Chapter Text
There is a photograph in existence of Bellatrix Lestrange, then Bellatrix Black, and her two sisters, seated on a sofa in the drawing room of Black End House. The sofa was positioned, as it is now and likely always will be, in front of a huge hearth stacked with burning logs. Above the mantelpiece, clearly visible in the photograph, hung a sword with which, in 1863, Licorous Black stabbed his daughter Iola to death for marrying a Muggle. Still covered with blood and hairs, it remained for centuries an object of fascination to all Black children.
In the photograph, nineteen-year-old Bellatrix distilled the very essence of the proud House of Black. Her fine, aristocratic features, dark mass of hair, and heavy-lidded eyes formed the theme upon which her sisters were variations—all pretty, but none so absolutely distinctive as hers. There was something furious about Bella, even when she laughed, which she did often and always with a kind of reckless abandon.
Andromeda, seventeen years old, sat to Bellatrix’s left. Her face, always beautiful, appeared unusually round, her hair oddly fluffy, and her dress unflatteringly oversized. A grey tabby cat sprawled across her knees, perfectly at ease. To the right, the youngest sister, Narcissa, aged fourteen, gazed into the camera with wide, shining blue eyes, smiling as if butter wouldn’t melt in her pale, pursed-up mouth.
There they were, lovely like butterflies, caught and preserved for display. Click went the camera, and on went life: the minutes, the days, the years, the decades, taking them further and further from the happiness and promise of youth, from the dreams their mother once held for them, and the ones they dreamed for themselves. Late at night, when Cygnus Black looked upon the young faces of his daughters, all of them lost to him now, he often thought that there was nothing quite so poignantly sad as old family pictures.
December, 1985
Cassandra sat perfectly straight, her feet not quite touching the floor, hands folded tightly in her lap. Across the study, her grandfather pulled a heavy book from a secret compartment hidden beneath the floorboards. This was the first time he had deemed her old enough to hear a full account of her parents’ crimes. It was the fourth year of their imprisonment, and the eighth of Cassandra’s life.
Despite the snow drifting silently outside, blanketing Ravenhall in crystalline white, the air inside was warm and heavy. Cassandra felt her chest tighten as Grandfather placed the leather-bound volume before her. Up close, it looked less like a proper book than a compilation of loose, mismatched documents. Her fingers trembled slightly as she lifted the cover.
Late at night, Cassandra often traced the outlines of her parents’ faces in the silver-framed photograph on her bedside table, willing the few memories she had of them not to slip away. Sometimes, she would press her nose to her mother’s robes, still hanging pristinely in the wardrobe, and inhale deeply, searching for any trace of agarwood and spice, only to find the scent fading a little more with each passing month.
Her and Grandfather’s rare visit to Diagon Alley last week had ended abruptly when two witches at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour fell silent at their approach—only for one to mutter about “those monsters rotting in Azkaban”. Cassandra’s small fist had clenched around her cone so tightly it cracked, sending sticky ice cream sliding down her wrist and onto the floor. More than once, she had seen her grandfather reduce the Daily Prophet to ash at the sight of yet another headline about her parents. She needed to understand what acts could be so unforgivable that the world still spat their names like a curse.
“It’s time,” he said. There was a grimness to his grey eyes today, and nothing of the man who liked to tell her bedtime stories about constellations. Grandfather was gone; in his place stood Cygnus Black, Head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
Cassandra looked up at him. He stood a head taller than most wizards, broad-shouldered and lean. His once-dark hair had receded at the temples, giving way to streaks of silver that traced symmetrical arcs, lending him an air of distinguished severity.
He took his seat behind the desk. “These are the complete transcripts of the Death Eater trials following the fall of the Dark Lord,” he said, indicating a marked page. “Including those of your parents.”
Over the fireplace mantle, the portrait of Cassandra’s many-times-great-grandfather, her father’s namesake, and the only Lestrange to ever serve as Minister for Magic, watched them with open curiosity.
“May I?” Cassandra asked, her voice smaller than she intended.
“Go ahead.”
Cassandra scanned the first lines of text. The transcript of her parents’ trial began with the formal charges.
“You stand accused of capturing Auror Frank Longbottom and subjecting him to the Cruciatus Curse, believing him to have knowledge of the present whereabouts of your exiled master, He Who Must Not Be Named,” she read aloud. “You are further accused of using the Cruciatus Curse on Frank Longbottom’s wife, when he would not give you information.”
Some of the words were difficult, legal terms her lips stumbled over, but she pressed on, reading the graphic testimony of witnesses and the cold deliberations of the Wizengamot, wizarding Britain’s high court of law and parliament. The study remained still, save for the occasional pop from the fire and the whisper of snow against windows. It was only when she reached her mother’s final declaration—the very words that had sealed her fate—that Cassandra faltered.
“The Dark Lord will rise again! Throw us into Azkaban, we will wait! He will rise again and come for us, he will reward us beyond any of his other supporters! We alone were faithful! We alone tried to find him…”
Memory flickered behind her eyes: her mother’s cheek, warm against hers as they traded secrets; the determined gleam in her eye; the silkiness of her hair when they hugged goodbye for the last time. That woman seemed impossibly distant from the one described in these pages, who had tortured two Aurors into madness and laughed at the threat of a life sentence.
When at last Cassandra finished, the sky outside had darkened, and her throat felt raw. Her grandfather waved his wand, summoning a silver tray with a pot of tea and two delicate porcelain cups. He poured, adding a drizzle of honey to hers, and passed it across the desk.
“Do you have any questions?” he asked, settling back in his chair.
She cupped the warm tea in her hands. “Are the Longbottoms dead?”
“No,” Grandfather said, his voice full of a shame Cassandra had never heard there before, “they are insane. They are both in St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. I have been informed that their son visits them, with his grandmother, during the holidays. They do not recognise him.”
Cassandra sat there, horror-struck.
“I have tried my very best to support the Longbottom family, to help them become whole again, in whatever way I could. Yet, my efforts will never truly be enough.”
“How could they…” she began, then trailed off, unable to articulate the knot of emotions tightening in her throat. She could feel the tears welling in her eyes, and looked away.
“Your parents made terrible choices out of devotion to a master who preyed on their weaknesses and drew out what was most destructive in them,” he said. “But they were not always as they became. Bellatrix was brilliant, adventurous, fiercely protective. And I chose Rodolphus for her because I saw in him a wizard of steadfast discipline, and unwavering loyalty.”
Cassandra rubbed her eyes angrily, determined not to cry. “Then why…?”
“They believed. So completely that they were willing to become what their belief required. That is the danger of having absolute certainty in one’s convictions.” Her grandfather sighed, looking older, and wearier, than ever. “I failed your mother long before she failed herself. I taught her—all of my daughters—to value blood purity above all else. And I was too blind to see what that lesson had become in Bellatrix’s hands.”
Silence fell between them. Over the mantelpiece, the portrait of Rodolphus Lestrange I dabbed a single tear from his painted cheek.
“Can I still miss them?” Cassandra asked eventually, her voice barely audible.
“Of course you can. They loved you, in their way. That love was perhaps the purest thing left in them by the end.” He leaned forward. “But love does not absolve. You must face what your parents did without excusing it… and without letting it define you.”
Cassandra thought about it, and nodded.
“May I keep this?” she asked, drawing the weighty book into her lap, her fingers tightening around its cover.
Her grandfather studied her for a long moment before inclining his head. “You may. But always remember: you are a Lestrange by name and a Black by blood. Both legacies are yours to bear, but what you make of them is your choice.”
“I think I understand,” Cassandra said. “Thank you, Pa.”
He stood, the sternness in his face giving way to something softer.
“Come. The house-elves will have prepared dinner.”
***
Her parents wove in and out of her dreams, their voices tangling with the cries of the Longbottoms, one twisting into the other until she could no longer tell them apart. The sound chased her up a winding staircase that shifted and warped beneath her feet. At the top, she found her mother in a cell, cradling the Longbottoms' infant son. Blood coated Bellatrix’s hands, staining the baby’s clothes crimson. As Cassandra pounded on the bars, her mother only smiled and caressed the boy’s head.
She woke with a start, tangled in damp sheets. Mimi was already at her side, gently brushing strands of hair from her forehead. As she had countless times before, Cassandra reached for the elf’s hand and held it tight.
“There, miss. There now. No harm will find you here,” Mimi murmured.
Cassandra’s mind circled back to the baby in her mother’s arms, the stain of blood spreading and spreading.
“I didn’t scream, did I?”
“No, Mistress.” Mimi’s grip tightened on her hand.
House-elves made terrible liars.
Cassandra sat up and wiped her face with the sleeve of her nightgown, embarrassed. The mantel clock read just past midnight. “Is Grandfather awake?”
“In the drawing room, miss,” Mimi said, snapping her fingers. The covers straightened themselves with a ripple of magic. “He’s speaking with someone over the Floo.”
Restless and plagued by uneasy thoughts, Cassandra slipped out of her room and wandered beyond the family wing.
The drawing room doors stood ajar, and a flickering light shone through the gap, casting a long sliver of green across the oak floor. Cassandra edged closer until she was able to see a narrow slice of the room.
Her grandfather was seated directly in front of the fireplace, so it was difficult, from afar, to make out whose head was coming out of the emerald flames. A woman’s voice spoke, sounding as cold as a sudden blast of icy wind.
“You don’t get to cast me as the unfeeling aunt, Father. I was there when Cassandra was born. I held her through her first fever, when my sister was too consumed by the war to care. I watched her take her first steps,” said the cold voice. “To my astonishment, Bella saw fit to banish me from Ravenhall and estrange me from my niece, all for the simple matter of accepting that the war was over.”
“Narcissa—”
“And then, once Bella was sent away to that wretched place, you conveniently arrived, finally roused from your fifteen years of indifference to assume guardianship of her daughter. Pray tell, where were you all those years before?”
Cassandra leaned closer, hardly breathing.
“I was lost in my grief—”
“She was our mother! Did we not endure her loss as well? We were frightened, heartbroken children who needed you, yet you vanished so completely into your own pain, we were as good as orphans.”
A tense pause followed.
“This is precisely why our conversations are best kept to a minimum, Father. I have no interest in watching you make the same mistakes with Cassandra that you made with us.”
“I cannot undo the past. But all that matters to me now is keeping Cassandra well-cared for and out of the reach of those who wish to exploit her.”
The fire crackled in the silence that followed.
“Let us make peace, Narcissa. Tell me how to make amends for failing to be the father you deserved.”
“If you are sincere in your wish to mend our relationship, then you already know what I expect. Name my son as the sole heir to the Black estate.”
“Draco is not my only grandchild.”
“From our family’s inception, the estate and all its assets have always passed down to the eldest boy. It would only be right.”
“The eldest boy in the male line,” Cygnus corrected firmly.
“Lucius and I have rebuilt our reputation from nothing. Draco deserves the security that comes with the Black fortune. It’s the least you owe us.”
“If your husband hadn’t squandered so much of his family’s gold serving that sewer, Draco’s future would be secure. And let’s not forget, I was the one who kept him out of Azkaban, at great personal cost. I will not favour a boy whose upbringing I have been denied any influence over, at the expense of my granddaughters.”
“Granddaughters?” Narcissa’s voice turned indignant. “You cannot mean to share Draco’s inheritance with Andromeda’s half-blood whelp.”
“As it stands, Draco has no inheritance to speak of. Neither does Nymphadora—though that might change, depending entirely on whether Andromeda chooses to return to the fold and allow me to be part of their lives. In any case, the lion’s share of the Black estate will go to Cassandra. I hope to reconcile with all my daughters, but I won’t purchase your forgiveness.”
“There’s another way, Father. Focus on the grandchildren still within your reach. A marriage between Draco and Cassandra would unite their inheritance claims and preserve the purity of our bloodline for another generation.”
Out in the corridor, Cassandra stood frozen, her mind reeling. Pure-blood families often arranged matches between cousins, but the thought of being bartered like a cow, or a piece of furniture, filled her with dread. Her hand trembled against the door as she waited for her grandfather’s response.
“Have you learned nothing from the ruin of our family, Narcissa? You would condemn them to the same misery that destroyed your aunt and uncle, their children in turn?”
Relief washed over Cassandra at Grandfather’s firm refusal. But as Aunt Narcissa began arguing again, she realised she didn’t want to hear another word.
***
At Ravenhall, the woods crept right up to the house. It was not unusual to be awoken by the screams of a gnome running in horrified circles round a Jarvey, by the strange and piercing squeal of the Nogtail, or to see from one’s bedroom window a live hen being carried away in the mouth of a Bat-Fox; while the roosting pheasants and the waking owls filled every night with wild, primeval noises. Now, in winter, when snow covered the grounds, Cassandra could trace the footprints of many creatures, both magical and non-magical. These often ended in a pool of blood, scattered feathers, or tufts of multicolored fur, bearing witness to the natural predation that even magic could not prevent.
On the other side of the house, just a stone’s throw away, stood the greenhouse—a great dome rising from the snow like a soap bubble caught mid-ascent. Inside, the growing, pruning, and harvesting of exotic, rare, and more than a few dangerous magical plants took place as a matter of course, visible to whoever might be passing by the glassy structure to see.
After yesterday’s revelations, Cassandra knew she’d find her grandfather there. Whenever they spoke of her parents, he always sought the quiet of the greenhouse the next morning.
She paused at the entrance, where the glass shimmered like water. As she stepped through, a momentary coolness brushed her skin, the barrier parting around her like silk.
A wave of humid air enveloped her, fragrant with blooming flowers, sharp leaf sap, and the unmistakable tang of Mooncalf dung fertilizer. Beneath it all lingered the clean, ozonic scent of magic itself. She drew in a slow breath, letting the warmth and familiar smells loosen the cold knot in her stomach.
The greenhouse interior stretched for an acre, vastly larger than what the outer structure suggested. Five concentric rings of plants spiraled outward, each with its own self-contained climate, from the tropical outer edge to the polar vegetation at the center. Overhead, the glass vanished into a canopy of hanging vines and drifting planters that floated lazily through the air. Steam curled from heated pools, where aquatic plants bloomed in impossible colors.
Cassandra’s boots clicked against the mosaic path, its stones shifting colour beneath her feet as she crossed between climate zones. The sound echoed strangely, muffled in some places, magnified in others. From above came odd animal calls and musical tones, blending with the steady drip of condensation and the occasional snap of something large and presumably hungry.
She passed cascading Chimeblossoms and floating beds of aconite, moving deeper into the temperate zone, where she finally spotted her grandfather among the more aggressive specimens.
Cygnus Black stood before a massive Venomous Tentacula, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his wand steady in hand. The plant swayed restlessly, its eyeless head rearing back every so often to snap its fanged maw at him. Each time, he parried the strike with a flick of his wrist, never once breaking focus as he examined the fresh growth curling along its stem.
“Good morning, dear,” he said, glancing over his shoulder as she approached.
“Good morning, Grandfather.”
“How did you sleep?” Cygnus turned back to the plant and sliced through a particularly unruly tendril. It writhed once, then slumped, oozing a viscous green sap that hissed and bubbled as it hit the stone floor.
He always asked her that.
“I had a nightmare about Mother,” she admitted, stepping closer but keeping a respectful distance from the Tentacula, which had been known to seize her unexpectedly from behind.
“Your elf told me.” Her grandfather vanished the severed tendril and the puddle of poisonous sap with a wave of his wand. “And how do you feel now?”
“I’m angry,” Cassandra replied.
He nodded and continued his work, offering no sign he intended to revisit the truths she’d just learned. “Kraven usually handles the Tentacula, but he’s with the arid species today. Personally, I find Fire-seed Bushes are best left to house-elf hands.”
Cassandra’s shoulders dropped as the conversation moved away from her parents, but her jaw stayed clenched. She turned away from her grandfather and studied the nearby workstation. Garden spades hung from brass hooks, their handles polished smooth by years of use. Pruning shears of various sizes lined up beneath a shelf crowded with labeled jars of fertilizer, each marked in Kraven’s spidery handwriting.
“The Snargaluff pods will be ready for harvest next week,” Grandfather said, lifting a Tentacula leaf to inspect its underside. “What potion are their tubers used in?”
“Antidote to Veritaserum,” Cassandra recited dutifully. “According to Eunon Blackwood in Flesh-Eating Trees of the World, Snargaluff tubers are most potent when harvested under a new moon.”
“Which is next week,” her grandfather said. “Go on and feed them. They’ve been twitchy all morning.”
Cassandra crossed to the workstation and pulled on a pair of dragon-hide gloves, then added protective goggles—some specimens had a habit of spitting when startled. From a neatly stacked pile, she selected a shallow porcelain dish and spooned in raw venison, kept fresh inside an ice-charmed container. The meat glistened, red and fresh.
Properly equipped, she approached the first Snargaluff. As she drew closer, her gaze fixed on the gnarled, even-deader-than-usual-looking stump. She crouched beside it. Compared to the others, this one looked dull and brittle, flakes of grey-brown bark peeling away from its surface. She poked at the soil with her gloved fingers, surprised by its dryness despite the humid greenhouse air.
“I think something’s wrong,” she said. Frowning, she reached out to touch the bark—
“Cassandra!”
She froze as the stump shuddered beneath her hand. For a heartbeat, nothing happened—then a single tendril uncurled, trembling in the air. Grandfather appeared beside her, his face set in grim lines.
“That could have gone badly for you,” he said, casting her a sharp, sideways glance, as though expecting her to say something.
Cassandra lowered her face, returning her attention to the plant. “The drainage looks poor. Maybe it needs replanting?” She held up a piece of venison, letting the Snargaluff catch its scent. The lone vine reached forward, followed by several others emerging from the stump. They moved more slowly than usual, their movements cautious.
“Here, silly,” she murmured, tossing the meat into the hollow at the plant’s center. It accepted the offering with a soft rustle.
As the vines withdrew, they dropped several withered tips onto the ground. Cassandra picked one up, crushing it between her fingers. It crumbled to dust.
“Should I call for Kraven? It might be ill.”
“Let’s see how it responds to proper feeding first,” her grandfather replied. “I’ll make a note for Kraven to examine it later. Go ahead and feed the others. Carefully.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Professor Sprout will appreciate your knowledge when you start at Hogwarts,” Cygnus remarked, watching her work. “Very few students arrive with any understanding of Class C plants, let alone experience handling them.”
“Will we study the Venomous Tentacula there?”
“Not until your sixth year, I believe. But knowing the principles of cultivation will serve you well in all your herbology classes.”
Cassandra moved to the second Snargaluff, pressing her fingers to the soil to test the moisture. It was just right—not too wet, not too dry. This time, when she produced the venison, the plant reacted with proper vigor: vines lashed out from the top, whipping eagerly through the air. She tossed several slices its way, swatting away a few tendrils that tried to snatch her wrist.
The plant settled, its vines retreating in contentment. Cassandra wiped a bead of sweat from her brow and rose to her feet. The delicate chain around her neck had twisted during the task, and she reached up to straighten it, her fingers lingering on the Lestrange signet ring resting against her collarbone, still too large for her to wear properly.
She hesitated. Then, softly—
“Grandfather… may I ask you something? About Mother?”
“You may,” he said after a pause.
“During the trial, Mother told the Wizengamot they could send her to Azkaban if they wished, but Mr Crouch’s son begged for mercy…” She searched for the right words, but they would’t come. “She wasn’t afraid at all.”
“Bellatrix refused to cower before the Wizengamot. That much is true,” said Grandfather. “I could never tolerate weakness—least of all my own—and in that, your mother was like me. But any wizard with sense would fear Azkaban. That’s why so many claimed they’d been bewitched after the Dark Lord fell.”
The ring warmed between Cassandra’s fingers. If only she had told her parents how much she needed them. If she had cried, like Draco used to do as a baby when Aunt Narcissa left him with the nanny-elf for even a minute, maybe they would have understood. They would’ve lied to the Ministry, and never been sent to that horrible place, away from her. Uncle Rabastan could have found a cure for the Longbottoms, and they’d all be together again.
Her throat tightened as the question formed. “Why didn’t—”
But before she could finish, a sharp crack split the air as a house-elf appeared between them. It was Gibbo. He had served the Lestrange family since Cassandra’s father and uncle were boys, and had the longest ears of any house-elf she had ever met.
“Master Cygnus,” Gibbo squeaked, his bat-like ears brushing the ground as he bowed deeply, “the Graphorn be escaping its enclosure again.”
Her grandfather met her eyes, just long enough for her to catch the flicker of relief. “Third time this month. That beast will be the death of me.”
With newfound briskness, he handed her a wrapped Tentacula cutting, its leaves twitching faintly beneath the cloth. “This needs planting. The mixture is three parts volcanic soil, one part bone meal, and a dash of powdered limestone to balance the acidity.”
Cassandra nodded. Grandfather gave her shoulder a tentative, reassuring squeeze, then stepped back to adjust the cuff of his robes.
“Finish up here,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’ll go deal with our troublesome friend.”
He raised his wand and twisted into nothingness. The force of his Disapparition rippled through the air, rustling nearby leaves and rousing a dozing Fangfern from its sleep-curled form.
The greenhouse fell quiet again. Cassandra stared at the spot where her grandfather had stood, startled when she finally noticed that Gibbo had not left with him.
“Gibbo can fetch Kraven to mix the soil for the young mistress,” the house-elf offered. “Gibbo would do it himself, but Kraven would beat him bloody if he dared.”
“Thank you, Gibbo, but I can manage.”
She made her way toward the quarantine section at the far side of the dome, where specialised enclosures housed newly-arrived specimens. The Tentacula cutting lay mostly still in her hands, though it twitched now and then, testing its restraints. She set it carefully on a wooden seed tray, mindful of its tendency to strike when threatened.
Behind her came the soft, persistent shuffle of Gibbo’s feet.
“Is Mistress Cassandra wanting tea, perhaps?” he asked, reverently. “Or hot chocolate? Mimi said you hardly touched your breakfast, miss.”
“I’m not hungry,” she replied, finding it an effort to be courteous. “I would like to be left alone, please.”
“It is Gibbo’s opinion—
“I don’t care!” Cassandra flared, slamming her palm against the potting bench.
The tray rattled, and the piece of Venomous Tentacula slid forward, its freshly-cut stem suddenly exposed. In a flash, a hair-thin vine lashed across the back of her hand, slicing a line of crimson.
The sting was immediate, sharp and burning. She gasped and clutched her wrist as the venom worked its way beneath her skin.
“Mistress!” Gibbo shrieked.
“It’s nothing,” she insisted, though her hand burned as though she’d dipped it in boiling water. “I’m fine, I…” Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m not a baby!”
She turned away, shoulders shaking. “I can handle it. I…”
But the pain cracked something open inside her. Her knees gave way, and she sank to the greenhouse floor, sobbing hard enough to make her chest ache.
There was the unmistakable cracking noise of Apparition. Grandfather rushed to her, his face blanching at the sight of her swollen, discoloured hand. Without hesitation, he swept her into his arms, his wand already moving in the patterns of a healing charm.
Cool relief flowed through her as the venom neutralised and the swelling receded, but the tears wouldn’t stop. She buried her face against his shoulder and wept.
“Go on,” he murmured. “Let it all out.”
“Please don’t marry me to Draco,” she begged through her tears. “I heard you and Aunt Cissy last night.”
His arms tightened around her. “I would never do such a thing. I swear it on my life. Forgive me, child. Forgive us all for the harm we’ve caused you.”