Shades of Silver and Black

THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS were bracing themselves for the winter weather that was soon to arrive. Jumpers became as common as brown eyes while chatter regarding the holidays filled the air. The winds were cool, stale and damp but colder still was the relationship between Gryffindor and Slytherin.

The newspapers printed the same news under different headings with each passing day. Anguished screams, attacks, the dark mark, purity and death were some of the most-used words while students hurriedly flipped the pages of the Daily Prophet to check whether one of their beloved family members had been reduced to just another casualty of a war they wanted nothing to do with.

However, there were few that took bold strides across the hallways and adorned smirks on their faces, a complete contrast to the ones who cried while burying their faces into their palms. These were the privileged purebloods, those whose parents or close relatives bore a brand on their left forearm, who had been reassured that no harm would come to them.

They paid no mind to the misery of their peers, content with the illusion of a glorious future that had been promised to them. Their apathetic laughs which rung high in a sea of tears drew glares and curled fists and fortunately or unfortunately, nothing more.

After all, these jesters among mourners were elite, some of the wealthiest and most powerful persons in Britain who carried a legacy on their stiff shoulders. The court case which eventually led to Severus Snape being thrown into Azkaban was still fresh in the minds of the modest students and so were the several accounts and incidents where despite instigating another classmate first, the band of budding aristocrats had gotten away without even detention.

It wasn't fair, but life rarely was.

But what the majority of the school were unaware of was the shift in power that was taking place inside the House of Slytherin where the snakes were disowning age-old principles that guided and secured them for the sake of pledging their servitude to a madman. The general population was blind to the suffering, torment and ridiculed that so many Slytherins had had to face in the past simply because they followed the strict traditions and cultures created by their ancestors.

The Dark Lord was more than a symbol of a future where purity gained; he was a method to obtain revenge, for the purebloods to fulfil the vendetta that had been born against mudbloods, half-bloods and even blood traitors who renounced their beliefs and categorised it as 'backwards' and 'odd'.

To them, the embedded Dark Mark on their forearm provided the freedom to practise their faith freely and punish those who mocked those for it. To them, it was a way of balancing the scales of justice and oh how the power consumed their minds until that was all they could think of! To them, Lord Voldemort was the equivalent to Lady Hecate and they would bow to his feet, carry his commandments with pride and worship him with whatever resources they possessed.

In one of his recent speeches to his elite audience, Lord Voldemort had highlighted the obvious superiority of Slytherin and how the other Houses refused to acknowledge it. It was a shame, he had said, how they were trying to revolutionise the world before they could even shift ideologies at school and he was correct. There were little things that everyone could do, despite their power or social standing. Reminding the lessers of their betters was one of them.

So, there they had been, parading around the hallways, laughing loudly in moments of mourning and instigating unnecessary fights against other houses that led to both parties receiving detention and grave injuries.

And there they ended up, in the infirmary wing with bones dislocated, noses broken, lips busted and hit with a variety of curses. However, none of the pain they felt was anything close to what Narcissa was about to deliver to them.

She was pacing, feet hurriedly dashing from one end of the hospital wing to the other, directing a scorching glare that swirled with hellfire towards the Slytherins who flinched. Narcissa resembled Lyra strikingly when she was furious, blue eyes dissolving into thunderous greys that contained tempests, and Lyra's fury whenever they did something she didn't approve of still burnt fresh in their mind. But then, one glance at Narcissa's curly blonde hair brought them back to reality, making them realise that this was Narcissa they were dealing with, not Lyra, and went back to showing no regret over their actions.

"What were you thinking?!" Narcissa snarled at them. Then, when someone dared to open their mouth to submit a response, Narcissa shot them down instantly. "No, don't answer that. I'll guess: you weren't thinking, were you? Look at yourselves! Perfect pictures of purebloods, you lot are! Picking petty fights, provoking violence! Well, excellent job; I mean, it's not like you all in these past few minutes proved every single insult they've hurled against us. It's not like you forgot every single fucking rule that was drilled into your head for your own benefits. It's not like you condemned every single one of us for the sake of satisfying your overly large arrogance!"

"I don't know why you're scolding us," Thomas Nott had the audacity to ask, nursing black eyes and a wounded ego.

"Oh really?" Narcissa arched a pristine brow. "Pray, tell me what I should be doing instead then."

Slytherins that laid on the hospital beds frantically shook their heads, heralding warning signs and caution upon recognising the indignant tremor in her tone but Thomas Nott was obliviously fixated onto Narcissa and boldly resumed speaking, "All I'm saying is that as the Slytherin Queen, you should be praising us for doing this; if you really care about Slytherin, that is. We held up the honour of Slytherin! We proved to them once and for all that we are better."

Leonard's jaw clenched, eyes tightening at the obvious, undignified insult hurled to his girlfriend but refrained from voicing his vinegar thoughts aloud. This was Narcissa's fight, not his, and he was confident that she would emerge victoriously. So, for the time being until she called upon him, Leonard would stand in the side-lines and cheer her on.

"We had nothing to prove to them, to anyone," Narcissa's voice was cooler than the winter wind, accentuating every word that tumbled from her lips. "Saying that you needed to 'prove' something implies that the matter wasn't already clear but it was. Purebloods are superior, it's as simple as that, just as how the honour of Slytherin was always upheld until you foolishly decided that your fragile pride was greater than peace!"

"There's a war coming." Thomas laughed. "How ignorant are you to claim peace during these times? This battle is an important one, the kind that will establish our superiority and not make any impure creatures question it again." He paused, lips twisting into something ugly. "But yes, I do suppose it was particularly obtuse of me to expect you to understand the gravity of this situation considering what your House has been up to lately-- switching tiers at the Wizengamot, granting asylum to mudbloods, sprouting blood traitors and such. You Blacks are a disease and I'm warning you in the name of the Dark Lord that if you don't sort yourself out and pick the right side, we'll be left with no choice but to eradicate your filth off the face of the earth."

Narcissa's smile when Thomas' finished speaking contained all sharp teeth and vicious intentions, eyes glittering with the twinkle of insanity that the Blacks were famous for.

Thomas gulped.

Narcissa exited the infirmary one hour later, a cheerful bounce to her steps while bloodstains littered her dress and leaving some of the occupants of the room --those who criticised her leadership or worse, her family-- in a worse state than they had initially arrived in. Leonard's arm was linked with hers and he constantly directed looks of adoration and dreamy sighs towards his girlfriend.

The couple passed Madam Pomfrey, who had trusted her previous apprentice's sweet-demeanour cousin to look after the patients while she quickly stopped to St. Mungo's to gather some healing potions that they had run out of, on the way as they walked and Narcissa waved to her happily before chatting with Leonard about the planning of a Yule ball that her Great Aunt Melania was planning to host.

None of the students, whether it be the scatter of Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs who had been brought to the infirmary after the fight against Slytherin, or the snakes themselves spoke up when Madam Pomfrey asked them, aghast, why some of the Slytherins looked to have experienced a terrifying amount of blood loss and why Thomas Nott had to literally be pulled from the clutches of Death at the last moment.

Regulus sat atop the Astronomy tower, legs dangling in the air and Amal seated beside him; both blissfully oblivious to the near murder that Narcissa had committed that passing moment. A companionable silence had engulfed them, the kind that occurred only when two persons were deeply comfortable with each other.

The chilling winds that customarily arrived as Winter neared attacked them but thankfully, Regulus had had the foresight to apply a powerful warming charm on Amal and himself, granting them a blanket against the crisp breezes.

Then, a thought crossed Regulus' mind like a comet flying in the sky, leading him to break the silence. "My Grandmother Melania is throwing a surprise party for Lyra when she comes back for Yule," he informed her, receiving a hum in response.

"That's a very thoughtful gesture," Amal commented. "What kind of party? Any particular theme going on?"

"A winter-wonderland themed Yule Ball," Regulus quoted from his Grandmother Melania's letters.

A sparkle entered Amal's eyes. "Wow, it sounds fascinating! Especially considering that it is Lady Black who is organising it."

"Narcissa is helping as well," Regulus felt the need to add, recollecting how excited his cousin had been when Grandmother Melania had asked for her help to plan the grand event in her letter.

"Then it will be nothing short of perfection, for sure," Amal proclaimed.

"It will," Regulus agreed with a smile, offhandedly asking next, "Will you save me a dance at the ball?"

Amal giggled at his question. "Alright, but it's your funeral."

Regulus directed her an odd look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I can't dance," Amal admitted unashamedly with a grin.

"I'm sure that's not true."

"Oh, but it is. All those dance classes mummy made me attend when I was younger only confused me more. I step on people's toes all the time and even break them on loads of occasions. Why did you think I never dance with anyone at balls?"

"I assumed that was because you didn't have a good dance partner," Regulus replied, adding, "You must be exaggerating. There's no way you can be that bad."

"On the contrary, I think I'm undermining it."

Regulus frowned. It was true that despite Amal and himself attending many galas and events together due to their families running in the same social circles, Regulus had never actually seen Amal dance. She always seemed to make up some excuse or another whenever he asked her, saying she was tired, her feet ached, she wasn't in the mood or even distracting him with another topic.

Regulus felt a little foolish that he hadn't noticed Amal distinctly avoiding dancing earlier, he had just assumed --despite what he had confessed a minute ago-- that she didn't like dancing at all or more hurtfully, didn't want to dance with him.

"Oh," Regulus breathed out. Then, he paused. "Why are you telling me this now?"

"Honestly? I have no idea." She laughed lightly. "My sister always teased me about my lack of talent in dancing while my mother advised me to not confess to anyone about this matter. I'm the one who stumbles and steps on feet and yet, she's the one who finds it extremely concerning and embarrassing." Amal tilted her head to meet Regulus' eyes with a smile. "I don't know why I'm telling you this. You said something and so, I felt the need to say something. It spilt from my lips naturally before I could stop it."

"Thank you for telling me this," Regulus intoned and he meant it.

Memories of his grandmothers, mother, aunts and dance teachers harshly criticising his sister and cousins until they could dance to perfection fleeted through his mind. When he was young, being unable to dance had been the equivalent of feet aching and cheeks burning from humiliation as they were forced to try harder. Considering Amal came from a similar household, he couldn't imagine how hard it might have been for her, how hard it still was for her.

Amal half-smiled. "Of course I would tell you things like this. You are my best friend."

"A title that I am honoured to bear."

But because Amal had been ridiculed by those who knew this fact about her, doubt was lit aflame as she hesitantly asked Regulus, "You don't judge me for this, do you?"

"Judge you? No. Wish to educate you? Yes." Regulus jumped to his feet, offering a hand and a smile.

Amal eyed his stretched hand with concealed weariness. "What are you doing?"

"If you accept, teach you to dance. I'm excellent at it, promise."

"I'll break your toes," Amal warned seriously even though she accepted his hand, allowing him to pull her up to her feet.

"Don't worry, Lyra taught me healing charms," Regulus teasingly assured as he gently led her towards the middle of the Astronomy tower.

"There's no music," Amal protested weakly in a futile effort to get away from this lesson.

As if recognising her thoughts, Regulus smoothly responded, "That's alright. The dance teacher I had when I was younger didn't put music until I got the basic steps correctly. I'll teach you those today. They're very simple and if we practise together daily, I'm sure you'll not be responsible for any broken toes during the ball."

"You really think so?"

"I know so," he stated, adding, "Besides, if you aren't that confident that day, you could dance with me. I won't complain about my toes and you'll get to shut your sister and mother up."

Amal's eyes lit up like a firecracker. "Now that, sounds like a stellar motivation to learn dance."

Regulus chuckled, silently agreeing. With expert elegance, he linked a hand with Amal and wrapped the other one around her waist, drawing her close as Amal delicately placed a palm on his shoulder, assuming the basic start position.

"So..." She trailed off. "What now?"

"Now, we sway," Regulus dramatised, embodying the spirit of his former dance teacher, lowering his eyes to gaze at their feet. "Okay, so the simplest footwork I can think of is when the moving foot transitions from ball to heel as it travels from behind you to the front or side, and vice versa when it travels backwards. We'll go right foot first, left next and then, repeat. All good till now?"

"All good," Amal echoed.

"Then, let's start," Regulus began, guiding their movements with his voice, "So right foot OUCH--"

"Merlin, I'm so sorry!" Amal looked horrified, seeing Regulus hopping on one foot while clutching the other with his hand. "I did warn you though."

"I'm not hurt, really." Had Regulus not winced as he said this, it would have been more believable. Grimacing, he slowly set his foot down, swallowing his pain before addressing Amal, "So I feel the need to clarify. When I say we'll start with the right foot first, I mean yours."

"Got it." Amal smiled weakly as they resumed positions, Regulus squirming for the span of a second due to the pain in his leg before he smoothened his features. "You can still back out, you know?"

"I know." Regulus smiled, continuing, "And we go your right foot forward this time. Yes, that's wonderful. Now, slowly, bring it back and when you do, we'll repeat this process with your left foot. Incredibly lovely, Amal, just like that! Great job! We'll duplicate what we just did and then, we can move on to the next step with respect to the patterns of footwork which is to glide--"

So they continued to dance and twirl. The stars were twinkling above them with every step as Amal spun in delicate circles, her dark dress billowing out. The chorus of Regulus' voice directing dance steps circled around them, lifting away gravity.

She couldn't count how many times she had squished his foot under her own. Still, he smiled brightly as their heels clicked over the Astronomy floor. He watched as her hair spun out and bounced more with each move and beat. This was perfect.

This was dancing and art coming to life, strong pointed moves didn't matter here. All that mattered was the person in front of you and later, both of them would reminiscence that this night had been the reason for them to develop a teensy little crush on the other, causing a bout of mutually acquainted pinning.

As for Amal, it turned out that she could dance. Somewhat at least, and Regulus was correct-- all she had needed was the right dance partner.

Back in Borough of Islington, London, Orion and Walburga Black were engaged in an activity that was proving to also double as an excellent bonding exercise for the couple-- plotting the downfall of the House of Avery.

The first step was to subtly demolish whatever reputation that the House of Avery possessed, completely slandering their credibility, whatever they were worth through the means of spreading rumours that would be untraceable to them. That was the easiest part, offhandedly commenting small, savage remarks against the restaurants that the Avery's owned, how the meat hadn't been cooked well, how they had received a live insect on their food, how the wines were falsely advertised as old, and so much more. The interesting part was that some of their little lies actually held twisted truths, so the doubt planted in the minds of others slowly grew.

Sure enough, their restaurants received lesser customers and the price value of their shares dropped to an all-time low. After that, it was just a matter of Orion buying the majority shares in them under a different name and waiting patiently. This revelation would be the last straw that would break the camel, the death that was caused by the thousandth cut.

Guaranteed that it was a loss for him personally, to invest what others would have considered being a great deal of money; but for him, in reality, hardly caused a noticeable change in his accounts; but his desire to quench his thirst for revenge was greater.

Based on what he collected from Walburga's vent, Orion could form a couple of conclusions. Lady Elsbeth Avery had crossed an invisible line when she had insulted the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. But she had made her funeral arrangements when she had dared to involve his precious children into the matter. There was nothing that the House of Black specialised in more than the art of revenge and ruthless vengeance.

The second step in their strategy was one that they had initially assumed to be the hardest which was to infiltrate the House, gain an ally on the inside. However, their prayers had been answered in the form of Belladonna Malfoy née Avery who had disowned herself from her birth family the second that Elsbeth had summoned the audacity to imply that Lyra and subsequently, Lucius, were behaving scandalously, unlike their regal upbringing that had been sprinkled with love.

Without an ounce of hesitation, Belladonna had shared plans, business secrets and even, extreme secrets that were sacred to the Averys to Walburga and Orion, also offering tips on what she thought that they should do to the Averys as well.

Had Walburga seen this side of Belladonna in the past, she was sure they would have been life-long friends by now. No matter, it was never too late to start, especially since the two women would be in-laws in the near future. Walburga created a mental reminder to invite Belladonna to one of the shopping expedites that Rosalind and herself would frequently indulge in.

So now, Orion and Walburga could move on to the third step, their favourite before the grand finale-- flaming family feuds. If, say, a person mysteriously disappeared, the Aurors would check all those who had a motive along with all those who had something to gain. Nobody would invite the mercilessness of the Blacks --while their political power had admittedly dwindled, the trial where they sentenced an eleven year old to Azkaban was burnt fresh in the minds of people-- by snitching to the Aurors about the little argument that had taken place over high tea a few days ago, not unless that wanted to vanish themselves. Hence, should the Aurors catch wind of an angry family, the motives would be endless and after that, it was just a matter of setting one of them to take the fall.

Orion and Walburga spent much time planning all the details, becoming closer with each other than they had been in months, years even; because she was a snake and so was he. They were venomous but by Morgana, they were so lovely to admire.