Chapter 24
A sharp, distinct pop echoed in the manicured gardens of Lestrange Manor, barely disturbing the tranquil afternoon. Reinhard Lestrange, a man whose reputation preceded him like a chilling wind, didn't even flinch. He merely turned his head slowly, a subtle gesture that nonetheless commanded the attention of his companions: Abarax Malfoy, Cygnus Black, and Cygnus’s wife, Druella. They were seated on the stone patio, enjoying a civilised tea service under the watchful gaze of gargoyles that adorned the manor gates.
"Speak of the Great Wizard and he shall appear," Reinhard drawled, a hint of amusement lacing his voice. Standing just beyond the wrought iron gates were Albus Dumbledore, his long robes swaying gently in the breeze, and flanking him were Auror Alastor Moody, his magical eye swivelling with suspicion, and a young, determined Frank Longbottom.
Dumbledore, as ever, was the picture of composure. He stepped forward, his voice carrying clearly over the gentle murmur of the garden fountain. "Reinhard, we need to talk."
Reinhard leaned back in his chair, a languid gesture that spoke volumes of his nonchalance. "Since when did the Great Dumbledore acquire the audacity to address me by my first name?" he asked, his tone laced with faux surprise.
A ripple of suppressed laughter passed through the assembled pure-bloods. Cygnus choked back a snort of tea, while Druella’s lips twitched with barely concealed glee. Dumbledore, with a practiced disregard for such petty jabs, pressed on. "Reinhard, I need to speak to you about the muggle woman who has become part of your family."
Cygnus coughed again, this time unable to contain his amusement. "How incredibly rude of you, Dumbledore," he sputtered, wiping a tear from his eye. "To call Reinhard's daughter-in-law a 'muggle' in his very presence! You do understand she has a name, don't you? Or has respect for the venerable Lestrange clan completely escaped you?"
Druella chimed in, her voice a silky purr. "You know, darling, it's quite perplexing. Dumbledore parades himself about as a 'mudblood lover', and yet here he stands, insulting our dear friend's daughter-in-law. Honestly, Albus, no matter how much you preen and posture, you're just the same as the rest of us. Prejudice runs deep, doesn't it?"
Reinhard finally settled back in his chair, a slow, deliberate motion. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, his gaze fixed on Dumbledore. "Tell me, Dumbledore," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "if you have anything to discuss about my new daughter-in-law, you will say it now, in front of my friends."
Dumbledore's famed patience seemed to fray at the edges, a flicker of steel entering his eyes. "Your daughter-in-law," he enunciated clearly, "needs to face the consequences of her actions. Torturing esteemed Aurors, threatening the Minister of Magic in front of witnesses... she needs to come with us."
Reinhard tapped his chin thoughtfully, feigning deep consideration. "Hmm, let me think about it… No. My daughter-in-law has done nothing wrong. The ones who were in the wrong are Potter and Black, for daring to disrupt my son's wedding."
Abarax Malfoy, who had been observing the exchange with quiet amusement, finally spoke. "He is right, Dumbledore. According to our old, traditional laws, if anyone disturbs the joyous occasion of a pure-blood family, there must be consequences. The bride merely acted according to tradition, and in a most… satisfying manner, I might add." He chuckled, relishing the visible anger simmering beneath Moody and Longbottom’s Auror composure.
Alastor Moody, his magical eye whirring and clicking, finally roared, his voice gravelly and loud enough to startle the birds in the nearby trees. "Traditional laws?! Lord Malfoy, your ‘traditional laws’ do not imply that the Muggle should carve up my Aurors with a knife and pour Polyjuice onto their wounds while they are screaming in agony!"
As Moody spoke, two more figures emerged from the manor, strolling as if they were simply joining a pleasant garden party. Narcissa Malfoy, serene and beautiful as ever, walked arm-in-arm with her husband, Lucius Malfoy, his silver-blonde hair gleaming in the afternoon sun.
Lucius’s smooth voice dripped with faux concern as he addressed Dumbledore. “And it was the most… beautiful sight I have ever witnessed in my life,” he declared, completely contradicting his tone. He fixed his pale grey eyes on Dumbledore. “Oh, Dumbledore, if you had only witnessed the… creativity my best friend Petunia has shown those poor Aurors…” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You would have feared her more than the Dark Lord himself.”
Druella Black’s eyes widened dramatically. “Oh! Now I understand why you want to take Madame Lestrange away, Dumbledore. It’s because you fear her, don’t you?” She let out a peal of chilling laughter, and the other Pure-bloods joined in, the sound echoing ominously around the sun-drenched courtyard.
Dumbledore’s patience, stretched taut as a bowstring, finally snapped. “You are wrong, Madam Black,” he said, his voice rising in volume for the first time. “I am not afraid of Madame Lestrange. I merely wish to speak with her about…”
Druella cut him off, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness. “So, you wish to speak to the newest addition to the Lestrange clan? Very well.” She turned to her daughter, Narcissa, a sly smile spreading across her face. “Cissy, darling, would you please bring Petunia out here? The great Albus Dumbledore, Wizard of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump, and Chief Warlock – and Headmaster of Hogwarts, of course – wishes to have a little chat with her.”
Narcissa’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. “Of course, Mother. I’m sure Petunia would be… thrilled to meet the great Wizard of all of Britain.” The sarcasm was thick enough to cut with a knife, and with a graceful swirl of her robes, she turned and disappeared into the manor.
As Narcissa entered the cool, shadowy interior of the manor, she was immediately met with a piercing scream that reverberated through the stone corridors. “Muggle! Where are you, you filth?!” It was Bellatrix’s voice, high-pitched and laced with manic fury.
Then, she heard the frantic pounding of footsteps rushing towards her. Petunia, Rabastan Lestrange’s new wife, careened around a corner, her eyes wide with terror, her usually carefully coiffed hair in disarray, and a streak of mud smudging her cheek. “Help me! Someone, please help me! A crazy witch is trying to kill me!”
Behind Petunia, struggling to restrain a snarling Bellatrix, were Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange, their faces strained with effort. Bellatrix was a whirlwind of dark hair and frenzied limbs, cursing and spitting threats in a voice that bordered on hysterical.
Petunia, upon seeing Narcissa, scrambled behind her for protection, clutching at her silken robes. Bella, momentarily distracted by Narcissa's arrival, halted, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She glared at her sister, then her gaze flicked back to Petunia, who was peeking out from behind Narcissa’s skirts.
“Control yourself, Bella,” Narcissa said calmly, her voice a soothing balm in the chaotic situation. “You are not allowed to kill her. Not yet.” She turned her attention to Petunia, putting a reassuring hand on her arm. “Listen to me now, Petunia.” She tilted her head towards the courtyard where the men were gathered. “There is a specific, old goat with a funny beard out there. I want you to annoy him.”
Petunia stared at Narcissa, speechless for a moment. First, she’d been running for her life from a raving witch, and now she was being asked to… entertain wizards? “What…? What do you mean? How am I supposed to annoy an old goat?”
Narcissa’s smile widened, becoming almost predatory. “My dear Petunia, you tortured those Gryffindor idiots with such… flair. And you brought Cornelius Fudge, of all people, to his knees begging for mercy. You'll do just fine.” With a swift flick of her wand, Narcissa smoothed Petunia’s hair, banished the mud from her cheek, and straightened her dress, making her appear presentable in an instant.
Rabastan, watching his wife, mumbled under his breath, “She’s… breathtaking.”
Unfortunately for him, Bellatrix, with the sharp hearing of a bloodhound, caught the murmur “Watch your mouth, brother!” Bella snapped. She rounded on him, her eyes blazing, and muttered a vicious jinx under her breath. Rabastan yelped and clutched at his suddenly itching nose.
Narcissa, ignoring the minor domestic skirmish unfolding behind her, took Petunia by the arm and swept her back towards the courtyard. As soon as they emerged into the sunlight, Petunia blinked, momentarily overwhelmed by the assembled crowd.
Dumbledore stepped forward, his expression shifting to one of forced geniality. He extended a hand towards Petunia. “Madame Lestrange, I presume? I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. We were hoping to have a word with you.”
Petunia, however, was not looking at Dumbledore. Her eyes were scanning the courtyard, her brow furrowed in confusion. She turned back to Narcissa, her voice carrying clearly across the suddenly silent courtyard. “You said there was an old goat I needed to annoy. I don’t see it anywhere.”
The courtyard erupted in laughter. Druella and Cygnus Black doubled over, tears streaming down their faces. Abarax Malfoy wheezed, clutching at his chest. Even Reinhard Lestrange allowed a genuine, if chilling, smile to touch his lips.
Dumbledore’s smile tightened, his patience clearly wearing thin. He ignored the laughter and addressed Petunia again, his voice laced with condescension. “Madam Lestrange,” he said, emphasizing the name as if tasting something unpleasant, “I understand it must be difficult to live… with this kind of family.” He subtly gestured towards the Lestranges and Blacks with a flick of his hand, dripping with disdain. “And I can offer you something you truly want.”
Petunia crossed her arms, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “And what exactly do I want, ‘Dumbo something’?” she drawled, adopting a tone she usually reserved for particularly irritating customers at her old tea shop. The name, clearly unintentional, yet perfectly placed, drew another ripple of suppressed amusement from the darker side of the courtyard.
Dumbledore pressed on, ignoring the fresh wave of stifled chuckles. “Consider yourself free from this unstable family, Madam Lestrange. You can return to the Muggle world, and resume the life you once knew. The life you truly wanted.” He spoke with an air of benevolent certainty, completely missing the glint in Petunia’s eyes.
Petunia stepped closer to Dumbledore, her gaze sharp and unwavering. “And what life do I want, Dumbledore?” she repeated, the name now laced with deliberate mockery. “Hasn’t Fudge told you anything about me? I have no one waiting for me in the Muggle world. No future, no family, no money, nothing worth going back to.” She took another step, closing the distance between them. “You’re not offering me freedom, Dumbledore. You’re offering me nothing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my husband and I are off on our honeymoon.”
She turned to Rabastan, who was still rubbing his chest, but now wore a bemused expression. Just as Petunia reached out to take Rabastan’s arm, a hand clamped down on her other wrist.
Frank Longbottom, his face earnest and worried, stood beside her. “Madam Lestrange,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “You misunderstand us. We are here to help you. You don’t understand what kind of people you’re with. They loathe Muggles like you…”
But before he could finish, Petunia twisted his arm, holding him in a hold that left him breathless. “Allow me to give you a little biology lesson I learned back in the Muggle world, Mr. Auror,” Petunia said, her voice deceptively calm and low. “If I squeeze a specific nerve, Mr. Auror here will become… shall we say, less communicative. Possibly a vegetable. If I touch another, he might just stop breathing altogether.”
Auror Moody, his one good eye glinting dangerously, raised his wand. “Let him go, Madam! You don’t want me to use my wand.”
In a heartbeat, a dozen wands were drawn and pointed at Moody. Abarax Malfoy, Cygnus and Druella Black, Reinhard Lestrange, his sons Rabastan and Rodolphus, Bellatrix, Narcissa, and Lucius Malfoy – the entire Lestrange-Black alliance stood as one, wands blazing with barely contained magic.
Petunia didn’t even glance at them. Her focus remained on Frank, whose face was now contorted in silent agony. “I dare you to jinx me, Mr. Pirate,” she said, her voice still quiet but laced with steel. “Because if you do, I promise you the return volley will be…corpses. Now, Mr. Pirate,” she tilted her head slightly, “lower your wand.”
Dumbledore, his face a mask of controlled frustration, spoke up, his voice strained. “Do as she says, Alastor.”
Moody, with a muttered curse, grudgingly lowered his wand. “Madam Lestrange,” he grit out, “let Mr. Longbottom go.”
Petunia still didn’t release her grip. She finally glanced at Dumbledore, a cold, assessing look in her eyes. “Let this be a warning to you, Headmaster,” she said, her voice clear and carrying across the silent courtyard. “Next time you pull a stunt like this…” she paused, tightening her grip on Frank’s hand just enough to make him whimper, “…then there will be hell to pay.”
With that, she released Frank’s hand, pushing him slightly away. He stumbled back, clutching his wrist, relief flooding his face. Petunia ignored him, turning back to Rabastan, a sweet smile gracing her lips. “Darling,” she said, taking his arm as if nothing unusual had just occurred. “You mentioned something about a honeymoon? We should really start packing, shouldn’t we?”
As Petunia and Rabastan turned and walked back towards the manor, the assembled dark witches and wizards erupted in laughter again, louder this time, shaking the very foundations of Lestrange Manor. Dumbledore’s face was thunderous, a vein throbbing in his temple. He watched Petunia disappear into the manor, his expression a mixture of fury and bewildered disbelief at the Muggle’s audacious defiance.
Reinhard Lestrange stepped forward, addressing Dumbledore with a sardonic smile. “I believe you’ve heard your answer, Dumbledore,” he said, his voice ringing with triumph. “Now, take your loyal pets and leave.”
Moody, grumbling under his breath, helped a still-shaken Frank to his feet. As they began to Disapparate a short distance away, Dumbledore turned back to Reinhard Lestrange, his gaze burning. “This isn’t over, Reinhard,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous.
Reinhard Lestrange simply chuckled, a dark, chilling sound that echoed in the courtyard. “Not by a longshot, Albus,” he replied, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “Not by a longshot.” And then, Dumbledore, Moody, and Frank vanished with a crack, leaving the triumphant laughter of the Lestranges, Malfoys, and Blacks to fill the air, and the unexpected, unyielding figure of Petunia Lestrange to ponder within the manor walls.