Chapter 1
May 1975
Silver spoons gently scraped against porcelain soup bowls, cutting through the heavy silence that filled the dining room at 12 Grimmauld Place. Not a word was spoken since the soup course magically appeared on the expensive place settings around the solid mahogany dining table. I kept my gaze downward, locked on the shallow bowl, swirling the creamy green bisque with my spoon. An icy chill hung in the air, and even though large flames roared in the decadent marble fireplace, the space would not warm.
“How are your studies?” My father dabbed the side of his mouth with his napkin and looked at me expectantly from the head of the table.
I lifted my chin and met his steely grey eyes, a shade which matched my own. Clearing my throat, I spoke, “They’re going well, father.”
My mother scoffed into her wine glass and looked past me. Not unusual.
“I appreciate that you found a tutor well-versed in muggle subjects,” I added.
An icy glare shot my way from my mother’s seat. My eyes were quick to drop back to my place setting.
A curt nod from my father and the silence returned.
It was dinners such as these that I wished my brothers were home and not away at Hogwarts. They made dinners bearable in the formal household that we lived in. Sirius would send me a lopsided grin from his seat opposite mine, making me smirk behind my napkin. Regulus would reach for my hand under the table and give it a reassuring squeeze, one that sent calming magic through the twin bond we shared. The house wasn't the same without them—the atmosphere was isolating and frigid. Any joy or warmth went with them when they returned to school and left me behind.
Born two minutes and thirteen seconds after my twin—I was the youngest child born to Orion and Walburga Black. My entrance on the tail of my brother’s was a surprise to both parents. The Black family had an heir: my eldest brother, Sirius. A spare was good fortune. But a third child? It was a gift that only Morgana could have sent. Expectations were high for all three of the Black children. There was no room to be anything other than powerful conduits of Black family magic when we grew up and reached our full potential.
To help us reach that potential, love was conditional in the Black household. Sirius said my parents once loved us without any conditions—perhaps that was true. There were times when a flash of a warm smile or a comforting hug would float to the forefront of my mind, but those memories were hazy, as if a mist surrounded them, causing them to be unclear. But now, all I knew of love was that our household was void of it and that it came in the form of calculated indifference, which pushed my siblings and I to prove ourselves for a sliver of our parents' affection. If we weren’t the perfect pure-blood children, punishments ranged from magic that would make us invisible and silent—a torturous form of silent treatment; to slicing hexes that stung the back of our legs and arms, never visible though. If they considered our actions worthy, we would receive a small pat on the shoulder from our father or a forced smile from our mother, maybe a treat from our ancient-looking house-elf, Kreacher. The only consoling thought that my siblings and I shared during those early years was that, eventually, our parents would give us some sort of love or affection when we had our first bout of accidental magic. That was the one star on which we hung all our hopes and dreams: being a witch or wizard.
I chanced a glance at my mother and worriedly bit my lower lip. She was in a foul mood—angrier than usual. Dark magic rolled off her in waves. Its tendrils wrapped themselves around my father and me. The magic suffocated my lungs, choking me and making it difficult to breathe. She took a long sip from her wine and scowled in my direction.
My back went ramrod straight, bracing myself for the eventual wrath she would bring down on the table. I couldn’t let her know how anxious she made me, how my stomach turned under her calculated stare, and what it felt like as I fought to exist in her presence. I forced myself to remain unbothered, setting a mask of indifference over my heart-shaped face.
Before I could finish the bisque, Kreacher cracked into existence and bowed to my parents. With a snap of his wiry fingers, the soup bowls disappeared, and the main course replaced them on the table. “Duck l’orange, Mistress,” he croaked. He bowed once more, nose almost hitting the floor, and then disappeared from the room.
The silver fork and knife felt heavy in my hands as I cut into the piece of duck. I could feel my mother’s cold stare, watching my every move. After carefully piercing the meat, I raised it to my mouth. As soon as the food touched my lips, my mother’s perfectly manicured hand slammed down on the table. The resounding sound startled me, and I dropped the cutlery and food as I inhaled sharply—both smattered against the bone-white plate. Its clang rang in my ear as I swallowed the lump in my throat.
My father raised an eyebrow at his wife’s antics and set down his fork. Before he could speak, my mother scoffed at his expression and threw her napkin onto her untouched plate.
“Orion,” she said, her usual shrieking oddly calm. “I received a letter from Lady Potter this afternoon. She’s asked that we send Sirius to Potter Manor over the summer holiday. You must put your foot down and end this abhorrent friendship now.”
I exhaled the breath I had been holding in. My gaze dropped to my hands as they tightly gripped the silk napkin in my lap. Thank Merlin, it wasn’t about me this time. Not that I wanted Sirius to be in trouble and my mother’s anger directed at him—I just didn’t think I could handle her ire this evening. I had already messed up earlier in the day when I asked to read the family grimoire. The cut on my calf from her stinging hex still stung.
My father sniffed once and looked down his nose at her, making my mother squirm in her tall, wing-backed chair. Only he could make the Walburga Black uncomfortable. “Tell me, Walburga, why is it my responsibility to put my foot down? Whose fault is it that the Potters feel comfortable enough sending for our son? Who raised him to be a Gryffindor?” He spat out the last word with leveled disgust.
It had been centuries since a child from the Black family sorted into Gryffindor. All children of House Black were sorted into Slytherin, and if not Slytherin—Ravenclaw, the only other acceptable House. Sirius’ sorting was unthinkable to my family. My mother sent a Howler to Hogwarts after receiving my cousin Narcissa’s letter, informing them that Sirius had gone against the family by choosing red and gold. I was happy for him, though. He thrived in the lion’s den, made close-knit friends, and was finally out from under our parents’ thumb while at school.
There was a pause after my father spoke. I looked sidelong at my mother and saw the rage building behind her thunderous obsidian eyes. The storm that was Walburga Black was about to unleash, and my father was stupid enough to walk into it. I nervously tucked a strand of my wavy black hair behind my ear, dropping my gaze.
“Walburga, you’re the one who raised a disappointment of a son. Had he been better trained, better kept at hand, not allowed to play with his siblings or friends so much—”
He continued listing all the ways my mother had failed at raising his heir. I wanted to scoff but kept my face neutral. How was she expected to raise us into perfect little pure-bloods when there wasn’t a maternal bone in her body? My father knew it. He often cursed about her lack of care. She left everything to tutors and house-elves while she reigned over pure-blood society. And play? Play was not a thing in the Black household. There were lessons and quiet times to read and social calls, but play? Perhaps my father thought that Sirius’ outgoing nature and rebelliousness had to do with playtime, but it was just who my brother was.
When my father’s tirade finished, my mother hissed out a reply, “Orion, I allow our son visits as custom dictates. I cannot publicly go against my cousin, though traitorous she and her whole family may be. Filthy blood traitors…” Her mother’s rage continued to simmer just below the surface. “But you, you are the head of this House. Where have you been? Out with your dalliances while I’m stuck at home raising three entitled—” her head swiveled to me, and I shrunk into my seat, “—three entitled children who never respect nor listen to me! And worst of all, when it happened, you retreated away from this family. So, everything—everything that is a disappointment in your eyes is your own damned fault!” The chandelier above the table shook, the lightbulbs flickering in and out.
I was the ‘it’ my mother referred to. I was the event that pushed my father away. My heart sank, and I let out a shaky breath. I tried calming myself down, breathing in through my nose and then out through my mouth as Sirius and Regulus had taught me, but the anxiety only grew. Somehow, their arguments always came back to me. So much for avoiding her ire.
My father stared blankly in her direction. His lack of care infuriated her more. She whirled towards me as if I had been the one to cause all her frustration and all her problems. Like I was the reason Sirius was in Gryffindor and Regulus barely spoke a word to her, even though he was her ‘darling boy’ who sorted into Slytherin. She stood abruptly and in, in one swift movement, grabbed her wine glass by the stem. Before I could react, the crystal was hurtling towards my face. Although I had terrific reflexes honed by years of her unstable moods, I wasn’t quick enough. The glass struck my forehead. I winced in pain but did not cry out. Shards of crystal buried themselves into my pale skin—a small gash opened above my right eyebrow. Blood droplets and wine dripped down my forehead, getting into my eyes and staining my dinner robes. A whimper escaped my lips, betraying my feelings. I bit down on the inside of my cheek to keep from crying. The metallic taste of blood hit my tongue as I broke skin. I wanted to move my arm and wipe the mess from my face, but I knew she would send a hex my way if I tried.
“Walburga,” my father warned in a dark, threatening voice. He glanced my way, anger burning in his eyes. He waved his hand, which wore the Black Family signet ring, and with an efficiency in wandless magic, vanished the crystal shards, blood, and wine from my face. “Don’t take this out on our daughter.”
I knew the cut was still open and would scar if I didn’t attend to it soon. Every inch of me wanted to flee, but I had to wait until the right time.
“Daughter? Daughter?!” My mother’s voice grew more snarled and high-pitched. “She is no daughter of mine. She has no magic, Orion! No. Magic. You gave me a daughter with no magic! She’s worse than any of the filthy mudbloods taking over our Wizarding society!” I cringed in my seat as tears pooled in my eyes. My mother let out heavy breaths, her usually swept-up hair falling into her face. “At least mudbloods have magic!”
Now, I really wished Sirius and Regulus were with me. They would shield me from my mother and drag me away from the dining room unscathed. But without them, I had little protection.
My father stood up, hands fisted, white knuckles leaning on the table. His powerful magic swirled around the room, extinguishing the fireplace and dropping the room to a cold temperature. “Say that again, wife.”
My mother's tall, slender frame leaned forward, pure hate radiating off her body. She pointed a long-manicured finger in my direction. “Alexia Lyra Black is a stain on this family. You should have let me get rid of her when we found out that she was a useless, disgusting disappointment. Your squib of a daughter is better off dead than living without magic.”
Useless, I was a useless squib. The finality in my mother’s voice cut something deep inside of me. I tried not to blink, not wanting my tears to fall so quickly. She truly wished I were dead instead of a stain on the family tree. No matter how many times she had looked at me disgustedly or treated me horribly, it still felt like a deafening blow when she spoke those words.
The chair I had been sitting in flew back as I stood up, making a loud screeching sound against the hardwood floor. I had to exit the room as quickly as my long legs would carry me. If I didn’t leave, I wouldn’t make it out without hexes slicing me open or furniture flying in my direction, hurting me further. Perhaps if I were younger and still looking for their love, I would have remained, but now I was older, and I wouldn’t allow myself to stand there and take the abuse.
“Excuse me,” I managed to get out. Tears slid down my face as I turned on my heels and raced out the double doors into the green and white tiled hallway. The shouts continued in the dining room, and the family portraits in the hall asked me questions as I passed by, but I ignored it all and escaped to my room.
//
My eyes blinked as I opened them, adjusting to the surrounding darkness. I must have fallen asleep after the shouting and explosion of furniture had died down from the main floor—a stream of moonlight filtered through the sheer curtains that covered the floor-to-ceiling window in my bedroom. I lay on top of my lavender duvet, thinking about the earlier events of the evening. A light throbbing above my eyebrow didn’t let me forget them. It wasn’t unusual for dinner to go awry, but this time around, the end was unbearable.
A squib. That’s what I was. Useless to the magical world I had been born into. Useless to the muggle world to which I was utterly inept at surviving. I was born healthy, an immediate favorite of my father’s. My mother had her sons—my father had his daughter. There weren’t any signs that magic would reject me and that I wouldn’t become a witch. Immediately after birth, the mediwitch at St. Mungo’s ran a magical core diagnostic charm that was standard for all newborn infants. Both Regulus and I had perfect results. Our magical cores glowed brightly, indicating that we had the potential for great power.
As children from House Black, our parents never hid magic from us. We grew up surrounded by magic—it integrated itself into our lives so seamlessly that we knew the words for charms, spells, and curses by five and memorized practiced wand movements by six. I was receptive to magic, too. I could see and feel it around me, and I had a twin bond with Regulus. We could share emotions through touch and were empaths with each other. Twin bonds were sacred magic. Surely, I was bound to be a witch if I could send and feel his emotions. But my magic never surfaced or revealed itself.
Sirius had his first bout of accidental magic when he was four—he charmed blue hair to grow out of Kreacher’s head when the house-elf refused to give him biscuits. Regulus had his at five when defending me against the Malfoy heir—the young boy had stolen my favorite stuffed grim, so Regulus vanished the boy’s favorite toy broom in retaliation. My parents’ frustration at my lack of accidental magic grew from worry to anger as my 10th birthday approached. My mother resorted to all sorts of antics, and when those didn’t work, she turned towards drastic measures, prodding my magic to lash out—she knew I was protective of my brothers and would do anything for them, anything. But her efforts were in vain. No number of withheld meals, slicing hexes, or Crucios cast against me or my brothers brought out my magic. I was useless to defend the two people I loved the most, useless to defend myself. Useless.
By the time the Hogwarts owl delivered Regulus’ acceptance letter without a second one in its beak, my parents knew I was a squib. There hadn’t been a squib since my mother’s uncle, Marius Black. His name blasted off the tree, much like mine would be one day. To avoid the scandal since I had already been seen in public and around pure-blood society, my parents told extended family and their friends that the taint of the mudbloods entering Hogwarts was too much for their precious daughter, so they sent me away to be homeschooled. It was an easily accepted lie, as everyone knew who my parents were. The secret of my shame was kept between our immediate family and my grandfathers, Arcturus and Pollux Black. My brothers couldn’t utter my name at Hogwarts or speak about me without extreme pain—I assumed my mother placed a curse on it. When guests or extended family visited Grimmauld, either of my parents locked me in my room with a Notice-Me-Not cast on the door.
After not getting admittance to Hogwarts, my father continued my studies against my mother’s wishes—I was his favorite child, which saved me more than I had understood. And since I couldn’t stay in Grimmauld forever, he wanted me prepared for the muggle world when I turned 18. It was a surprising gesture from the man who was a notorious blood purist and advocate against muggles. I had a feeling my grandfather, Arcturus, helped sway my father as he had a soft spot for my siblings and me.
My mother all but ignored me until she was in a mood and needed someone to be the subject of her fury.
But not having magic, being a squib in the Noble and Ancient House of Black… the star that I once hung my hopes on had long fizzled out.
A loud grumbling noise came from my stomach. Of course… I had barely touched dinner. I didn’t want to move from bed, but the noise gurgled again. A long sigh escaped my throat, which felt dry and scratchy. Sitting up, I sniffled and wiped my nose against the back of my hand. Gross, I thought. But drained of emotions, I didn’t care. Dried tears stained my cheeks, my raven hair a tangled mess. Long, thick strands stuck to my neck and forehead. As cool as it was in the dining room, the bedrooms at Grimmauld were overly warm.
“Alright, stomach, you win.” I threw my legs off the full-size bed and stood up. My dinner robes felt suffocating, the wine and specks of blood now dry on the fabric. I glanced down at the silver fabric and felt sick. I quickly moved to my armoire and opened it, searching for comfortable pajamas. Grabbing a silk short set, I made my way to my dressing screen and slipped behind it, changing into the comfortable set. I assessed my forehead in the floor-length mirror once dressed—dried blood around the gash, but mendable with dittany. I looked at my reflection further. Great, puffy eyes from crying, nose red… a mess. My deep-set eyes were fathomless pools of grey—a smattering of freckles danced along the bridge of my nose. I was the only Black family member with freckles. My older cousin, Bellatrix, once called them the ‘Alexia’ constellation.
Moving to my bedside table, I opened its small drawer. Inside rest three vials of liquid in an assortment of colors. I had taken them from the basement potions lab and kept them in my room. Too many times, I had been punished, tossed in my room, and locked in with no aid coming until at least the next day. The vials were a lifeline to endure the injuries. One was dittany to heal cuts, the other was a pain potion, and the third was a calming draught, effective when the Cruciatus aftershocks were too intense. I stepped back to the mirror and unscrewed the stopper—using my reflection, I tilted my head back and let one drop fall onto the cut above my eyebrow. The skin sizzled and began stitching itself closed. As the wound healed, I sank back down onto the edge of my bed, set the vial back down on the stand, and rested my chin in my hand, thoughts swirling around in my head. How was I a squib? Potions worked on me; I could cast a really weak Lumos with Regulus’ wand, and the Floo network let me travel—albeit with intense nausea afterward. It was like my body just suppressed any actual magic. Sometimes, I’d swear to Salazar that I felt a tug at my magical core, like magic was trying to burst out of me, but then nothing would happen.
It was dark as I descended the three flights of stairs toward the basement where the kitchen stood. The hall lamps were without their usual glow—the only illumination was the moonlight that made its way past openings in the thick window curtains. The house was eerily quiet after the evening’s fight. I shuddered at the house-elves heads that lined the staircase near the main floor. Living in this house for 14 years, and their appearance still unnerved me, especially in the dark. I kept my steps quiet as I walked down the entryway hall to avoid disturbing the family portraits. The cool tile felt nice against my bare feet.
I reached the kitchen just in time for my stomach to let out another loud rumble. Thank goodness there would be biscuits, fruit, and cheese in the icebox. As soon as I entered the long room, my finger pressed the light switch to the right of the doorframe, illuminating the space. A voice speaking my nickname at the end of the room startled me out of my food thoughts and made me jump.
My father sat at the end of the lengthy rectangle kitchen table. He looked stern but exhausted—hair ruffled, deep circles under his eyes, a cup of tea in front of him. His finely pressed shirt looked wrinkled, and his sleeves rolled. He was out of place in the casual environment where we took most of our breakfasts and lunches. I slowly moved in his direction, curious why he was in the kitchen.
“Father?” I hesitated for a moment before he gestured to the chair beside him.
“Sit down, Alex. We need to talk.”