Chapter 39
The air in the Lestrange Manor library was thick with unspoken tension, a suffocating blanket woven from dark magic and simmering resentments. Dust motes danced in the weak winter sun struggling through the gothic windows, illuminating the faces gathered around the heavy oak table. Rabastan Lestrange sat rigidly beside his wife, Petunia, his hand a possessive weight on her arm. She felt his anxiety radiating off him, mirroring her own.
The library, usually a place of quiet contemplation, felt like a war room. Abarax Malfoy, his silver hair impeccably coiffed despite his age, held court at the head of the table. His gaze swept over the faces, lingering on each for a calculated beat. Reinhard Lestrange, Rabastan's father, sat ramrod straight, his eyes, so like Rabastan’s, betraying nothing. Cygnus and Druella Black, austere and imposing, flanked him, their presence a chilling reminder of their family's infamous lineage.
"Our blood," he began, his voice raspy with age and recently alleviated poison, "has been cleansed. Purified, thanks to the… unconventional methods of Madame Lestrange." He inclined his head towards Petunia, who sat stiffly beside her husband, Rabastan. Around the room, heads nodded in grudging acknowledgment. Reinhard Lestrange, Petunia’s father-in-law, offered a curt nod. Cygnus and Druella Black, their faces sharp and haughty, echoed the gesture.
“Now,” Abarax continued, his gaze sweeping over Mulciber, Yaxley, the Carrow siblings, Shafiq, Parkinson, Avery, Greengrass, Dolohov, Rosier, Crabbe, Goyle, and even Severus Snape, whose usual pallor seemed slightly less sickly, "it is time to discuss strategy. The blood traitors – Rayl, Vice, Chastain, Omale, and Walker – they must be… eliminated."Druella Black, surprisingly warm, reached across the table and gently squeezed Petunia’s hand. "We owe our lives to Petunia," she repeated, her dark eyes sincere.
Wilberga Black, Cygnus's sister and a woman whose face seemed permanently etched with disapproval, scoffed. "Gratitude has its limits, Druella. Now that the Muggle has served her purpose" she drawled, emphasizing the ‘we’ and pointedly ignoring Petunia, “why is that muggle still sitting amongst us? She’s done her part. There’s no need for her presence.”
Petunia’s breath hitched. Wilberga’s venom, usually directed towards everyone, was now honed sharply at her. But something shifted within Petunia. For the first time, Wilberga’s prejudice wasn’t just hurtful; it was almost… liberating. She wanted to leap up, embrace the wrinkled harpy, and shout, “You’re right! I don’t belong here! Let me leave!” The urge to flee, to disappear, to crawl under her bed in her tiny cottage and forget this whole nightmare existed was overwhelming.
But escape was a mirage. She was trapped. Not just in this room, but in this life.
Then, a voice cut through the tense silence, sharp and dangerous. “Shut your mouth, Aunt Wilberga.” Bellatrix Lestrange, radiant and terrifying, leaned forward, her eyes blazing. Rodolphus, ever the shadow to her brilliance, echoed her words with a low growl, “Whether you like it or not, Petunia is considered one of us now.”
Petunia’s heart hammered against her ribs. ‘One of them’? Bellatrix, her whirlwind of a sister-in-law, the woman who reveled in cruelty and chaos, was defending her? It was surreal, horrifying, and strangely… touching. Poor Petunia. All she wanted was to cry, to scream, to wake up from this twisted dream of pureblood supremacy and dark agendas. She just had to endure. Endure the suffocating atmosphere, the veiled threats, the casual cruelty of these ‘purebloods’.
Narcissa Malfoy’s cool, grey eyes met Petunia’s across the table. For a fleeting moment, a glimmer of something akin to sympathy flickered in their depths. Narcissa, who had witnessed Petunia’s unwavering dedication during the chelation process, had, against all odds, developed a grudging respect for the muggle witch thrust into their world.
Yahra Parkinson, her eyes gleaming with morbid curiosity, leaned forward. “Well, Lord Malfoy,” she drawled, her voice dripping with anticipation. “I presume you have a plan on how we would purge these… blood traitors?” The term, spat out with such venom, made Petunia’s stomach churn. Blood traitors. For upholding Muggle rights? For believing in equality?
Abarax Malfoy flicked his wrist, revealing a dark, puckered scar beneath his cuff – a lingering reminder of the poison’s touch. He gestured to a large roll of parchment uncurling on the table. It was a map, meticulously drawn, of various estates scattered across the British Isles. “These are the estates,” he stated, his finger tracing lines across the paper, “where Rayl, Vice, Chastain, Omale, and Walker currently reside. However,” his voice dropped, a note of grim satisfaction entering it, “their extended families, children and grandchildren, are scattered in London and other suburban areas in the UK.”
Evan Roser slammed his fist on the table, making a few jump. “Just say the word, Lord Malfoy! These blasted blood traitors would pay the price dearly for poisoning us, and for causing my father’s early demise!” His voice was choked with rage, his wand clutched so tightly his knuckles were bloodless.
Lord Eamon Parkinson, Yahra’s husband, a man whose face always seemed perpetually shadowed, spoke, his voice pragmatic. “But still, how can we? Kill them all, while each one is in a different location? Even if we Apparate, they would either escape or they would rally and…” He trailed off, the unspoken word – fight – hanging heavy in the air. “Kill us all,” he finished quietly. Everyone in the room seemed to understand the danger of underestimating their targets even if they were deemed “blood traitors.”
Nods of agreement rippled around the table. The initial fervor seemed to falter, replaced by the cold, hard reality of logistics.
It was then that Petunia, against every instinct screaming at her to remain silent, to become invisible, spoke. Her voice was small, barely audible, but in the sudden hush, it carried. “Lord Malfoy,” she began, her throat dry, “I have an utterly ridiculous question, but… what’s the total number of all these blood traitors and their families?”
Silence descended. All eyes swiveled to her, no longer with animosity, but with… something else. Curiosity? Perhaps even – dare she hope – consideration? Abarax Malfoy, his gaze surprisingly sharp and intelligent, fixed on her. He saw something in her, something beyond the Muggle skin. He remembered the potions, the meticulously researched ingredients she’d sourced, the unwavering focus she’d displayed while treating them. He had initially viewed her as a tool, Rabastan’s strange obsession. Now, he was beginning to see something more.
“They are…” he paused, consulting a list he produced from his robes. “Over two hundred individuals.”
Petunia’s eyes widened, mirroring the shock rippling through the room. “Two hundred?” she repeated, her voice barely a whisper. “We… we won’t be able to kill them like this. Dumbledore would interfere. Even that spineless fool, Fudge, will see an opportunity to throw us in Azkaban the first chance he gets.” The word hung in the air, a chilling reminder of their past and ever-present threat.
Lord Avery, his voice gruff, grunted in agreement. “She’s right. Fudge is twitchy as a pixie these days, especially with our… associations, still held power, a lingering darkness in the room.
Lord Nott leaned forward, his eyes narrowed with shrewd calculation. “Do you think it’s just us being associated with You-Know-Who that has Fudge so agitated? Have you forgotten who brought Madam Lestrange here, and forced her to marry Rabastan? It is none other than Cornelius Fudge himself. My sources are telling me that he wants to get back at… ‘the Muggle filth’… that humiliated him during the wedding.” Nott’s voice dripped with malicious delight.
Rabastan, who had been silent until now, toying with his wand, stiffened at Nott's words. "Oh, really?" he murmured, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice. A slow, unsettling smile spread across his face. He tapped his wand against the table, a light tap-tap-tap echoing in the silence. “Why don’t we start with the Ministry,” he suggested, his voice now laced with a sickeningly sweet tone, “before going after the scattered houses of the blood traitors?” He swept his gaze around the table, his smile widening. “Starting at the very top.”
Lady Clare Greengrass, her usually placid face animated with sudden fury, spoke, her voice tight with suppressed rage. “Not to mention Fudge has been sending letters, demanding our presence at the ministry. Agh! Can’t we just strangle that spineless fool while we purge the blood traitors?”
Druella Black chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “It’s tempting. Exceedingly tempting.”
Lord Yaxley, his impatience palpable, cut through the escalating bloodlust. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I remind you that we are running out of time? The blood traitors will be sniffing around soon, especially after we… addressed… the arsenic-laced wallpapers and furniture.”
Severus Snape, who had remained silent and observant throughout, finally spoke, his voice a low drawl. “He’s right. Time is of the essence.”
But Petunia’s mind was no longer on time constraints, but on strategy. How to eliminate two hundred people… efficiently, discreetly, without wading into open conflict. She needed a weapon, a silent, deadly weapon that these bloodthirsty pure-bloods, so fixated on brute force, were overlooking.
Severus Snape, ever the astute observer, had been watching Petunia intently since the meeting began. The subtle shifts in her posture, the flicker of intelligence in her normally guarded green eyes. With a silent, almost imperceptible flick of his wrist, he performed Legilimency, a probe into the guarded fortress of her mind. He saw chaos, fear, but beneath it, a spark of… calculation. He withdrew quickly, intrigued.
"Madame Lestrange," he addressed her, his voice a silken thread in the tense atmosphere. "You seem… thoughtful. Pray, share what brilliance is brewing in that keen mind of yours. You mentioned a ‘ridiculous question,’ yet it sparked a vital realization about numbers. Perhaps your ‘ridiculous’ thought is precisely what we need.”
Petunia swallowed hard. Her mind screamed, Shut up, Snape boy. Do you truly revel in my torment? A chilling, silent answer echoed back within her own thoughts: Yes. She composed herself, forcing a semblance of calm. “Well,” she began, her voice gaining strength as the idea took firmer shape, “since the blood traitors have been poisoning you for more than a century… why not poison them in return? Tit for tat, as the Muggle saying goes.”
Lucius Malfoy, who had been listening with an air of detached amusement, straightened up, his silver eyes sharp. “Do you suggest we use… arsenic? For this purge?”
Petunia shook her head, a decisive movement that surprised even herself. “No. Arsenic is slow, insidious. If we use arsenic, we’d have to wait years for it to take effect on all of the blood traitors. We don't have years.”
Antonin Dolohov, his scarred face predatory, leaned forward. “Then what are your suggestions, Madame?”
Petunia paused, letting the silence stretch, building anticipation. Then, she blurted it out, the word hanging in the air like a venomous serpent. “Why not poison them… with cyanide?”
A wave of confusion rippled through the dark families. Lucius Malfoy frowned. “Cyanide? I’m afraid we are not… familiar with this cyanide, Petunia. If you would be so kind as to elaborate…”
Petunia took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she was about to unleash. "Cyanide is a Muggle poison. Unlike arsenic, which takes months, years even, to build up and cause damage, cyanide is incredibly fast-acting. A small dose, and it… well, it stops the body from using oxygen. Death is usually within minutes, sometimes seconds, depending on the dose. In some cases… it causes paralysis.” She finished, watching their faces.
Bellatrix’s manic laughter erupted, echoing off the opulent walls. “Oh, my Muggle sister-in-law! You have the most exquisite mind, don’t you, darling?”
Rodolphus, his arm possessively around Bellatrix’s waist, nodded in agreement. “Indeed, Bella. Much more sophisticated than a screaming harpy.” He cast a disdainful glance at Wilberga Black, who flushed a dangerous shade of puce.
“Alright, girl,” Wilberga snapped, her voice tight with barely suppressed fury, “You just gave us a poison. Fine. How do we exactly give them the poison? Are you suggesting we invite them to a tea party, laced with cyanide?”
Petunia’s lips curled into a thin, almost imperceptible smile. “Close enough, actually.” She turned to Alecto Carrow, who was glowering at her, clearly still smarting from Petunia’s perceived insolence. “Miss Carrow, you are still engaged to Hector Chastain, are you not?”
Alecto’s eyes narrowed, her nostrils flaring. “Was engaged. As soon as I get my hands on that treacherous, blood-traitorous…” She trailed off, sputtering with rage, about to unleash a torrent of curses.
Petunia cut her off, her voice deceptively calm. “Continue with the wedding arrangements.”
Silence descended upon the room, heavy with the unspoken implications of Petunia’s plan.
Miles away, in the sun-drenched kitchen of their modest home, Andromeda Tonks nee Black, and her husband, Ted, a Muggle-born lawyer, sat at their breakfast table. Andromeda sighed, stirring her tea. “No word. Still nothing.”
Ted, his brow furrowed with worry, echoed her unease. “Andy, something’s wrong. Weeks, now, no sign of your father, or any of them. They haven’t been sighted at the Ministry. Something’s brewing.”
Andromeda nodded grimly. “Agreed. Something is definitely happening.”
Just then, Andromeda picked up the Daily Prophet, absentmindedly taking a sip of her tea. She choked, sputtering, tea spraying across the pristine white tablecloth. “What in Merlin’s name is this?!”
Ted rushed to her side, peering over her shoulder at the newspaper. The headline screamed: “TEA TIME WITH THE DARK ELITE?” Below it was a photograph – Narcissa Malfoy, Yahra Parkinson, and Clare Greengrass, elegant and composed, seated around a low table in a sunlit garden. And beside them, utterly incongruous yet undeniably present, was Petunia Lestrange.
Ted blinked, utterly bewildered. “I… I don’t believe it. It’s her. Petunia Lestrange. Sitting with the highest-ranking pure-blood witches, having tea together.”
Andromeda’s face hardened with a dawning comprehension that chilled her to the bone. “Ted, do you know what this means?”
Ted continued to stare blankly at the photograph. “Uh… your sister’s had a change of heart? She’s trying to… introduce Madam Lestrange to the rest of the pure-blood elite?”
Andromeda shook her head, her voice low and dangerous. “No, Ted. If Cissy is sitting with her friends, and that Muggle woman is amongst them, it means… it means the Black family has unofficially adopted her. She’s one of them now.” The implications hung heavy in the air, thick with the scent of impending doom.
Ted scoffed. “Adopted her? Why would the Black family clan adopt Rabastan Lestrange’s wife? She’s just a mere muggle! You’re reading too much into this, Andy.”
Andromeda shook her head again, pacing the kitchen. “No, Ted, you don’t understand. Rabastan Lestrange is practically a son to my parents. Cygnus and Druella are his godparents. Ever since Leah Lestrange died in childbirth… he’s more like a brother to me. When they tried to make him a Black heir years ago, Grandfather Arcturus vetoed it. Sirius was the heir then, then Regulus. But Rabastan… he's family in all but name.” She continued to pace, her mind racing. “They’ve accepted her… not just because she’s his wife. It’s because she’s valuable. For some reason, she’s valuable to them.”
Ted’s eyes widened. Memories flashed in his mind – the hurried trip to the muggle hospital with Rabastan, the heavy bags they carried into their vehicle. “We need to talk to Dumbledore. Now.”
They both stood, a chilling premonition gripping them both. Andromeda strode towards the fireplace, the warm glow of the flames doing little to dispel the icy fear creeping into her heart. They had to warn Dumbledore. Something truly dangerous was brewing within the heart of the pure-blood world, and Petunia Lestrange, the unassuming muggle wife, was somehow at its very center.