Narcissa's footsteps were nearly silent as she moved through the overgrown garden, her eyes flicking around the perimeter of Malfoy Manor. Every shadow seemed darker, every creak of the floorboards from within the house sharper. But the weight of the diary pressing against her side reminded her of the stakes—she couldn't falter now.
The cool night air cut through the silence, but she could still hear the faint, rhythmic beat of her own heart. Get it to Melania and Benjy. Get it to them and everything changes. That was the only thought guiding her forward as she approached the agreed-upon meeting point, tucked just beyond the edge of the estate, where the forest began to swallow the land whole.
Narcissa spotted them almost immediately, her sharp eyes catching the silhouette of Melania first. The woman stood with an almost regal poise, her elegant figure barely visible in the dim moonlight. Benjy, ever the practical one, leaned against a tree, his arms crossed over his chest, though his eyes never stopped scanning their surroundings. He looked like he could take down an army with a glance alone—if his typical gruffness was anything to go by.
When Melania noticed her approach, a faint smile curved her lips. Melania was always composed, always aware, a sense of elegance even in the most dangerous of situations. Her beauty was striking—there was something almost ethereal about her. But beneath that outward calm was a mind sharp as a blade, ready to cut through the darkness. Narcissa had never been sure whether Melania's grace or her intellect was more disarming. Tonight, it was both.
"You've got it," Melania said in a low, measured tone, her eyes flicking down to Narcissa's cloak. Her voice, as always, had an undercurrent of something magnetic—a sense of certainty that was almost unshakeable.
Narcissa nodded, pulling the diary from under her cloak and placing it gently in Melania's hands. "Lucius thought it was his secret," she murmured, her voice tight with suppressed tension. "But now, it's yours." Her fingers brushed against Melania's as she handed over the object, and for a brief second, Narcissa felt an odd sense of relief. It was no longer hers to carry the burden of. Let them do the hard work now.
Melania turned the diary over in her hands, as though assessing its weight. Her lips curled in a barely-there smile. "Thank you, Narcissa. Your courage in doing this doesn't go unnoticed."
Benjy, who had been watching the exchange with the practiced air of someone always prepared for the worst, straightened up. "We need to move quickly. This is only the first step, but it's a damn important one." His voice had the gravelly edge of someone who had fought wars on multiple fronts. "If we don't get this to Charlus and Ammon, and soon, the risk of being caught is too great."
Narcissa felt a chill at Benjy's words. There were very few people in the world who could convey urgency with such calm precision, but Benjy—he had always been that way. Never a flinch, never a second thought. It was his way, a survival tactic that had kept him alive more times than Narcissa cared to count.
"Do you think Lucius knows?" Narcissa's voice was quieter now, betraying a flicker of concern, though she masked it with a tilt of her chin. Her cold exterior—carefully constructed over years—was not as solid as she would have liked, not when it came to her family.
Melania glanced at her, the flicker of emotion in her dark eyes quickly gone. "If he does, he's too arrogant to realize the full scope of his own vulnerability." She pressed the diary into a hidden pouch beneath her cloak. "But the risk is ours to take now. We won't fail."
Benjy, who had been shifting from foot to foot as if ready to sprint into the night at a moment's notice, grunted in agreement. "Let's not waste time, then. The sooner we get this to the others, the sooner we can put the Dark Lord's plans to rest."
Narcissa allowed herself a brief nod, her body already moving into action. "I'm counting on you both," she said quietly, her eyes flicking from one to the other. There was a moment of understanding between them all—silent but powerful. They were all in this together, bound by a single purpose.
"Don't worry, we've got it covered," Benjy said with a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just stay out of sight." He was always the pragmatic one, but Narcissa knew it wasn't an order—more of a suggestion.
"Just don't get caught," Melania added with a sly smile that had a hint of something dark in it. "I'd hate to have to save you, Narcissa."
Narcissa smirked back, her voice low and teasing, but there was a seriousness beneath it. "We all have our strengths, grandmother. I trust you to do what needs to be done."
As the three of them exchanged final glances, Narcissa stepped back into the shadows, already on her way to the Apparition point. They had their piece of the puzzle now—what they did with it would determine the course of the war. And as much as she hated to admit it, she knew they were far from done.
But for tonight, the first move had been made. And Narcissa could only hope it was enough.
—
As Melania and Benjy arrived at the Potter Estate, they were greeted by the looming silhouette of the house against the night sky. The mansion, always a sanctuary of safety and strength, now pulsed with an underlying sense of urgency. The estate's grand entrance doors creaked open to reveal the gathered members of their faction, standing around a long table where maps, documents, and various magical artifacts were scattered, each of them plotting their next move with grim determination.
Charlus, ever the calm and commanding presence, stood at the head of the table. His sharp features, framed by his silver hair, were set in an expression of unwavering focus, though his dark eyes sparkled with the kind of brilliance that suggested nothing escaped his notice. Arcturus stood by his side, a towering figure who exuded both regal authority and a lethal edge. His deep voice, rich with experience, had the gravitas of a thousand years of war and wisdom. Sirius, ever the wild card, lounged casually against the far wall, a half-smirk curling on his lips as he sized up the room. There was something about the way he moved that spoke of a predator at rest—calm on the surface, but with a dangerous edge beneath.
Benjy and Melania exchanged a brief glance before stepping forward, the atmosphere thick with anticipation. The heavy oak door shut behind them with a soft thud, sealing their entry.
"We have the diary," Melania announced, her voice smooth as velvet, yet carrying the weight of her actions. She held up the leather-bound book, its ominous aura barely contained by her delicate fingers.
Charlus's eyes flicked toward the diary with a mixture of approval and something darker—recognition. His voice, though steady, was filled with the gravitas of a man who knew what was at stake. "Excellent work, Melania. You've proven invaluable to our cause."
Melania smiled faintly, the flicker of pride in her eyes brief before she masked it with the practiced coolness that made her so effective. "I do what needs to be done." Her gaze shifted to Sirius, who raised an eyebrow at her. She'd never been one to indulge in the theatrics of gratitude.
"'Invaluable,' eh?" Sirius drawled, clearly amused. He pushed off the wall and strolled over to the table, his movements smooth, like a predator circling his prey. His voice was dark, with a bit of wicked humor. "How nice of you to finally admit it. Next time, you can just send a thank-you card, if you'd prefer."
Melania didn't rise to the bait, simply rolling her eyes with a grace that only made her more alluring. "If you were half as effective as your humor, Sirius, we'd have already won this war."
Benjy, ever the more practical one, cleared his throat to draw attention back to the task at hand. "We're wasting time, bantering. The diary's here, but it won't do us much good unless Ammon can work his magic on it."
At this, Ammon, standing off to the side, took a step forward. His robes fluttered with a silent command of authority as he reached out to accept the diary from Melania. His eyes narrowed in suspicion, and the corners of his lips barely twitched with the weight of the situation. "This is far from an easy task," he said, his voice calm but laced with the sort of foreboding certainty that could send chills down the spine of even the most hardened individual. "The Horcruxes are bound with dark magic older than anything we've seen before. I'll need time to examine it fully. And we must tread carefully. Destroying one of these artifacts isn't as simple as breaking a charm." He paused, studying the diary as if it were a venomous creature, before turning his gaze to the others. "We'll proceed, but cautiously."
Charlus's eyes glinted as he glanced at Ammon, his voice deep and commanding. "We trust you, Ammon. You've never let us down before." He leaned forward, his fingers tapping lightly on the table. "But in the meantime, we need to take action on other fronts. We can't afford to wait for you to finish your work here. The clock is ticking, and Voldemort won't give us a moment's peace."
Sirius grinned, the feral gleam in his eyes unmistakable. "While Ammon plays with dark arts, we could always turn Grimmauld Place inside out. My dear, dear brother Regulus might have left something useful behind. I'll be honest, I don't particularly feel like playing the good little boy with my hands tied, waiting for the next surprise." He leaned forward, eyes glinting with the kind of dangerous mischief that made anyone who knew him pause for thought. "Besides, I do love rooting around in old family secrets."
Arcturus's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "Let us not forget, Sirius," he began with a dry, sardonic edge, "your family has more skeletons in the closet than a graveyard. But perhaps that is the very reason you're so… eager to search it."
Sirius's smile widened, a flash of sharp teeth. "Ah, you wound me, Arcturus. Who knew you'd be such a harsh critic? But you're right, Regulus might have something useful. Something… dark." He chuckled darkly to himself, turning away as though already lost in his plans.
Charlus, ever the strategist, leaned back in his chair, contemplating the suggestion. "Grimmauld Place, then," he said, his voice low but filled with iron. "We need every piece of information we can get, and the sooner we gather it, the better."
Benjy, his arms crossed, shot a look at Melania. "I'll come along to keep Sirius from setting the place on fire. Who knows what secrets he'll let slip in the middle of his tantrum?"
Melania's lips curled into a sly smile. "I'll stay behind with Ammon. You'll need someone to keep track of your progress, after all. It'll be easier to look through Regulus's things if you don't need to check over your shoulder every five minutes."
Raza, who had been standing in the shadows with a quiet, imposing presence, finally spoke, his voice thick with a deep authority. "You can leave the cleaning up to us, then. But remember, you don't get to be heroes without making enemies. Keep your wits sharp, and don't forget who you're truly fighting. Voldemort's not the only threat we face." His eyes were cold and piercing, locking onto each person in turn. "The more we move, the more others will notice."
Charlus nodded at Raza's words, his face grim. "You're right. But for now, we push forward. For the sake of the world, we fight."
With their plans set, the room fell into an almost uneasy silence as everyone scattered to execute their parts. But as they did, there was an unspoken bond between them—a bond forged in the heat of battle and the shadow of great danger. Their resolve was unshakeable, and in that moment, it felt as though the world itself had no choice but to bend to their will.
—
Charlus, Sirius, and Arcturus gathered around a large wooden table, spread with old maps, parchments, and notes detailing their findings so far. Ammon stood at the side, examining the diary with meticulous care.
Sirius suggested forming teams to divide the tasks efficiently. "While we search Grimmauld Place, others should gather intelligence on any known Death Eater movements or activities. We need to stay ahead of them."
Charlus agreed. "We'll need to be discreet. Voldemort's followers are everywhere, and any sign of us hunting his Horcruxes could bring trouble."
—
Grimmauld Place stood like a relic of a dark past, its oppressive, looming structure casting a shadow over the street as the trio of formidable wizards approached. The house, as always, looked like it was holding its breath—quiet, suspicious, as though it might reveal its secrets at any moment, or remain forever locked in its grim silence.
Charlus, his silver hair gleaming faintly in the dim light from his wand, led the way, his posture dignified yet alert. His sharp eyes scanned the familiar cobwebs and peeling wallpaper, his lips pressed together in a thin line. This house is a monument to failure, he thought, but his gaze didn't linger too long on the past. He had work to do.
Arcturus followed behind him, his presence as imposing as the house itself. There was something about his towering frame and the silent way he moved that made even the darkest corners of Grimmauld Place feel like they were being watched. His voice, deep and cold, rumbled from behind Charlus as they passed the darkened portraits on the walls. "It's almost tragic, isn't it? The legacy of a family that thought its name could shield it from the inevitable consequences of its choices."
Sirius, ever the irreverent force of nature, couldn't help but let out a low chuckle as he strode forward. His large frame was a striking contrast to the shrouded darkness of the house, and his wand illuminated the cobbled, dust-covered floors as he marched ahead, exuding an energy of someone more comfortable in the heat of battle than this silent, haunted place. "If by 'tragic,' you mean 'hilarious,' then sure, grandfather, I'm inclined to agree. Although, if I'm being honest, I'd rather set the whole place on fire than sift through this pile of miserable memories."
Charlus threw Sirius a pointed glance, his sharp features softening slightly as he raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure there are people would appreciate your enthusiasm, but perhaps we should save the fire for later. We already have what we wanted—the locket—and we're only here to make sure Regulus didn't leave any more gifts for us. The quicker we're done here, the better."
Sirius smirked at the older man's tone, clearly enjoying the dry humor despite himself. "Fine, fine. No burning down the house—yet. But don't blame me if I get itchy for a good explosion. It's in the Black blood."
Arcturus, who had been quietly observing the state of the house, added with his usual gravitas, "You do realize, Sirius, that your 'itchy' tendencies have often been the cause of our family's downfall, yes? Perhaps restraint could be considered a sign of wisdom."
Sirius's response was a sardonic grin, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Ah, but where's the fun in wisdom?" He then nodded toward the narrow staircase leading upstairs. "Regulus's room, then. Let's see if we missed anything."
The three men ascended the staircase, the old wood groaning under their weight, each step feeling like it could betray them. As they reached the landing, Sirius paused, glancing around the hallway. "Ah, yes, Regulus's charming little haven of contrition," he said, voice dripping with mockery. "The place where he 'saw the light,' or whatever nonsense he convinced himself of."
Charlus's lips tightened in a rare expression of disapproval. "I would suggest you show a little more respect, Sirius. Regulus's tragic turn was more than just foolishness. It was the result of a man realizing too late what he had gotten himself into. His actions were... relevant."
Sirius snorted, clearly unconvinced. "Oh, of course. It's all tragic—the boy who was too naïve to realize his family was filled with arseholes. I mean, we're talking about a house that's been poisoning people with its charm since the damn portraits were painted. But hey, sure, I'll show respect." He pushed open the door to Regulus's old room with a dramatic flair. "It smells like bad decisions in here. So much potential for bad decisions."
The room was exactly as it had been when Regulus had last occupied it—stale, forgotten, and barely touched. The curtains were drawn tightly shut, giving the space a heavy, oppressive feel. There were stacks of books, half-empty shelves, and an array of forgotten objects strewn about as if to keep the ghost of Regulus's ideals alive, even after his departure.
Arcturus's sharp eyes immediately swept the room, taking in every detail. His voice was calm but precise, as always. "Regulus may have been misguided, but he was no fool. If there's anything here worth finding, it will be well-hidden." He moved forward, carefully examining the room's corners and under the bed. "If you've missed something, I suggest you find it now, Sirius. There's no room for mistakes."
Sirius merely rolled his eyes and leaned against the doorframe. "Of course there's nothing here. Regulus was like a rat—he scurried off, realized he'd been gnawing on poison the whole time, and then tried to die heroically. Real romantic stuff, that."
Charlus gave a small, knowing nod. "I can't imagine Regulus would leave anything truly valuable here, but we need to be sure. Let's make the most of it, for now."
They combed through the room, checking every book, pulling out each drawer, and inspecting the walls for any hidden compartments. It wasn't long before Sirius let out an exasperated sigh, looking over at Charlus with an exaggerated frown. "Really? We're still pretending Regulus kept a stash of Dark Lord-approved snacks in his dresser?"
"Patience, Sirius," Charlus replied, his voice laced with the calm authority that only he could wield. "You never know what's lurking in the shadows of the past. Sometimes, the most dangerous things aren't the ones in plain sight."
As he finished speaking, his sharp eyes flicked toward a small, almost invisible crack in the wall beside the desk. His hand moved instinctively toward it, and with a soft incantation, the wall gave way to reveal a hidden compartment.
"Well, well," Charlus muttered, voice tinged with satisfaction. "It seems we have something after all."
Sirius raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. "I'll be damned. Guess I was wrong—maybe Regulus did have something up his sleeve after all."
Arcturus stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "Careful," he murmured, voice low and commanding. "Regulus was a fool, but he wasn't a reckless one. If there's something hidden here, it will be guarded with a particular kind of magic. We must be ready."
Sirius rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles. "Oh, don't worry, grandfather. I've got it under control. No one does reckless better than me."
Charlus gave a faint, approving smile. "Then let's see what reckless yields us, Sirius. Shall we?"
With a flick of Sirius's wand, the compartment opened fully, revealing the forgotten remnants of Regulus's past—the one thing he'd left behind, concealed from the world. The air felt heavy with anticipation as the three wizards exchanged a glance, knowing full well that the secrets of Grimmauld Place were far from finished revealing themselves.
—
In the dimly lit study at the Potter Estate, Ammon Raza worked with a focused intensity that seemed almost otherworldly. The air around him crackled with the weight of dark magic—an oppressive presence that he had learned to embrace and control over the years. His hands moved with precision, his fingers brushing over the ancient, cursed diary as if the very touch of it threatened to ignite the dark power embedded within.
Raza was a man who had seen and done things that would break lesser souls. His dark eyes, sharp and unyielding like polished obsidian, flicked back and forth over the pages of the diary, the dim light casting harsh shadows on his face, accentuating the deep lines etched by years of war, loss, and sacrifice. His brow furrowed as he whispered ancient incantations under his breath, the words rolling off his tongue like poison, a deadly rhythm to tame the malignant magic.
There was no hesitation in his movements, no doubt in his mind. Ammon Raza had faced things worse than Voldemort—ancient evils, unspoken curses, and beings older than the very world itself. And yet, this task felt different. He could feel Voldemort's presence even through the layers of protective magic the diary was bound with, an echo of the dark wizard's malice that sent a chill down his spine.
"This is a battle of wills," he mused silently, his voice deep and gravelly in his mind. "Voldemort may have thought he was the master of this little game. But what he doesn't understand is that I've danced with death far longer than he has ever dared."
Raza leaned in closer, his fingers curling slightly as he probed the magical wards on the diary, sensing the dark essence that clung to its pages like a snake wrapped around its prey. The flickering candlelight revealed the depth of the tome's power, casting a sickly glow over the ancient parchment. The diary was not just a vessel of memories; it was a weapon, a portal through which Voldemort had poured his very soul.
"Voldemort," he muttered, his voice carrying an almost amused edge, as though the name itself was an old, annoying acquaintance. "Always the dramatist. Does he ever tire of making himself the center of every plot, every twist, every miserable little thing?"
His long, calloused fingers continued their dance, tracing the glowing lines of the diary's protective enchantments, his gaze fixed with a fierce concentration. As the ink swirled on the pages beneath his fingertips, he muttered an incantation to bind the diary to his will, forcing the dark energies to bend under his command.
Suddenly, the book let out a low, eerie hum, as though it were alive, its dark power trying to push back. But Raza's lips twisted into a knowing grin, a slow, dangerous smile that spread across his face. "You think you can resist me, little thing?" His voice was soft, but there was an unmistakable edge to it—a promise that any entity foolish enough to challenge him would soon regret it.
With a sharp gesture, Ammon raised his other hand, and a soft glow emanated from his palm. The light, though faint, seemed to push back against the swirling darkness of the diary. It was not just magic he wielded. It was experience. A lifetime spent in the service of powers beyond mortal comprehension had given him the strength to break through even the most unyielding of barriers.
The diary's pages fluttered wildly as if it were alive, its magic thrashing like a beast caught in a trap. Raza's eyes glinted with dark amusement as the resistance crumbled under his mastery. "You are as predictable as they come, Voldemort. Always underestimating those who do not bow to your so-called greatness. Foolishness will be your undoing."
Finally, with a resounding crack, the wards on the diary shattered, and the book fell silent, its power now subdued under Ammon's control. He exhaled slowly, his chest rising and falling with a deep breath. The flickering candle flames seemed to settle, casting a softer, steadier light now that the battle was over.
Raza reached for the now-dormant diary and, with a deliberate slowness, he flipped through the pages. His gaze was cold, analytical, and merciless. "There is something to be said for the art of destruction," he mused, turning the pages with a ruthless efficiency. "You never truly understand what you're dealing with until you've broken it."
Each page revealed fragments of Voldemort's thoughts, fractured memories, and echoes of his power. The black ink had a strange shimmer to it, the very essence of his soul leaking out, trapped in the pages. And Raza? He absorbed it all with a grim satisfaction, knowing that this was another step toward ending the Dark Lord's reign once and for all.
"There will be no victory for him," Ammon said, his voice low and heavy, filled with the certainty of someone who had seen the future unfold time and again. "Not while I breathe. Not while any of us stand against him."
As the last of the diary's magic settled, Ammon allowed himself a rare, brief moment of peace—before the war would call him back once again.
—
The dimly lit drawing room of Grimmauld Place was thick with the tension of failed efforts. The air felt stagnant, filled with the weight of unspoken thoughts. Charlus Potter stood in the center of the room, his back straight and eyes narrowed, scrutinizing the artifacts and parchments they had gathered. Despite their exhaustive search, nothing had surfaced that could lead them to another Horcrux.
Sirius, leaning casually against the fireplace, tossed a piece of parchment into the fire with a flick of his wrist, his face betraying a mix of frustration and exhaustion. "Well, that was a waste of time," he muttered, his tone gruff but laced with his usual sardonic humor. "I'm starting to think our best shot at finding the next one is sticking a broom up Bellatrix's arse and seeing what falls out."
Charlus's icy gaze turned toward Sirius, an eyebrow raising slightly in that signature, withering way he had perfected over the years. "Yes, because I'm sure Bellatrix has a collection of Horcruxes just... ready for the taking," Charlus drawled, his voice smooth and dripping with sarcasm. "If only we had the good fortune to stumble upon her personal vault filled with dark magic and paranoia."
Sirius grinned, unabashed, but it was Arcturus, who had been silently watching, that broke the silence. The elder Black's voice was deep and authoritative, with a slow and deliberate tone that suggested he'd just reached a conclusion that none of them had considered. "Enough jesting, both of you." He fixed Charlus with a piercing gaze, his voice unwavering. "It is clear we are not going to find the answers here."
Charlus glanced over at Arcturus, a wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I see someone has decided to take the fun out of it," he quipped, his tone dry.
"Sometimes," Arcturus replied, his voice low and gravely serious, "we must be pragmatic. You've spent hours rummaging through memories and dusty rooms, and still, no Horcrux. Bellatrix's vault remains our best lead. As Head of House Black, it falls to me to retrieve the Cup. It's time we faced facts."
Charlus's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, the seriousness of the situation sinking in. "Arcturus," he said, his voice cutting through the air, "I need you to go to Gringotts. You have the authority. Bellatrix's vault is our next target. Her twisted little collection could hold the answer we need to break this whole damn war wide open."
Arcturus nodded, his face setting into a mask of determination. The flickering light of the fire cast shadows over his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his face and the weight of years spent in service to both family and country. "Understood," he said, his voice heavy with a commanding presence. "I'll make the necessary arrangements immediately."
Sirius shook his head, his lips curling in that familiar, roguish grin. "You'll probably end up making a bloody spectacle of yourself, won't you, Arcturus?" he teased, his tone light yet laced with affection. "Gringotts won't know what hit it."
Arcturus's lips twitched ever so slightly at the corner, but his eyes remained sharp and focused. "If I must be a spectacle to retrieve the Cup, so be it. The greater spectacle, however, would be Voldemort winning. We've no choice."
Charlus, ever the master of quiet command, allowed himself the smallest of nods. "Then it's settled. Go quickly, and come back with what we need. The longer we delay, the more Voldemort gains. And I do not intend to let that monster succeed, no matter the cost."
Sirius stepped forward, clapping Arcturus on the back with a force that might have knocked down a lesser man. "If anyone can get past the goblins, it's you, old man. Just... try not to charm them out of their gold while you're at it. We need that Cup, not a new vault for your personal collection."
Arcturus looked down at Sirius, his expression grave but with a flicker of something like dry amusement in his eyes. "If I had a Galleon for every time you've insulted my charm... I would be rich enough to buy the Ministry of Magic, Sirius."
With that, Arcturus turned and made for the door, his footsteps echoing through the house like the quiet, deliberate steps of someone who had seen far too much, yet never stopped fighting.
Charlus watched him go, the flicker of a half-smile tugging at his lips. "Let's hope your charm doesn't get the best of you this time, Arcturus," he muttered, but it was clear that the seriousness of the mission had settled in all their minds.
Sirius, hands in his pockets, glanced at Charlus. "You know, when this is all over, I'm going to need a drink the size of the Black family fortune. Think that'll be enough to drown out all this madness?"
Charlus looked at him, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Only if you plan to drink the entire vault at Gringotts. Though, with you, I wouldn't put it past you."
Sirius shot him a grin. "I'll consider it. Just don't go getting any bright ideas while we wait for Arcturus to sort out this mess."
With that, the two men stood in the quiet of Grimmauld Place, the weight of their responsibility hanging heavy, yet a flicker of hope that Arcturus's actions would lead them to the final pieces of the puzzle they needed to defeat Voldemort once and for all.
---
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