else. Not your brother, not your father, not anyone. You must be strong enough to carry this burden by yourself."
Roxaine's lower lip trembled slightly. "That sounds scary."
"It is scary. But you are brave. Braver than I was at your age. Braver than your father ever was." Walburga's breathing was becoming more labored. "I tried to prepare you for this. I tried to make you strong enough."
"You did," Roxaine said, even though she wasn't entirely sure what she was agreeing to. "You made me strong."
"My fierce little star," Walburga whispered. "You will survive what's coming. You will endure when others fall. The Black name lives or dies with you now."
"I won't let it die," Roxaine promised, though she didn't fully understand the weight of what she was saying. "I'll take care of it. I'll take care of everything."
Walburga's eyes were closing again, but she fought to keep them open. "I know you will. You are... you are the best thing I ever did. The only thing I did right."
"Grandmama?"
"I love you, child. In my way... I loved you both. But you... you were meant for this. You were born to carry our legacy."
The words hung in the air like a sacred oath.
★·.·'¯'·.·★·.·'¯'·.·★
May 29th, 1985,
St. Mungo's Hospital,
Third Person POV,
E.R.B:
Roxaine was eating lunch in the hospital cafeteria when Healer Matthews found her.
"Roxaine, sweetheart, I need you to come with me."
Something in the woman's tone made Roxaine's stomach drop. She left her half-eaten porridge and followed the Healer down the long corridor, her small hand gripping the woman's larger one.
"Is Grandmama worse?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
"She's... she's asking for you, dear. Only you."
Roxaine nodded. She had been expecting this moment, preparing for it in the way that children do when they've already lost too much.
The room was quieter than usual. The magical monitoring devices had been turned off, leaving only the soft sound of labored breathing. Walburga lay propped up against white pillows, her face gaunt but peaceful.
"There's my girl," she whispered as Roxaine approached the bed.
Roxaine climbed up onto the chair and took her grandmother's hand. It felt like tissue paper, delicate and cold.
"Are you dying now?" Roxaine asked, her voice matter-of-fact.
"Yes, child. Very soon."
"Will it hurt?"
"No. The Healers have made sure it won't hurt." Walburga's thumb traced over Roxaine's knuckles. "Are you afraid?"
Roxaine considered this carefully. "A little. But you taught me to be brave."
"Yes, I did. And you are brave. The bravest little girl I've ever known."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, hands clasped, watching the morning light filter through the hospital windows.
"Roxaine," Walburga said finally, "do you remember what I told you yesterday? About being the heir?"
"I remember."
"It's a big responsibility for someone so young. But you're not truly young anymore, are you? You haven't been for a long time."
Roxaine shook her head. "I stopped being little when Daddy went away."
"Yes, you did. And that's not fair, but it's the truth. Life isn't fair, especially for people like us. But we endure. We survive. We protect what matters."
"The family."
"The family. The name. The legacy."
Walburga's breathing was becoming more shallow. "You understand now why I was so strict with you? Why I had to teach you to be strong?"
"Because you knew this day would come."
"Because I knew you would be alone. And I needed to make sure you could handle it." Walburga's eyes were beginning to flutter closed. "I wasn't... I wasn't always kind to you. I know that. But everything I did was to prepare you for this moment."
"I know, Grandmama."
"You'll take care of Atlas when he comes home. Even if he doesn't want you to. Even if he hates you for it. He's still a Black. He's still family."
"I will."
"And you'll remember that you are worth more than your brother's love, more than your father's approval, more than anyone's opinion. You are the heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. That means something. That has always meant something."
Roxaine squeezed her grandmother's hand. "I'll remember."
"My precious girl," Walburga whispered, her voice barely audible now. "My little star. You were the light in this dark old house. You were the reason I could believe our family still had a future."
"Grandmama?"
"I'm proud of you. So proud. And I'm sorry... I'm sorry I couldn't give you a childhood. I'm sorry I had to make you grow up so fast."
Tears started to form in Roxaine's eyes. "It's okay. I understand now. You were protecting me."
"In the only way I knew how." Walburga's grip was weakening. "Stay strong, my dear one. Stay true to who you are. The world will try to break you, but you're unbreakable. You're a Black."
"I'm a Black," Roxaine repeated, like a prayer.
"And you're mine. You'll always be mine."
Walburga's breathing slowed, then stopped.
Roxaine sat there for a long time, holding her grandmother's hand as it grew cold. She didn't cry; ladies didn't cry, especially not in public, especially not when they had just inherited the weight of centuries.
When the Healers finally came to check on them, they found a seven-year-old girl sitting perfectly straight in her chair, her posture impeccable, her face composed.
"She's gone," Roxaine announced calmly. "Grandmama is gone."
And in that moment, childhood ended completely for Roxaine Black.
She was the heir now.
She was alone.
And she was only seven years old.
★·.·'¯'·.·★·.·'¯'·.·★
June 1985 (One Week After Walburga's Death),
Guardianship solicitor's office,
Third person POV,
E.R.B:
The solicitor's office smelled of old parchment and fear. Roxaine sat in the oversized chair with her spine perfectly straight, hands folded in her lap exactly as Walburga had taught her. She wore her black funeral dress still, the one with the high collar and long sleeves that made her look like a miniature version of her grandmother.
Atlas slouched in the chair beside her, his hair unkempt, his eyes red-rimmed from crying. He hadn't spoken to her since the funeral. He hadn't looked at her either.
"The matter of guardianship," the elderly wizard began, his voice echoing in the sterile room, "is complicated by the children's unique circumstances."
The door opened with a soft creak. Lucius Malfoy entered first, his walking stick tapping against the floor in measured rhythm. His pale eyes swept over both children with cool assessment. Behind him came Remus Lupin, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else in the world.
"Uncle Moony," Atlas whispered, his voice breaking on the familiar nickname.
Remus's face crumpled slightly. "Hello, Atlas."
Roxaine watched this exchange with calculating eyes. She said nothing.
"Mr. Malfoy," the solicitor nodded with obvious deference. "Thank you for coming."
"The Black family has long been allied with mine," Lucius said smoothly. "It would be unconscionable to allow such a noble bloodline to be... mismanaged."
His gaze lingered on Roxaine. She met his eyes steadily, unflinching.
"And you, Mr. Lupin?" The solicitor's tone was considerably less respectful. "I understand you wish to petition for guardianship as well?"
"Not for both," Remus said quietly. "I know I can't provide what might be expected for the Black heir. But Atlas..." He looked at the boy. "Your father was my best friend. I failed him once. I won't fail you."
"This is highly irregular," the solicitor muttered. "Separating twins—"
"They have different needs," Lucius interrupted. "Different... inclinations. Perhaps separate arrangements would benefit both children."
Atlas shot to his feet. "So she gets the fancy house while I—"
"While you get someone who actually cared about our father," Roxaine said calmly.
The words cut through the room like a blade. Atlas stared at her, mouth open.
"Miss Black," Lucius said, and there was something like approval in his voice. "You show remarkable maturity for your age."
Roxaine inclined her head slightly. "Thank you, Mr. Malfoy."
"Rox," Atlas whispered, and for a moment he sounded like the brother who used to comfort her during nightmares.
She looked at him then, really looked at him. His eyes were still soft, still full of hope despite everything. Still believing in fairy tales about their father's innocence and happy endings.
"You'll be happier with Lupin," she said finally. "He can give you what you need."
"And what's that?"
"The luxury of believing in heroes."
The legal proceedings passed in a blur of signatures and formal declarations. Roxaine answered questions with perfect poise, her voice never wavering. She was the heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. She would act like it.
Atlas signed his papers with shaking hands, glancing at her constantly as if waiting for her to change her mind.
She didn't.
As they prepared to leave, he approached her one last time.
"I know why you chose her," he said quietly. "Grandmother. I know you thought you were protecting us."
Roxaine's composure didn't crack. "I was protecting the family name."
"No," he said, his voice sad rather than angry. "You were protecting yourself. And I understand that. I really do. But Dad would have wanted us to protect each other."
"Our father," Roxaine corrected, "is in Azkaban for betraying his best friends. Perhaps his judgment isn't worth following."
Atlas flinched as if she'd struck him. "You don't mean that."
"I mean exactly what I say."
He stared at her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Goodbye, Roxaine."
"Goodbye, Atlas."
She watched him walk away with Lupin, his small hand disappearing into the man's larger one. She felt nothing. She was proud of feeling nothing.
"Come, Miss Black," Lucius said, his voice not unkind. "Your new life awaits."
★·.·'¯'·.·★·.·'¯'·.·★
July 1988,
Malfoy Mannor,
Third Person POV,
E.R.B:
Malfoy Manor was everything Grimmauld Place had pretended to be. Elegant. Refined. Powerful. Ten-year-old Roxaine Black had learned to navigate its marble halls with the grace of someone born to them.
She spoke three languages fluently now. She could discuss politics with Lucius's associates, play chess with strategic precision, and had never once embarrassed the Malfoy name at social functions. The nightmares had stopped. The guilt had been buried so deep she sometimes forgot it had ever existed.
"Magnificent work on your essay about bloodline preservation," Lucius said over breakfast, setting down her parchment. "Your arguments are both eloquent and logically sound."
"Thank you," Roxaine replied, cutting her food with perfect precision. "I've been reading the genealogical texts you recommended."
"Excellent. Knowledge of our heritage is crucial for someone in your position."
She nodded, taking a delicate sip of her tea. She never slurped. Ladies didn't slurp.
"I've arranged for you to meet with the Parkinsons next week," Lucius continued. "Their daughter is your age. It would be beneficial for you to form appropriate friendships."
"Of course."
The sound of running footsteps echoed through the corridor, growing closer. Eight-year-old Draco burst through the breakfast room doors, his platinum hair disheveled from sleep, still wearing his pajamas.
"Father! Roxie won't come see the new peacocks with me!" he announced, then stopped abruptly when he noticed the formal atmosphere. His shoulders straightened automatically.
"Draco," Lucius said mildly, though his lips twitched slightly. "We've discussed proper breakfast etiquette."
"Sorry, Father." Draco's cheeks flushed pink. "Good morning, Roxaine. Good morning, Father."
"Good morning, Dragon," Roxaine said, using the nickname she'd given him during his first tantrum two years ago. Something softened in her expression. "I told you I'd come after breakfast."
"But they're so pretty! And Mother said one of them might let us feed it!"
Narcissa appeared in the doorway, her long blonde hair loosely braided, wearing a simple morning gown instead of her usual elaborate robes. "Draco, you promised to wait." Her voice held gentle reproach rather than anger.
"I did wait! I waited forever!"
"Twenty minutes is hardly forever," Narcissa said, but she was smiling. She moved to ruffle his hair affectionately. "Though I suppose it feels like forever when you're excited."
Lucius set down his tea cup. "Perhaps we could all visit the peacocks after breakfast. I believe I have some time before my first appointment."
"Really?" Draco's eyes lit up. "All of us?"
"If Miss Black is amenable," Lucius said, turning to Roxaine with something warmer than his usual formal tone.
Roxaine looked between them; Draco bouncing slightly on his toes, Narcissa's gentle smile, Lucius's unexpectedly soft expression. Something inside her chest loosened, just a little.
"I'd like that," she said quietly.
"Excellent!" Draco beamed, then caught himself. "I mean, that would be most agreeable."
The attempt at formality made Narcissa laugh, a genuine, musical sound that filled the room with warmth. Even Lucius's stern expression cracked into what might have been amusement.
"Go get dressed properly, young man," Narcissa said, still smiling. "We'll wait for you."
As Draco raced off, Narcissa took the seat beside Roxaine. "How are you feeling today, dear one?"
The endearment was something she'd started using after Roxaine's first nightmare at the Manor. It had made Roxaine flinch initially, too close to Walburga's "my dear one", but Narcissa's version was softer, warmer, without conditions attached.
"I'm well," Roxaine replied, then paused. "The peacocks really are beautiful."
"They are," Narcissa agreed. "Though not as beautiful as the two children who've been plotting to befriend them all week."
Roxaine's cheeks warmed slightly. She wasn't used to being called beautiful, not in that gentle way. Walburga had called her "handsome" or "well-presented," but never beautiful. Never like she was something precious just for existing.
"I finished the transfiguration exercises early," she said, changing the subject. "And the astronomy charts."
"Of course you did," Lucius said, pride evident in his voice. "You're exceptionally bright, Roxaine. But you know that already."
"Grandmother always said intelligence was a tool."
"Your grandmother was right," Narcissa said softly. "But it's not only a tool. It's also a gift. Something to be celebrated, not just used."
Roxaine considered this. Walburga had never spoken of gifts, only duties and expectations. But here, in this sun-filled breakfast room with people who seemed genuinely happy to be around her, the word didn't feel foreign.
"Draco says you helped him with his letters yesterday," Lucius said. "He's improved considerably under your guidance."
"He's not stupid," Roxaine said quickly. "He just learns differently. He needs to move around while he thinks."
"Yes," Narcissa said, her voice warm with approval. "You understand him well."
"He's like..." Roxaine paused, something flickering across her face. "He's like Atlas used to be. Before."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was gentle, giving her space to feel whatever she needed to feel.
"It's alright to miss him," Narcissa said quietly. "Missing someone doesn't make you weak."
"Grandmother said—"
"Your grandmother loved you," Lucius interrupted, his voice unusually gentle. "But she was shaped by difficult times. Things can be different now."
Roxaine looked at him, surprised. "Different how?"
"You can be strong and still have a family," Narcissa said. "You can be the Black heir and still be our daughter. You can honor your grandmother's memory and still choose your own path."
"I'm not your daughter," Roxaine said, but there was no rejection in her voice. Only confusion.
"Perhaps not by blood," Lucius said. "But by choice. If you'd like to be."
The offer hung in the air like a delicate gift. Roxaine stared at them, this family that had taken her in, that let Draco climb into her bed during thunderstorms, that celebrated her achievements and comforted her tears. They were nothing like what she'd expected from the stories she'd heard.
"I'd like that," she whispered.
"Then it's settled," Narcissa said, reaching over to squeeze her hand. "Now, shall we go rescue those peacocks from your eager little brother?"
For the first time in years, Roxaine smiled without calculating the effect it would have. She smiled because she was happy.
Because she was home.
Miles away, in a cottage that smelled of chocolate and old books, Atlas helped Uncle Moony tend to a garden that would never grow properly. His hands were dirty, his hair was messy, and he laughed at Remus's terrible jokes.
He was smaller than Roxaine now, less refined, but there was something in his eyes that she was slowly rediscovering. Hope, perhaps. Or simply the ability to believe that love could exist without conditions.
Neither twin spoke of the other. But sometimes, in the quiet moments between sleep and waking, they both wondered what would have happened if they had chosen differently.
Those were no longer dangerous thoughts for Roxaine. The Malfoys had taught her that strength didn't require isolation, that love didn't require sacrifice.
She was the heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. She had survived when others had fallen. She had endured when others had broken.
But she was also something Walburga had never imagined: she was a daughter. A sister. A child who was allowed to be happy.
And for the first time since she was three years old, Elizabeth Roxaine Black felt like she was home.
