Chapter 47: Rightfully Mine
Blaise ZabiniLondon, Great Britain
I lunged deep, the point of my rapier aimed at my instructor’s throat. I knew it wouldn’t land, of course. Coach Michael Goodwin, the fencing instructor I’d found, was no gold-plated Olympian, but he sure as shit was better than me. At thirty-three years old, he was old enough to have seen it all and still young enough to do it all. That, and his reach was considerably longer than that of my teenage self.
He slapped my blade aside and used the motion to flow into a counter. I pulled my own sword in close, catching the weak of his blade against my strong. That gave me just enough time to recover from my lunge, resetting our positions. It was a well-practiced rhythm by now: Attack. Guard. Recover.
In my offhand, I held a parrying dagger, the shortest one they had in the studio. At twelve inches, it weighed less than a pound. More importantly, it was only two inches longer than my wand.
I often wiggled it around, a left-to-right swish followed by a sharp, vertical flick upward. It was, of course, Protego, that most basic of defensive charms that most adults couldn’t cast if their lives depended on it. Madness. Utter madness. It wasn’t that the spell was especially difficult or costly, either.
Harry could use it in his fourth year. And, to prove he wasn’t coasting off the Chosen One exceptionalism, he taught every member of Dumbledore’s Army to do it in a month or two, some of whom were even younger than him. People simply saw that there was no use for it in everyday life and either let their wandwork get rusty, or never bothered learning at all.
Lunge. Guard. Rest.
“You’re getting predictable,” Coach Goodwin said. “Throw in a few feints here and there. I know I taught you a couple.”
“Yes, coach,” I barked.
Lunge. Guard. Rest. Again, the pattern repeated itself. A feint or two didn’t disrupt the pattern much, just an added distraction that my instructor easily defended against. All the while, my dagger kept tracing the motions, carving the weight and movements into my muscle memory.
It was actually a bit of a problem in the studio. Never once did I use my offhand weapon as it ought to be used. After all, if I tried to physically parry an oncoming spell with a wand, the best possible outcome was me being disarmed. The dagger was there as a stand-in baton, which meant my muggle fellows thought I just had zero clue how to use the damn thing.
There were other differences I noticed as I continued to practice in a muggle fencing studio. What worked for competitive fencing, or for HEMA, didn’t necessarily work when I expected to face wizards. Not that I had much experience on that front, but recordings of professional duelists were helpful. I took to watching a few each night, imagining how I might compare as a prospective “spellblade.”
For example, as Coach Goodwin had pointed out, I did not feint as often as he thought I should. It was not because I thought his advice was worthless, but because if I ever got within thrusting range, it would have meant that I’d closed the distance between a wizard and a swordsman.
At that point, the advantage was already mine. From there, aided by the Sight, missing would be damn near impossible. Given context, I was far more interested in honing the accuracy of my thrusts than incorporating complex feints. As far as I was concerned, a single strike should end the fight.
I also tended not to lunge as deeply as many professional fencers did. The recovery was too slow. Instead, I focused on lateral movement, swift shuffles that would allow me to evade rapidfire spells. Protego was nice, but the best answer to an attack was still not being hit at all.
These little differences in our fighting styles built up quickly until it was noticeable even to my fellow trainees. Still, I paid the studio, so I got to spar like everyone else.
We continued in this cycle until my legs burned and I felt like I’d be casting Protegos in my sleep. I hadn’t been especially athletic in my previous life, but I found this to be a good distraction from the goings-ons of the wizarding world.
Sirius Black was back. As much as I wanted to talk to him right away, I couldn’t be the first to approach him. It wouldn’t do for people to assume I had something to do with his newfound freedom after all, so the note I’d left with Violet would have to do.
He had commitments as a new lord, not least of which was his confirmation hearing. After he took up his proper seat, he’d probably make the motion for whatever punishment he felt Peter deserved, which would necessitate a sentencing hearing. He’d also have to get his house’s finances in order, reconnect with old contacts, and hopefully, find the time in the last few days of winter break to meet Violet if he hadn’t already.
Poor bastard. I didn’t envy him.
X
Sirius BlackGrimmauld Place
The last few weeks felt like a dream. I feared going to sleep each night. I feared that when I opened my eyes again, I’d find myself back in my cell, with all of this having been the wistful delusions of a fracturing mind.
I was free. Peter was imprisoned, guarded by the finest aurors in the ministry. The minister, desperate to paint himself as the man of justice he absolutely wasn’t, was bending over backwards to accommodate me. I had no doubt that the rat would die in a few weeks at most.
More importantly, I had family to meet.
Andy looked older, with streaks of gray in her hair that made her already aristocratic face seem even more severe. Those piercing eyes had been so cold and haunted back then. Each night, she feared that masked men would break into her home, that her own sister would arrive to torture her husband and daughter to death.
They were warmer now. Still piercing, but thawed from a decade of healing. Married life suited my cousin.
And little Nymphadora. I’d only met her a handful of times. Even as the “white sheep” of the Blacks, Andy didn’t like me being anywhere near her family. The odds of being followed were too high back then.
She was an auror now, fresh from Moody’s hellish training camp. Her beauty was all Andy, as was her magic and skill. A metamorphmagus, and a halfblood at that. Our parents were probably rolling in their graves. But her fire? Her heart? That, I thought, came from Ted.
I remembered the same fire in his eyes when I first learned about their relationship. He hadn’t known how I’d react. He’d been ready to fight me for her, even knowing his wandwork was piss compared to mine. And he’d kept that grit over the years. The family harassed him, threatened him, but the man stuck to his word, treated my cousin right. He was a better man than me.
A pang of regret stabbed into my chest with physical force. I cursed the war. Voldemort. Peter. Myself. I’d missed so much, tossed away a decade of my life. The world had moved on, and here I was, trying desperately to catch up again.
I offered to bring her back into the family. I figured I may as well use the damn lordship for something good. It’d be my first decision as Lord Black, giant “fuck you” to my dearly departed family. It wouldn’t even be a bad idea, politically speaking. It’d ensure that there was another Black should something happen to me, bring Nymphadora back into the inheritance.
Andy refused, of course. She thanked me, but she wanted nothing to do with the name even now. I couldn’t blame her, even if forcing all those stuffy bastards to call her “Lady Black” sounded hilarious.
And then there was Violet. The girl I’d utterly failed to protect. Other than the day of my hearing, I hadn’t had much of a chance to meet her. There was so much going on, so much to do that I couldn’t get away from. The best we managed were a couple letters, and a promise to meet up in Hogsmeade each weekend.
She’d been insistent on it, not just to meet me for herself, but also to introduce me to someone very special. What I heard from Dumbledore had been unbelievable, but I’d never known the headmaster to lie. That I’d owe my freedom to a boy my goddaughter’s age…
I couldn’t help it. I laughed long and loud at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. Fate had a sense of humor, and she was an unrepentant bitch about it.
X
Lyra MalfoyMalfoy Manor
It wasn’t fair. No matter what I did, father wouldn’t tell me about the Dark Lord’s legacy. I didn’t even know what it was, or that we had such an item in our home. I should’ve known. After all, father was the Dark Lord’s most trusted right hand.
“Father, please tell me,” I demanded over dinner. Poached duck, with seared, crispy skin and a rich, elderberry glaze. I paid it no mind compared to the mystery before me. “Zabini knows. It’s not fair that he knows more about House Malfoy’s affairs than your heiress.”
“He knows because he is a seer,” father said plainly. “I assure you, I did not tell him. Had I my way, the Dark Lord’s legacy would remain buried.”
“But why? Why bury a treasure like that?”
“You would not understand, Lyra. Such a thing is not to be used carelessly.”
“No, but it is to be used as a bargaining chip,” I said bitterly. ‘What even is it, father? Why is it so important that you cannot even name it to me or mother, but so worthless that it can be purchased by Zabini of all people?”
“You overreach, daughter,” he said, voice laden with quiet threat. For a moment, he was Lord Malfoy, the man feared across the wizarding world. “The Black seat is beyond our reach. Sirius Black would rather burn it all to the ground to spite us than let you inherit.”
“So Zabini says. Even he can’t be right all the time, father.”
“So I say, Lyra dear,” mother cut in. She’d been content to watch us carefully, always a bastion of support by father’s side. “Cousin Sirius has always been the stubborn sort.”
“What’s the worst he can do? Will he toss sacks of galleons from the steps of Gringotts until the Black vault lies empty?”
“No. He will invite Andromeda back into the family.”
It took me a moment to remember who that was. My aunt, the middle child. “The blood-traintor?”
Mother looked like she'd swallowed a lemon. A storm of emotions played across her features. There were few things that could make her break her composure, but any mention of “Aunt Andy” was among them.
Although, I supposed she wasn’t really my aunt. She hadn’t been for a long time, longer than I’d been alive, really. I hadn’t even been born when she’d been cast out.
It was a little strange, knowing I’d once had family, one I’d never met. I didn’t even know which mudblood she’d whored herself out to. I wondered if there was ever a time when the Black sisters had been close, when Andromeda Black had stood in defense of magic and heritage.
“Yes, the blood-traitor,” mother said, sighing in disappointment. “Sirius is in his rights as Lord Black to reinstate any exiled members of the house.”
“I don’t see why that matters,” I scoffed. “I’m still Heiress Black.”
“Andy is older than me, Lyra. If she reclaims the Black name, you wouldn’t be Heiress Black. That title would go to her daughter, Nymphadora.”
“I-I have a cousin?”
“She is no family of ours,” mother said sharply. Then, with more reluctance, “But yes… Andromeda, Tonks now, has a daughter named Nymphadora.”
“But sure, not even Uncle Sirius would taint the bloodline with a blood-traitor and her halfblood spawn.”
“He would. Gleefully. Can you imagine anyone turning down the Black name if it is offered to them?”
“No, of course not. Who would dare?”
“And now you see the trouble. If we press for the Black seat, my disgusting cousin will do everything he can to spite us, even if it means burning a thousand years of tradition and legacy to ashes,” mother said with a resigned frown.
A pit formed in my stomach. “The Black seat is beyond us. Zabini was right. But… But what about the Dark Lord’s legacy? Surely it’s worth even more than the Black vault, father.”
“It is not. It is nothing of consequence, just a curiosity,” father said. I was wearing them down, slowly but surely. “If Zabini can secure us the Black vault, then it is worthwhile to be rid of it.”
“Rid of it? Father, it is the Dark Lord’s gift. He entrusted it to you!”
“And he is gone, Lyra. His goals were noble, but he is no longer here.”
“So you’re just giving it away? Like a party favor?”
“I am securing the Black legacy in the only way available to me,” he snapped. “Which is more important, Lyra? That the Black vault goes to proper, pureblood stewards, or that his legacy be kept in our house?”
“Both!”
“At least this way, Zabini will hold the Dark Lord’s legacy. Is he not a proper pureblood? We are merely entrusting it to another, while also taking the Black vault from a blood-traitor.”
It all seemed reasonable, but I didn’t like it. It sounded too much like giving up. “We shouldn’t have to compromise. The Black vault is ours by right.”
“We are not offering more than we can afford, daughter.”
“Then if it doesn’t matter, tell me what the Dark Lord’s legacy is. Is it an enchanted ring? A wand?”
“It is not.”
“I bet it’s a grimoire.” It was subtle. Had I not lived with him all my life, I doubted even I would have noticed. But there it was, the slightest twitch of his brow. “It is! It’s a grimoire! You’re giving Zabini a grimoire!”
“A diary,” father said with a tired sigh. Finally, success. “It is a diary, not a grimoire. You may rest easy that there is no secret knowledge being passed on.”
“The Dark Lord’s diary?” I gasped. I couldn’t even imagine what such a thing would be worth. “And you’re giving something like that away?”
“It is not his diary. The diary belonged to a man named Tom Riddle. I know not why the Dark Lord gave it to me, only that it is entirely blank.”
I frowned in confusion. Riddle was not a surname I recognized. “That can’t be. There has to be something special about it, father. There’s no way something the Dark Lord left behind would be so mundane.”
“There is nothing. Do you really think I had not examined it?” he replied with a weary sigh. “Enough. It is done. The bargain is made. Zabini will get an empty diary. I don’t know what he saw in his vision, but it’s none of our concern provided he delivers his end of the deal.”
“Yes, father, as you say,” I said by rote. “Then surely it wouldn’t be too much for me to see it.”
Father squirmed in his seat. Or, as much as he’d ever allow himself to. He knew I had him. If it was just a novelty, then me knowing about it did no harm. If it wasn’t, if it was truly valuable, then I refused to let Zabini have it.
Frankly, I was sick and tired of being denied. This past year had been awful.
First, I reached out a hand of friendship to Potter, only to receive a slap across the cheek in return. Learning that she hadn’t been rude intentionally wasn’t better. That the Girl Who Lived, the supposed savior of the wizarding world, was an uncouth muppet was insulting beyond words.
Then, not only did my yearmates not follow my lead as they should, Zabini supported Greengrass over me! He didn’t do anything overt, but I wasn’t stupid. He probably fancied her, and gave her advice to undermine my position among the girls. There was no other way someone like Greengrass could have beaten me for the private suite.
And then, I found out that my dear Uncle Sirius would be returning, that being Lady Malfoy-Black was a pipe dream. This wasn’t just a matter of my schooling. Combining the two houses had been an aspiration of mine. It was the kind of thing that could have cemented my place atop Magical Britain all my life.
Zabini had nothing to do with Uncle Sirius, but I was sick and tired of hearing his name. Prophet this, seer that. Yes, he was powerful. Yes, he was talented. But that didn’t mean people ought to treat him like the next coming of Merlin!
Eventually, I whittled down my father's resolve. He took me into the family library. It was a large hall, six times the size of any Hogwarts classroom. It was two stories tall and had floor-to-ceiling shelves throughout. This collection was the work of centuries; some books here predated the establishment of the ministry.
I used to come here often, not because I was as bookish as Granger, but because I loved the ambiance. The books and scrolls that lined the shelves weren’t all grimoires or collections of secret potions recipes. In fact, most of them weren’t especially useful. No, they were trophies. They were each pieces of House Malfoy’s long history. Here, the true depth of our legacy could be felt.
And like any grand library, there were multiple hidden rooms and safes. Sometimes, I wondered if every other Lord Malfoy felt dissatisfied by his predecessors’ reading nooks and made his own. I was not yet the lady of the house and I knew of at least four off the top of my head.
We passed them all. Then, in a secluded corner of the library, father stopped. He peeled the rug back and tapped the floorboards in a specific pattern. The varnished ebony planks peeled back, revealing an unadorned strongbox. Gingerly, he took it out and set it on a nearby coffee table.
He opened the box, only to reveal a thin diary. It was bound in inexpensive leather, with a cover that boasted nothing more than a name: Tom Marvolo Riddle. It was, to the last detail, a thoroughly underwhelming book.
I let out an unladylike snort, half in frustration, half in disbelief. “This is it? Father, I know you said it was a diary, but I expected… more.”
“You were wrong,” father said simply. He held it open for me to see and flipped through the pages one by one. “This is the so-called ‘legacy’ the Dark Lord entrusted to me. Nothing. Empty. Do you see now, Lyra? Giving this to Zabini costs us nothing.”
“But what if there’s more to this book? If Zabini wants it, that must be because it is valuable, father.”
“Then its secrets are his to unravel. Whether it leads to wealth or magic, it means nothing if we cannot have it. And seeing as we cannot have it, giving it to him costs us nothing and wins us much.”
That didn’t sit right with me. The thought that there could be hidden secrets to this diary, secrets Zabini would get his greedy hands on, made my stomach ache. He bloody well wasn’t even giving up his vault to do so!
“I want to try,” I blurted out. “I want to uncover the–”
“Absolutely not,” father snapped. His eyes flashed in anger as he placed the book back in the strongbox. He locked it using a charm I did not know and placed it beneath the floorboards once more. “You are not to touch the diary, Lyra. You are not to seek it out. In fact, until you leave for Hogwarts, you are not to enter the library at all.”
“But father!”
“Am I understood, Lyra?”
“But what if this is a test from the Dark Lord? A secret for those who can prove themselves?”
“I will not repeat myself a third time, Lyra,” he said, glowering harshly.
I met his gaze defiantly, but backed down in the end. Grudgingly, I muttered, “Yes, father.”
X
Father was making a mistake. I didn’t know how I knew, but I knew. The diary was precious beyond words. It was a gift from the Dark Lord to House Malfoy. There was no way it was just a blank piece of junk.
He believed that just because we did not know its secrets now, that we were better off giving it to Zabini. Maybe that was true, but I couldn’t stand it. Was I not also a Malfoy? If we were giving it away, didn’t I deserve the chance to seek out its secrets? Losing the opportunity without even being permitted to make the attempt was too cruel.
No. I refused to accept this treatment, not even from my father. I’d already had far too many things taken from me this year. I refused to allow Zabini to reap the Dark Lord’s favor, not when it belonged to House Malfoy, to me.
So, for the first time in as far back as I could remember, I disobeyed my father. The night before I left for Hogwarts, I snuck into the library. I had no idea how I’d break my father's locking charm, but I was determined to find a way.
Except, to my surprise, I didn’t have to. When I peeled back the rug and took out the strongbox, it opened on its own. The lid lifted free, presenting the diary to me. It was as if I was meant to have it.
I felt a shiver run down my spine. Was that it? Could it be that father never discovered its secrets because it was never meant for him? Had the Dark Lord meant his gift, not for father, but for the next generation?
It would certainly explain why Zabini wanted this so dearly. He always kept out of Slytherin politics, saying it was more profitable to remain a neutral information broker. Wasn’t it weird then, that he volunteered to speak with Uncle Sirius on father’s behalf? Surely, that was because he knew the prize was worth the risk.
Well, not this time. I didn’t know who Tom Riddle was, but he must have been important for the Dark Lord to have gifted father his diary. I swore that whatever secrets Riddle’s diary held, Zabini wouldn’t get his hands on it. Not before me. Not when it rightfully belonged to a Malfoy.
Smiling, I reached out my hand.
Author’s Note
Dun! Dun! Duunn!!
This officially ends the winter holiday arc. I hope I made this all believable.
Protego has no official wand motion I could find, except the one used in Hogwarts Mystery, which is just a vertical line.
It’s weird to think about, but Andromeda would have been cast out of the Black family when she married Ted. Given Nymphadora’s age, that was years before Lyra/Draco was born. There’s a good chance that Lyra/Draco grew up without even knowing Ted Tonks’ name, never mind that they had a cousin.
Anyway, I’m sure a lot of people saw Lyra’s shenanigans coming. I like her a lot, to be honest. She’s an incredibly immature girl, but that immaturity suits her. And as always, the only thing that can beat a seer is an idiot.
The diary unmade Lucius’ locking charm. Horcruxes have some ability to manipulate their surroundings, such as by luring in victims.
Yes, Lucius knows the diary can be used to open the Chamber of Secrets. No, he doesn’t know how. He’s doing that classic father thing where he hopes that if he doesn’t mention something, his daughter won’t find out. He’s not wrong: Lyra would’ve gone apeshit if she found out that it could open the fabled chamber.
Animal Fact: You may have heard that raccoons wash their food. This is unfortunately not true. At least, not for the reason you might think. As cute as it would be for them to have a sense of hygiene, that’s not what’s happening. The real reason raccoons rinse their food in streams is because they have poor eyesight… kinda.
Really, it’s more that their vision is hyper-specialized for hunting and scavenging in low-light conditions such as dawn and dusk. They are very nearsighted, partially colorblind, but have great depth perception. So once they do acquire a possible foodstuff, they sometimes have trouble determining if it’s really food.
One way raccoons perceive their world is by sense of touch. Not only do they have extremely dextrous front paws, these paws have four to five times more sensory receptors than most other mammals. They’re as good as, if not better than, human hands.
However, these paws grow less sensitive over time. Living in nature is rough and they build up callouses. So, the real reason raccoons “wash” food is actually to soften their calloused paws and make them more sensitive. They do this to better examine what’s in front of them.