Chapter 35
The air in Malfoy Manor’s opulent drawing-room crackled with a tension thicker than the tapestries adorning the walls. Petunia Lestrange, nee Evans, stood at the ornate mahogany table, her borrowed composure stretched taut. Around her, faces carved from privilege and etched with generations of pureblood arrogance stared back, a sea of suspicion and simmering fury. This was a world she’d always been on the periphery of, a world that had stolen her sister, a world she’d actively shunned. Now, she was their unlikely savior, a Muggle wife in a den of snakes.
Rabastan, her husband, sat beside her, his hand possessively resting on her lower back, a silent reassurance. He beamed at her with an almost puppy-like adoration that made her stomach churn, not with love, but a complicated mix of guilt and something akin to gratitude. He was… different with her. Gentle, even. A stark contrast to the chilling reputation of Rabastan Lestrange, Death Eater.
“Yes,” she began again, her voice steadier this time despite the tremor in her hands, “you are all here because you have been poisoned. Not by magic, but by a mundane, Muggle poison: arsenic. It has been lying dormant in your homes, insidiously leaching into your lives for nearly a century.”
A ripple of whispers swept through the room. Wilburga Black, her face a wrinkled mask of disdain, scoffed, “Unbelievable, Malfoy. You dragged us all from our estates to listen to this…Muggle drivel about poison? We are wizards, for Merlin’s sake!”
Before Lucius Malfoy, who had orchestrated this gathering, could respond, a piercing silence fell. Bellatrix Lestrange, a woman whose very presence radiated volatile magic, had wordlessly cast a silencing spell at her aunt. Wilburga’s mouth snapped shut, her eyes widening in affront.
“Much better,” Bellatrix purred, a chilling smile playing on her lips. Rudolphus, her husband, chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that did little to ease the tension.
Abraxas Malfoy, Lucius’s father and the patriarch of the family, ignored the brewing family drama. He gestured to Petunia with an impatient flick of his wrist. “Continue, Madam Lestrange. We are awaiting your…findings.”
Petunia took a deep breath, focusing on the worn spots on the ancient Persian rug beneath her feet. “In my research, conducted using the combined libraries of Malfoy, Black, and Lestrange manors,” she emphasized the last name, a subtle nod to her husband’s family acceptance, “I discovered a pattern. Analysis of historical records, estate inventories, and even…discarded household items, revealed that wallpapers, certain textiles used in curtains, and even some older furniture pieces were…laced with arsenic.”
Lord Avery, his gaunt face twisting in a sneer, drawled, “And what, pray tell, does this ‘arsenic’ do to us, magical, pureblood wizards and witches? We are far more supreme than this mundane poison. It is for Muggles, surely, not for the Sacred Twenty-Eight.”
Petunia met his condescending gaze, her own surprisingly firm. “Well, Lord Avery, while your magical constitution might offer some resilience, arsenic is still arsenic. Ingesting high levels of inorganic arsenic, as is present in these materials, can result in death. But even low levels, chronic exposure – which is what you are experiencing – can cause a range of debilitating symptoms: nausea, vomiting, fatigue, decreased production of red and white blood cells, abnormal heart rhythms, nerve damage leading to that ‘pins and needles’ sensation you might experience in your hands and feet…”
She turned her gaze to Narcissa Malfoy, whose usual flawless composure seemed to waver for the first time. “It also significantly impacts fertility. It can damage reproductive organs in both men and women, and negatively affect pregnancy outcomes.”
A collective gasp went through the room, this time tinged with something less like disbelief and more like dawning horror.
Petunia pressed on, her voice steady despite the weight of their stares. "It also explains the recurring… anomalies within your pure-blood lines. The increasing instances of… squibs.”
Rabastan beamed, his arm tightening around her. Yahra Parkinson, perched on a chaise lounge with her usual entourage of sycophants, watched Rabastan’s almost worshipful gaze with amusement. She nudged Antonin Dolohov, her husband, and whispered, “Aw, is it cute or what? Our dearest Rabbi completely besotted with this Muggle.”
Eamon Parkinson, Yahra’s husband , sent her a pleading look. “Yahra, please. We are in an important meeting and you’re fixated on their…love affair. Although,” he conceded, glancing at Rabastan and Petunia, “I do admit, they do seem…unlikely but cute, together.”
Antonin Dolohov, whose usual expression was one of brooding menace, rumbled, “I miss Hawaii.”
Severus Snape, ever the astute observer, spoke up, his voice a low drawl. “Madam Lestrange, you mentioned arsenic has been used in the Muggle world since the 17th and 18th centuries. However, it is 1977. The materials you mentioned are replaced repeatedly over decades. How could arsenic still be leaching from them now?” Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room. Nott Senior, his face etched with concern, echoed Snape’s question, “He’s right. We refurbish our homes constantly. How would we even know the poison was there?”
Petunia inhaled deeply, meeting their skeptical gazes. “Because, Lord Nott, the poisoning was deliberate.” The room fell deathly silent. “Someone,” she stated, her voice ringing with conviction, “is systematically poisoning the Dark families of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.”
Chaos erupted. Curses, gasps, and cries of outrage filled the room. Wands were clutched, faces flushed with rage. Lucius Malfoy, ever the composed politician, raised a hand, silencing the tumult.
“She speaks the truth,” Lucius stated, his voice cold and hard. “My wife and I have already compiled a list of families we suspect are responsible – blood traitors who have been poisoning us for generations, subtly weakening our lines for their own insidious purposes.” He nodded to an elf, who scurried forward, distributing parchment scrolls to each person in the room.
The names printed on the parchment were read in hushed whispers, then escalating shouts: “Rayl…Vice…Chastain…Omale…Walker.”
Wilburga Black screeched, her silencing spell forgotten, her finger stabbing at the parchment. “Lucius, are you certain? That these five families…are responsible?”
Alecto Carrow, her face contorted with fury, hissed, “Hector Chastain is my fiancé! And he’s been poisoning my family?” Her brother, Amycus, beside her, gripped his wand, his knuckles white. “Oh, he’s going to have a lot to explain when I torture him into oblivion,” he growled, his eyes gleaming with sadistic anticipation.
Amidst the furious pronouncements of vengeance and the rising tide of panic, Lord Tariq Shafiq, a man known for his pragmatism, spoke above the din. “Madam Lestrange,” he addressed Petunia, his voice calm and steadying, “you have explained the arsenic poisoning and its effects. Do you have an antidote? A magical counter-curse? Surely, there is something we can do.”
Petunia nodded, relief flooding her. This was the part she could control, the practical solution. “Yes,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “There is an antidote. But…it is a Muggle antidote.”
Wilburga slammed her fist on the mahogany table, the ornate wood rattling. “It doesn’t matter anymore! Just give us the antidote now so we can begin purging this filth and then…then we can start purging them.”
Bellatrix cackled, a sound that sent shivers down Petunia’s spine despite the shared Lestrange blood. “Oh, Auntie, this is going to be the best part.” She turned to Petunia, a predatory gleam in her dark eyes, and said sweetly, “Right, Muggle sister-in-law?”
The air in the room seemed to thicken, suffocating Petunia. But she braced herself, drawing on a reserve of resilience she hadn't known she possessed. “It’s called chelation therapy…”
Before she could elaborate, Lord Mulciber, his face puce with impatience, roared, “Less talking! Give us the antidote so we can have our revenge!”
Druella Black, Wilburga’s more sensible sister, shushed him sharply. “Silence, Mulciber! If you want the antidote, you need to roll up your sleeves.”
Confusion rippled through the room. Eyes darted around, questions unspoken hanging heavy in the air. “Why do we have to roll up my sleeves?” Nott Senior asked, voicing everyone’s bewilderment.
Bellatrix cackled again, louder this time, the sound echoing through the room like a whip crack. “Because, you blathering buffoon, the only way to get the poison out of your blood system, according to our dear Muggle sister-in-law,” she gestured theatrically towards Petunia, “is for her to insert a needle into your veins to flush out the poison!”
She stood, clutching her wand, tapping it playfully against her palm. “Pip!” she screeched. A house-elf popped into existence with a loud crack, bowing low. “Yes, Lady Lestrange? What can Pip do for you?”
“Bring the bags, Pip,” Bellatrix commanded, her eyes gleaming with wicked amusement. The elf, with another crack, vanished and reappeared instantly, carrying several large, clear plastic IV bags. Bellatrix dramatically held one up for all to see. Inside, a clear fluid sloshed. “Chelation. Muggle magic.”
She circled her aunt, who was now gaping at the IV bags with a mixture of horror and disbelief. “Well, now, Auntie. Looks like you’re going to be the first to sample this…water medicine.”
Wilburga screeched again, louder and more frantic than before. “Absolutely not! I will not allow you to stick a needle in my body for your amusement, Bellatrix Lestrange! Never!” She rounded on Snape, her eyes desperate. “Snape! You’re a potions master! I’m sure you have something! A potion! Something, anything that can remove this poison from my body…magically!”
Snape stepped forward, his expression grimly professional. “Unfortunately, Lady Black, there is no known potion in our arsenal that directly counteracts arsenic poisoning. Muggle poisons are… different. Their chemistry is often beyond the scope of our traditional remedies. We are versed in venoms derived from magical creatures and curses, but mundane toxins are a rather…unexplored field for most potion masters.”
Wilburga’s screech escalated into a near-hysterical wail. “Unexplored! You’re telling me, with all our magic, all our potions, none of you potion masters can concoct something better than…than sticking a needle in my arm? Preposterous! There must be a magical solution!”
Reinhard Lestrange, Rabastan’s father and a man whose opinion held considerable weight, spoke, his voice firm and cutting through Wilburga’s hysterics. “Wilburga, while I appreciate your…enthusiasm for magical solutions, we are rapidly losing time. If the Light families catch wind of this, it will go straight to those blood traitors, and we won’t be able to get our revenge. Now, if you please, roll up your sleeve so we can hurry this along.”
Wilburga glared at Reinhard, her eyes narrowed to slits. “This Muggle has made you soft, Reinhard Lestrange,” she spat, but with a grudging huff, she rolled up the sleeve of her velvet robes, revealing a thin, pale arm. “Fine,” she snarled, glaring at Petunia. “But if this ‘water medicine’ turns me into a Muggle, you’ll be the first on my death list Muggle.”
Petunia, ignoring the implied threat and the yelping, internalised scream wanting to erupt from her own throat, fixed her gaze on Wilburga. “I understand, Lady Black,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. “And if that were to happen, I will personally hand over my head on a silver platter.” It was an empty promise, of course, because even in this bizarre, terrifying world, Petunia, now Petunia Lestrange, intended to survive.
With a quiet strength that surprised even herself, Petunia began the process. Pip, like a shadow, followed her, holding the IV bags aloft as Petunia carefully prepped the needle and inserted it into Wilburga’s vein. A low yelp escaped Wilburga as the cold liquid began to flow. Then, one by one, Petunia moved through the room, assisted by Pip, injecting the pure-blood elites, each muttered curse and grudging acceptance a testament to their desperate situation. Bellatrix remained close by her side, a silent, watchful guardian, ensuring no one dared to hex the Muggle woman who held their fates, and perhaps their very way of life, in her steady, surprisingly capable hands.
The room hummed with a nervous energy. Wilburga, despite her earlier protests, sat stiffly as Pip deftly set up her IV bag stand beside her chair. Petunia, efficient and calm, prepped the injection site on Wilburga’s arm.
“Relax, Lady Black,” Petunia said, her voice surprisingly steady despite the weight of all those pureblood gazes. “It’s just a little prick.”
Wilburga flinched as the needle went in, a small ‘eep’ escaping her lips. Bellatrix cackled, clapping her hands. “Oh, Auntie, you’re such a drama queen!”
“Silence, Bella,” Druella snapped, though a small smirk played on her lips. She watched Petunia with a calculating gaze, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. Perhaps grudging respect?
One by one, Petunia moved through the room, Pip practically gliding alongside her, anticipating her every need. Lord Avery grumbled about Muggle barbarity under his breath as Petunia administered his treatment, but he didn't refuse. Narcissa Malfoy, pale and elegant, offered a brittle smile and a quiet thank you. Lucius watched Petunia with an assessing gaze, a hint of calculation behind the charming facade.
Severus Snape observed Petunia with narrowed eyes. He leaned closer to Nott Senior, whispering just loud enough for Petunia to hear, “Remarkable, isn’t it? The clinical detachment. It…it’s almost…Muggle-like.” He said the word with a barely perceptible sneer, yet there was also a thread of fascination in his tone.
Petunia ignored him, focusing on her task. She felt a strange sense of detachment herself. It was surreal, this room full of people who would likely have spat on her just weeks ago, now reliant on her, a woman they would still probably consider a muggle filth behind her back. Yet here she was, their unlikely savior. The irony wasn't lost on her. Lily, her brilliant, magical sister, had been so accepted, so loved in this world. And Petunia, the ‘ordinary’ one, was now holding their lives in her hands, using a skill born from the mundane world they so readily dismissed.
Rabastan stood like a sentinel by her side. His eyes followed her every move with a fierce pride that warmed her despite the chill in the room. She caught Yahra Parkinson’s pointed stares and the suppressed giggles from her little group, but she refused to meet their eyes. Let them whisper. Let them sneer. She had a job to do.
As more and more IV bags began to drip, the initial tension in the room began to shift. A strange sort of camaraderie, born of shared vulnerability, started to simmer beneath the surface. Even Bellatrix, having exhausted her teasing of Wilburga, became quieter, her usual manic energy replaced by a focused intensity as she watched Petunia work.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, everyone in the room was hooked up to an IV drip. Petunia straightened, stretching her aching back. Pip popped away to fetch her a glass of water and reappeared instantly. She took a grateful sip, her gaze sweeping over the silent room. The rhythmic drip of the IV bags filled the space, a strange, almost soothing sound in the opulent manor house.
Lucius Malfoy cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “So, Madame Lestrange,” he began, his voice regaining its usual aristocratic drawl, “what happens now?”
Petunia set down her glass. “Now we wait. The chelation will take time to remove the arsenic from your systems. It could take several sessions. You will likely feel…unwell, at first. Headaches, nausea, fatigue. That’s the arsenic being flushed out.”
A chorus of groans rippled through the room. Bellatrix, however, just grinned. “Worth it,” she declared, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Finally, we know who to blame. Those…Rayl, Vice, Chastain, Omale, Walker… blood traitors.” She spat the last words like venom. “Lucius, you are certain of this?”
“Positive, Bella,” Lucius said, his voice hardening. “My…sources are impeccable. The paper trail, though cleverly concealed, leads directly back to them. Financial transactions, coded messages… it’s all there.”
Amycus Carrow’s face was a mask of rage. “Chastain…that slimy little weasel! He will pay. He will pay dearly.” He cracked his knuckles, a cruel smile spreading across his lips. “I have a few…persuasive methods in mind to make him confess the full extent of their treachery.”
Alecto Carrow, her fiancé’s betrayal still raw, was eerily silent, her eyes dark and burning. Druella Black, usually so composed, gripped the arms of her chair, her knuckles white. Even the previously dismissive Lord Avery now looked grim, his sneer replaced by a dangerous glint in his eyes.
The atmosphere in the room had shifted again. The initial fear and disbelief had morphed into a cold, simmering rage. The focus was no longer on the poison, but on revenge.
Rabastan squeezed Petunia’s hand. “You’ve given them what they needed, wife.” He murmured, his voice low and possessive. “Now…now it’s our turn.”
Bellatrix turned to Petunia, her eyes alight with manic excitement. “Muggle sister-in-law,” she said, her voice dripping with honeyed malice, “you have delivered us from death. Tell me, what do Muggles do to those who try to poison them?”
Petunia felt a shiver crawl down her spine despite herself. She looked around the room, at the faces contorted with fury and thirst for vengeance. She had stepped into a world of darkness, a world far more brutal and unforgiving than she could have ever imagined. And now, she was not just a witness, but an accomplice in their brewing storm of retribution.
“Well, Bellatrix,” Petunia said slowly, her voice surprisingly steady. “Muggles… Muggles have laws. Courts. Justice.”
Bellatrix threw her head back and roared with laughter. “Justice! Oh, Muggle sister-in-law, how utterly dull! No, no, we don’t do ‘justice’ here. We do… vengeance. And trust me, darling,” she leaned closer, her breath hot on Petunia’s ear, “it’s going to be so much more… entertaining.”
The room echoed with murmurs of agreement, punctuated by Amycus’s low, cruel chuckle. Petunia watched them, a knot of unease tightening in her stomach. She had helped them, saved them, even. But had she just unleashed something far more dangerous than arsenic poisoning? She looked at Rabastan, his eyes blazing with a shared bloodlust, and knew, with a cold certainty, that whatever came next, it would be terrifying. And she, Petunia Lestrange nee Evans, was now inextricably bound to it all.
Petunia felt the weight of a hundred pairs of pureblood eyes lift as she stepped out of the drawing room, Pip scurrying silently at her heels. The air in the corridor felt lighter, even if her own chest remained tight with a blend of exhaustion and unease. Rabastan was there, as promised, waiting with a soft smile that didn’t quite reach his intense dark eyes.
“Wife,” he breathed, taking her hand, his touch warm and anchoring against her chilled skin. “You were magnificent.”
Magnificent. The word felt foreign, almost mocking in its grandeur. Petunia had felt far from magnificent, more like a cog in a machine she didn’t understand, a tool wielded by forces far beyond her. But she saw the genuine pride in Rabastan’s face, and a flicker of something else… adoration? It was still perplexing, this unexpected affection from a man steeped in darkness.
"They listened," she said, the statement flat, devoid of any real triumph. "They're getting the antidote.”
Rabastan squeezed her hand. “Because of you. You saved them, Petunia. These… difficult people.” He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. “Even Bella was practically purring.”
Petunia managed a ghost of a smile. “Bella purrs like a particularly vicious cat.”
He laughed then, a proper laugh that eased some of the tension in the hallway. They walked in silence for a moment, Rabastan leading her towards a less opulent, more private sitting room. Once inside, he turned her to face him, his gaze searching her face.
“Are you alright, Petunia?” He asked, his voice softer, devoid of the usual Lestrange arrogance. “It was… a lot.”
“It was,” she admitted, sinking onto a plush velvet chaise lounge. “All those eyes, all that… magic. And the hatred, even directed at their supposed enemies, it’s… palpable.”
Rabastan sat beside her, not touching this time, giving her space. “They are… intense people, wife. They are raised to believe in their superiority, their… entitlement.”
“Entitlement to poison each other slowly for a century?” she retorted, the sarcasm sharper than she intended.
He flinched subtly. “No, of course not. But to them, the outside world, the Muggle world, is… beneath them. To be poisoned by it, to need a Muggle solution… it's a humiliation for them, even if they won't admit it.”
Petunia sighed, rubbing her temples. “And I’m the humiliation made flesh, aren’t I? The Muggle wife, forced to save them from their own hubris.”
Rabastan reached out then, gently taking her hand again. “No, Petunia. You are not humiliation. You are… remarkable. You are intelligent, resourceful, brave. You faced them, these… monsters, and you helped them. And yes,” he admitted, his gaze unwavering, “You are a Muggle, but that is not a curse, it’s… you. And I… I admire you for it.”
His words were surprisingly earnest, almost vulnerable. Petunia looked at him, truly looked at him, and saw not just the Death Eater, not just her captor-turned-husband, but a man grappling with something unfamiliar, something that seemed to genuinely be… affection. It was still twisted, still born from a situation of immense wrongness, but in that moment, in that room, it felt… almost real.
Meanwhile, back in the drawing-room, the aftershocks of Petunia's revelation were rippling outwards. Yahra Parkinson, true to form, was already dissecting the Madam Lestrange phenomenon with Narcissa.
“Merlin’s beard, Cissy, did you see Rabi? He practically glowed with pride!” Yahra whispered, her eyes wide with amusement and intrigue. “And that Muggle, Petunia, she didn’t flinch, not once! Facing down Auntie Wilby like that!”
Narcissa leaned back against the velvet cushions, a thoughtful smile playing on her lips. “She was… composed. More than composed. She was authoritative. And… she knew her subject. Arsenic poisoning, chelation therapy… it sounded like she’d been studying it for years.”
Eamon chuckled, lounging beside Yahra. “Years? Probably since breakfast! Rabi probably just told her this morning, ‘Darling, by the way, everyone’s dying of Muggle poison, fancy whipping up a cure?’”
Antonin grunted from the armchair opposite, staring blankly at the ornate ceiling. “Hawaii. Beaches. Cocktails.”
Yahra threw a playful swat at Eamon’s arm. “Don’t be daft, Eamon. She was prepared. Professionally so. And Rabi’s besotted, that’s clear. Remember how he was before? Brooding, silent, radiating dark magic and general unpleasantness? Now he’s practically… domestic.”
Narcissa’s smile deepened. “It is… unexpected. But perhaps not unwelcome. This… arsenic situation… it’s serious. And she resolved it, with Muggle methods, yes, but she resolved it. Perhaps we’ve all been too quick to dismiss the Muggle world.”
Just then, Evan Rosier, who had been unusually quiet, cleared his throat, a shadow passing over his handsome features. “Speaking of dismissals… Snape mentioned arsenic poisoning in the 17th and 18th centuries, didn’t he? My father… he died when I was at Hogwarts. The official reason was… a wasting disease, they called it. Slow decline, organs failing. No magical diagnosis could pinpoint it.”
He looked at Antonin and Eamon, his voice low and troubled. “Could… could it have been arsenic? Slow poisoning? Over years?”
Antonin blinked, jolted from his tropical reverie. “Evan… are you serious?”
Eamon sat up straighter, his playful demeanor vanishing. “Rosier Senior? He was relatively young, wasn’t he? For a ‘wasting disease’?”
Evan nodded, his gaze fixed on some unseen point. “He always had those… symptoms Petunia mentioned. Nausea, fatigue, weakness. We just thought he was… overworked, stressed. He was involved in… things, back then. He was close to… the Dark Lord.”
A chill settled over the small group. The implications were stark. If arsenic poisoning had been deliberate, and targeted at dark families for a century, then the perpetrators could have been anyone. And the victims… could be far more numerous than they initially thought.
Across the manor, in the private sitting room, Petunia was still absorbing the strangeness of her life. Rabastan’s hand in hers was warm, a surprising comfort in the cold, opulent world of the Lestranges. She was still Petunia Evans, the Muggle girl who had resented magic, who had been scarred by it. But now, Petunia Lestrange, the Muggle wife, was somehow… necessary. Needed. Even, dare she think it, respected, amongst these very people who reviled her kind.
“Rabastan,” she said softly, breaking the silence. “They’re going to want revenge, aren’t they? Against these… blood traitors.”
He nodded, his eyes hardening, the gentle affection replaced by a familiar Lestrange coldness. “They will. Lucius Malfoy has provided names, families. The Sacred Twenty-Eight will not tolerate such treachery from within their own ranks.”
Petunia swallowed, a knot forming in her stomach. “And… what will they do?”
He smiled, a predatory curve of his lips. “They will purge, petunia. They will cleanse. And this time,” his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, “they will have a very good reason.”
The weight of it all pressed down on Petunia. She had inadvertently unleashed something terrible, something that might be far more dangerous than the slow, insidious poison of arsenic. She had given these dark families not just an antidote, but a scapegoat, a target for their rage, a justification for their inherent cruelty. And she, Petunia Evans, turned Petunia Lestrange, was now inextricably bound to their world, their darkness, their vengeance. The thought was chilling, but as she looked at Rabastan’s fervent gaze, she couldn't deny a flicker of morbid curiosity. What would happen next? And what role, if any, would she truly play?