Shades of Silver and Black

THE BROOM JUMPING CEREMONY OCCURRED when sunlight kissed the grass. A non-flying broom leaned across the doorway of the Malfoy Manor, front entrance. The belief went, if the newly wedded couple could cross the threshold without knocking the broom, it was a good omen for their life together ahead. Otherwise, rocky roads and stormy seas would greet them instead.

Lyra pulled up the white, layered skirt of her wedding dress a bit to facilitate the wonderful process of not-tripping-over-and-landing-on-her-face. Lucius wrapped an arm around Lyra’s waist and used the one to hold her arm, also contributing to attempts to avoid her falling.

Lady Fortuna was on their side and they jumped over successfully, rippling applause and cheers.

A feast for the gods had been laid out in the dining room, from chocolate waffles and pancakes with golden syrup to eggs Benedict and stripes of meat. In three-tier platters, rainbow-coloured macaroons, cut fruits and bite-sized sandwiches had been presented. Steaming bowls of soup, tall glasses of elvish wine, tea and fruit juice were also served.

After breakfast, they returned to the sprawling gardens of Malfoy Manor, sporadically occupied by the prized peacocks. None of them left to do other work. After all, it wasn’t every day that a member of their family—or dear friends, in the case of a few—got married, so they intended to celebrate freely and excessively.

Chairs had been brought from the dining room to the patio, arranged in a large circle, inside which stood the bride and the groom. This particular design had been created to accommodate Lyra, who had to stand because sitting while wearing such a dress was impossible, and her legs hurt but her smile was real and wide.

The Blacks, Petrov, Cassandra, Theodore and Dennis were seated. Her father-in-law had to be wizard-handled to bed by her mother-in-law when he drank a little too much elvish wine and got into her father’s face, screaming, “I told you they’d get married! I told you Lyra would be my daughter-in-law!”

Her mother-in-law had looked like she was preparing herself to be a widow.

Lucius had made motions with his hands to his mother that suggested he loved his father alive and to please get him out soon, I don’t want him to further embarrass me in front of the in-laws who aren’t too fond of me already.

Once the two older Malfoys had left, her father had stood up, proclaiming he had something to share.

"When Lyra was little, she had a humongous stuffed lion toy that she absolutely loved—and thank you, Charlus, for buying that for a girl whose entire family back then was in Slytherin and promoting your damned Gryffindor agenda." Her father scowled.

"You're very welcome!" Uncle Charlus grinned.

Her father's brows furrowed. He opened his mouth to argue but Lyra cut him off by saying, "I did? I don't remember having a lion toy."

"Oh, that's because Sally—may she rest in snake-heaven in peace—loved sinking her fangs into it." Now, her father was smiling. "Hey, Charlus, remember we gifted you a small stuffed snake toy about a decade back for your birthday? Guess where we got its stuffing from."

"Father!"

"Anyway," her father continued smoothly, a hint of smirk visible at the corner of his lips at Uncle Charlus paling and the audible smack of Aunt Dorea's palm connecting with her forehead. He also looked rather pleased by the laughter and applause he received from the rest of her family "That's not what I wanted to share. It was supposed to have been a secret. Oops."

"Yeah, you look really regretful," muttered Uncle Charlus.

"The story that I did want to share," her father was saying over the interjection, "was one that stayed with me. It's when I went to tuck Lyra into bed—she was about four, then, I believe?—and I found her slowly and painstakingly reading a book about wildlife to the stuffed lion because she 'wanted him to know about his family'"

Her father paused, allowing aww’s and coos to fill the air. He looked at Lyra, and her cheeks reddened.

"It sounds insignificant and there's really no rhyme or reason for me sharing that particular memory of mine over everything else, except that I love you. You make me proud, you've made me so proud ever since you were born for the simple reason that you're my daughter and you're here and I love you. Nothing you do can disappoint me—and that isn't a challenge, by the way, don't get hurt trying to prove me wrong because you'll fail. I love you, I'm proud of you, and you delight me by existing. I'm honoured to be your father. Remember, the stars are always with you."

"Daddy..." Lyra walked over and hugged him, inhaling the scent of expensive perfumes. "I love you too. So much."

"I know, darling," said Father and planted a kiss on her forehead.

Uncle Alphard claimed the next speech slot, standing up before Mother and beaming in triumph. He had decided to start his speech with a joke.

"I'm going to start my emotional speech with a joke," he said, and Petrov looked affectionate and Mother looked morbid. "The laughter you'll all be choking on is to prepare you for, plot-twist, all the crying you'll be doing by the time I'm done speaking."

“I’ve been crying ever since mother told me I'm going to be an older sister," muttered Mother and Uncle Alphard laughed.

Grandfather Pollux told his son she wasn't kidding, and Uncle Alphard stopped laughing.

Sirius turned to Petrov. "Are you sure this is the family you want to get into? I was born here, so I'm trapped, but you can still escape."

Petrov looked like he was actually considering Sirius' words but then he shrugged. "Your Uncle is worth it."

Uncle Alphard beamed. Sirius eyed Petrov with approval. "I like you," he declared.

Petrov ruffled Sirius' hair. "I like you too."

Sirius looked horrified, and he hastened to smoothen his hair. "I take it back, I don't like you anymore."

"I'll compensate for his lack of love with mine," said Uncle Alphard and blew Petrov a kiss, which the Bulgarian caught and pressed to his heart.

Regulus wrinkled his nose. "Gross," he stated, causing a domino effect of laughter.

"So," started Uncle Alphard when the laughter had receded, "where was I? Oh yes, my joke. I—“

"Oh, the joke is you?" Mother cackled.

Uncle Cygnus snorted. "Good one, Alphie. It's the best joke I've ever heard."

Grandmother Irma quipped an imposing eyebrow. "Are you saying I went through morning sickness and swollen feet that prohibited me from playing Quidditch only to give birth to a joke?"

All humour drained from Uncle Cygnus and Mother’s faces instantly. They looked terrified.

Uncle Alphard, meanwhile, personified the word 'smug.'

A tense pause. Then;

“—course not, mother, you misunderstood. I only meant—“

“—always take Aphard's side, he's clearly your favourite—“

"Children," said Grandmother Irma and their mouths shut, chagrined.

Grandfather Pollux took over from there because parenting was teamwork. "How about this? Let's let Alphard complete his joke, politely laugh, let him finish his speech, and then, you can make fun of Alphard all you want and we won't interfere, okay? As long as it's all done quietly, of course."

After begrudging sounds of agreement, Grandfather Pollux motioned for Uncle Alphard—who was alternating between giving Grandmother Irma puppy-dog eyes and glaring at Grandfather Pollux like he'd killed a puppy—to continue with his speech.

Clearing his throat, Uncle Alphard began. "Alright, so it goes like this: a snake, a lion and a peacock walk into a pub—“

"Mistress!"

"Oh, come on! Another interruption?" Uncle Alphard groaned but Lyra's shoulder slumped with relief.

She hadn't heard the punchline, so it was premature to judge, but the glint in Uncle Alphard’s eyes had assured her Lucius would find it offensive.

The intruder was one of their house-elves, named Kreacher. Lyra only remembered its name because Regulus would get into fights to defend its honour. Regardless, she didn’t appreciate a house-elf interrupting her wedding celebrations.

It was also concerning how house-elves belonging to the Blacks could evade the wards of the Malfoy estate so easily; something that Lyra noted to bring to the notice of her mother-in-law (and didn’t that term make her heart all warm) later.

Her mother looked as unamused by the house-elf’s presence tainting the mood as Lyra did. “Kreacher,” she said, enraged. “Get out, you stupid elf! You have no right to be here! Whatever you want to say, it can wait for later.”

“But Mistress!” Kreacher looked close to tears. “The Planetarium.”

“What about the Planetarium?” Grandmother Melania asked, tone flat. “You want to be transferred to care for the Planetarium instead of Grimmauld; is that it? You better not have interrupted this occasion for that request. There are still spots on the wall for heads.”

Kreacher flinched like he’d been struck and Regulus stood up, eyes wide. “Grandmother! That’s cruel of you to say. Kreacher isn’t like that. He adores Grimmauld Place. I’m sure the reason he came here is important.”

Grandmother Melania sighed. “Oh, Regulus. You’re too sweet for your own good, sweetheart, but I’ve been around elves much longer than you have. They’re all so…” she trailed off, stopping herself from finishing her remark at Regulus’ crestfallen features. She shook her head. “Never-mind. Alright, darling, we’ll hear it out, okay? Cheer up now, love. Go ahead, elf, speak what you must and leave immediately.”

“The Planetarium!” Kreacher wailed, looking only at Lyra’s mother. “It’s—it’s green and big and, oh Mistress, it’s all terrible! Kreacher is scared, it’s so hot. Mistress must come quickly. Very quickly. Mistress must come quickly. Oh, yes, come please—“

“Spit it out, you stupid elf!” Her mother demanded.

“It’s on fire!” Kreacher cried out. “Mistress, the house is on fire!”

Too much happiness upsets the balance of the world, so tragedy, which had been waiting in the wings, decided to play spoilsport.

Grandfather Arcturus frowned. “What do you mean it’s on fire?”

“It’s on fire,” Kreacher repeated, its frail body shaking so much, Regulus went and placed a comforting hand on Kreacher’s back.

“Regulus!” Her mother barked out. “Don’t touch that thing, you don’t know where it's been. Come here. Now.” She pried Regulus away from Kreacher, who scowled at their mother—but sensed it wasn’t a good time for an argument—and stomped over to Aunt Dorea instead.

Grandfather Arcturus pinched the bridge of his nose and said, “Elf, I got that bit. You already said it was on fire. The other elves would have doused it out by now—you should be there, helping, by the way.” His eyes slid to Orion, as if to say, your house-elf isn’t disciplined and it’s embarrassing us in front of our peacock-in-law.

Her father winced.

Grandfather Pollux added, “Andromeda and her husband were at the Planetarium as well, something about books.” He cast Lyra a side-eye, as if to say, they wouldn’t have to be at the Planetarium if you had invited them to your wedding to the peacock.

Lyra tossed him a dimpled smile and a wink.

Grandmother Irma continued where her husband left off: “They’d have put out whatever fire sparked by now. Run along, elf, your presence is tainting this occasion.”

“Traitor Mistress Andromeda gave loyal Kreacher this command,” Kreacher persisted. “Kreacher is not to come back without Black family. Loyal house-elves and Traitor Mistress Andromeda cannot put out the fire.”

Bellatrix huffed. “Of course, Andy can’t put out a simple fire.”

“The fire,” said Kreacher, its grey body vibrating, “is green.”

Lyra stilled. “Green?” She echoed in a whisper.

Kreacher nodded at her. “Green,” he confirmed.

Lyra’s stomach clenched. “We should go to the Planetarium. Now.”

Something in her voice must have alarmed them, so the wedding party agreed without a quarrel, apparating to the grounds of the Planetarium.

The smell of smoke first hit them like a whiplash, prompting coughs as they applied a spell to dispel the smoke completely, permanently. When the smoke screen lifted, Lyra saw horror staring at her in a way she’d never imagined.

Embraced by scorching green flames, the Planetarium embodied the fragile mortality of doom.

It looked blinding, a luminous green ball of fire which was spreading, moving from left to right. The hanging potted plants dropped from the balconies and shattered on the ground like glass, the robes holding them having been burnt off. The curtains covering the windows caught on fire, dusting to grant them sight to scorched furniture and interiors.

The ceiling-to-floor windows of the library, meant to allow reading with a garden view and for sunlight to stream in, did their job perfectly as the sky gained hues of bright blues. Through them, they watched the embers eat the books—all of them, some hand-written by their ancestors and passed down generations, some priceless in monetary value, some containing long-lost knowledge, some storing stories and tales of their family. All gone now.

The sky should have cried and thundered to mark such a tragedy, but it was a ridiculously clear day, all bright and sunny, nothing to indicate what felt like death by a thousand cuts to Lyra and her family.

Ever graceful Narcissa tripped and collapsed to the ground. She didn’t get back up, just stared at the flames with parted lips and wide eyes. Uncle Cygnus and Aunt Druella huddled around Narcissa, on their knees, all three of them seeking each other’s embrace, watching as the Planetarium went up in flames.

Bellatrix froze like a statue.

Alphard stare was empty in a manner that seemed to frighten Petrov more than the fire itself.

Aunt Dorea gasped and quelled her dread as she soon had to forcefully restrain Regulus from running into the flames with a hug.

Uncle Charlus’ features were set grimly, one hand covering James' eyes and the other, Sirius'. When the later boy pushed off the obstacle to his vision, only to scream in terror, Charlus placed a hand on Sirius’ shoulder instead.

A sob tore out of Grandmother Irma, her hands flying to cover her mouth. Adjacent to her, Grandfather Pollux paled several shades, close to fainting.

“No no no no no,” Grandmother Melania repeated like a mantra, like the chances of the gods heeding her wishes and sparing the Planetarium would increase the more she spoke.

The Blacks and Petrov strained their footsteps further, stopping as close as they could to the Planetarium without risking becoming victims themselves; like they were offering comfort to their home as it burnt. The warmth radiating from the destruction felt mocking, salting their wounds.

“Oh, thank Jesus!” Ted sprinted towards them. Beads of sweat dripped down his face along with a splatter of soot. He pointed to the burning house. “I—I have no idea what happened. Andy and I were in the library, picking out names, and then the house-elves were screaming and everything felt hot. We broke a window and jumped out.”

A glance at the house told Lyra the mudblood was being truthful. One window had been shattered, the shards of broken glass shined whenever it caught the rays of the sun.

“We’ve been trying to put it out for minutes now!” Andromeda shouted, dressed in pants and trousers and looking equally exhausted, as she marched over to them. One hand held her wand like a grudge while the other was placed protectively on her belly. “We tried everything. It’s not working! Nothing’s working!”

“Don’t lie!” Lyra’s mother yelled. “I bet you didn’t even try.”

Her mother pulled out her wand and pointed it to the green flames. A jet of water, swift as a stream, hit the target, and did nothing.

Her mother faltered. “What—“ She stepped forward, frowning, exerting more pressure. More water came out. Nothing happened. She stepped even closer but Lyra seized her mother’s wrist and pulled her back.

Her mother looked furious and glared. “Let go of me, Lyra. I need to—” She tried shaking away Lyra’s grip but failed.

“No, mum!” Dread crept in her veins like blood. When met with her mother’s thunderous visage, Lyra told her, detached, “No matter what you do, it’s no use. We can’t do anything to stop it.”

Her mother looked as helpless as Lyra felt—which was all wrong, her formidable mother should never be reduced to wearing an expression so vulnerable—and roared, “What do you mean we can’t do anything? Our home is burning down! We can’t just sit around and wait to inspect the rumble! We have to do something, anything!”

“It’s green fire.” Lyra swallowed the bitter taste clinging to her tongue, but it stayed. “Green fire indicates the use of the fiend fyre, but the spell recited in parseltongue. It can’t be put out unless it’s extinguished its target, or the spell caster cancels the spell. The spell caster only,” she added when her mother opened her mouth, “not another soul, regardless of whether or not speak parseltongue as well.”

Lyra released her mother’s wrist. Her mother’s wand slipped and fell. She didn’t pick it up.

It felt like resignation. Like giving-up. Like accepting fate, however cruel it was.

The caster only needed to be within viewing distance of the target to cast the spell, so they needn’t have tried to enter the wards or anything. They could have just stood at a comfortable distance and watched the Planetarium crumble from the horizon of their vision.

The spell was also efficient and clean. It would disappear like a nightmare after finishing its target—in this case, the Planetarium.

However, the outrageous amount of power used to cast it would burn through the user’s wand and cause the user to be exhausted. It was a highly illegal spell in all parseltongue-speaking countries. Since Britain was not a parseltongue-speaking country, it was legal here, and the user would only be charged with property damage at worst, consisting of a few thousand galleon fine.

The user wouldn’t be charged with razing down a legacy. Memories. A home.

Their legacy. Their memories. Their home.

“Parseltongue,” echoed her father, voice flat, and the culprit became clear to even the dimmest among them.

Lyra’s father had grown up here, running around the grounds which were collecting dust and ashes. The Planetarium was where he’d done all his first’s; the doors he slammed after fighting with his sister, the windows he climbed out of when there was a Celestina Warbeck concert, the hallways his mother used to chase him down while pleading with him to eat, the terrace where he’d learnt to count stars with his father.

Lyra watched her father cry and her mother hug him, her own tears streaming down her face.

Lyra looked away, and instead, glanced back at the Planetarium, half solid and half dust. Acid pooled in her mouth.

Lucius blocked her view with his body, his lips pursed and eyes sad.

He was still in his groom’s robes, and she still wore her wedding dress. The snowflake white dress became spotted black as ashes rained on them.

A particularly large piece of paper floated over, performing a dance with the wind and landing on her nose. Lyra picked it up. She recognised water and sand, a beach had been imprinted on the paper—the one her family had visited while she was in another continent. The portrait which played a catalyst to Lyra’s spiteful words a few months ago had been obliterated.

She dropped it like it was still on fire, and it tangled with the green grass.

“Which one of you snitched on the plan?” Lyra forced the words out of her mouth, voice thick.

“It wasn’t me,” answered Theodore, standing significantly behind the Black family with Dennis and Cassandra, like one did with the mourning family during a funeral. “I haven’t told anyone at all, nor have I as much as thought of it in the presence of others.”

“It couldn’t have been me either,” added Cassandra, horror lacing her tone as ash piled on her hair like snowflakes. She shook it away. “I was just discharged from the hospital two days ago. My visitors were my family and I only talked to them about Theo and I’s wedding preparations, nothing of painting or the Dark Lord.”

Lyra had been with Lucius the majority of the time and they were on another continent. It was impossible—and deathly—for him to have revealed the plan to anyone, let alone the Dark Lord.

Only one person remained. As if knowing this, Dennis inhaled a sharp breath.

Lyra turned to him. “Did you tell the Dark Lord what we were planning to do, Dennis?”

“I didn’t,” Dennis denied. Then, he hesitated.

“But…?” Lyra prompted when he didn’t speak further.

“But I did tell my father about the bill as we’d discussed,” Dennis confessed. “Only about the bill, but I think he figured it out and told the Dark Lord. Perhaps my father hoped that by telling the Dark Lord straight, a situation where He finds out on his own and punishes everyone. I suspect he snitched because he thought he could protect House Yaxley in the process.” Dennis’ voice revealed the disgust, repulsion and mortification he felt at his own father’s actions.

Lyra nodded. “That sounds about right. I would have done the same if I found out my son was secretly trying to take down a person I thought could replace Lady Hecate.”

“I’m sorry. I’m really so, so sorry, Lyra, I didn’t imagine—”

“Don’t bother,” Lyra interrupted, tone devoid of emotions. “It’s not your apology to give, so don’t you dare Dennis. This was a risk we were stupid enough to have overlooked, but it isn’t your fault that this happened. The blame falls to one person, and one person only.”

Dennis shifted on his feet. “If you’re going to kill my father, please do it while I’m not there.”

“I’m referring to the Dark Lord, not Lord Yaxley. I’m not going to kill your father, Dennis.” Lyra stared ahead at Lucius’ face like he was transparent and she could still see her house burning down. “After all, he needs to repent and live long enough to pass the mantle of Lord Yaxley to Regulus, like he constantly says he will.”

Dennis closed his eyes, relieved, more regarding not becoming Lord Yaxley than his father not being murdered. His boggart had been a reflection of himself with the Yaxley lordship ring heavy on his index finger and his shoulders.

Lyra swivelled her head towards Grandfather Arcturus, the green light illuminating his proud, devastated features. “I’m sorry. If I hadn’t planned what I did, if I’d been more careful, this wouldn’t have happened. It’s all my fault.”

“How dare you say that?” Sirius snarled, startling Lyra.

“Siri—“

“How dare you say that,” Sirius spat out, red rimming his eyes. “You’re not the fucking bastard who thought it was a bloody brilliant idea to set our house on fire. There are a thousand different ways anyone with common sense could have retaliated instead of doing this. Stop drowning yourself in blame and self-pity and grow the hell up. The world isn’t centred around you and monsters aren’t good at making logical decisions.” He furiously wiped the water gathering in his eyes and returned to staring at the Planetarium.

Lyra’s mouth actually dropped at his words, but nobody said anything to contradict her little brother, so Lyra nodded her head, rather dumbly. Lucius tailored his fingers into hers and squeezed.

Her mind whirled with the recent revelations, connecting stars to constellations. Voldemort couldn’t have expected Lyra’s impromptu wedding, which meant he wanted to burn the Blacks in their own home. It would have been poetic, Lyra supposed, to exhaust the stars in the planetarium.

An explosion occurred as the flames reached the right-wing of the Planetarium, causing the ground to rumble. They shielded their faces as random objects flung out, as a result, falling at their feet.

“It must have contacted the potion’s laboratory,” said Grandmother Melania, shakily.

The charring scent of roasting meat hit Lyra’s nose and her eyes widened in realisation. “My snakes,” she whispered, and bile rose to her throat.

Lucius jumped back as she threw up, before immediately moving behind her, holding Lyra’s hair back and stroking her back soothingly, offering whatever comforting words he could summon.

The green fire stopped soon enough, leaving ruin in its shadow.

More than a hundred years the Planetarium had stood. It fell in less than half an hour, stretched to an eternity.

If you didn’t already know, you would have never guessed a mighty Manor, an architect’s dream and the envy of the high-class society, used to exist in its place.

Lucius helped Lyra up, offering a handkerchief to clean her mouth. Then, he wrapped his arms around her and she buried her face into his shoulders, her nails digging into his back like she needed something solid. Lucius muttered condolences and apologies and comforts while her body convulsed and his neck felt wet, and she loved him for that.

When Lyra finally lifted her head, she saw Grandfather Arcturus walk ahead and kneel in the ashes of their home like he was making a sacred offering. Using his finger, he drew two runes in the clinkers she recognised; gratitude and farewell. The Black lordship ring glinted in the sunlight.

“Fuck the three-day notice,” stated Grandfather Arcturus, and it sounded like a war cry. His tears mixed with the ashes beneath his feet. “Suck up whatever you’re feeling and keep your head high. We’ll mourn later. We’re killing him now.”

Until that day, there had never been a proper instance Lyra could remember of her—or any member of her family—being like this. Useless. Helpless. Weak.

If one traced every embroidered face in the Tree Room at Grimmauld Place, each of their ancestors remained strong and timeless, like a single stone pillar standing in the ruins of a long-dead empire.

But here they were, watching their home—the very embodiment of their legacy—burn in green, setting the daylight agleam.

What was the point of possessing power if it was useless to save what mattered most?

Answer: For vengeance. For revenge. To rue. To avenge.

The point of accumulating power was to sharpen it into a weapon and hurt the ones who hurt them.

Their ruthless reputation acted as a shield charm, warding off any reckless, stupid decisions by others to exact vengeance from them in such a way. Nobody had dared to. Even at the lowest of their lows, the Blacks had only ever been attacked either politically or socially, and Voldemort was about to find out why.