Ursa X
Though her wedding was a mere twenty-three hours away, Bellatrix seemed to care not at all. The gathered women were no friends of hers, to be sure, but a gaggle of geese that ranged from simple acquaintances and very close friends of both her mother and her fiancee. Her fiancee had had few, remaining female friends since the wedding date had been formalized, so those he had were relatives or those that Bellatrix had vetted herself, more an extension of her will than capable of companionship. Her sister was many things, but susceptible to the idea of insult was not one of them: and even from her husband, Bellatrix would tolerate no such things on that front.
As it was, Ursa’s eldest sister was neither nervous nor excited. Unlike her mother, who smiled gaily and charmed those who did not know her, or her sister, who kindly, if distantly, shared gossip with those who she knew herself (and Ursa, who was sharing scowls with a baby in a low highchair), her sister merely swirled the wine in her glass as though this was another function she’d been forced to attend.
For Bellatrix, those had been many and more. A short time before Sirius’ birth had led the mainly-patriarchal Black family to decide that in absence of a male heir, Bellatrix - with all her accompanying talents and predisposition for the Dark Arts - would suffice; even at that young age, a prestigious heir such as one of the House of Black was to attend any and all functions with their House Head. Then, as the powerful, respected likely next right-hand man of You-Know-Who, though it had been hushed in the public eye as due to her status as the eldest daughter.
Bellatrix would much rather be a Death Eater than a wife, and though the marriage had been forced through without her permission, Ursa doubted that she would let the constraints of what was expected to trap her in unhappiness.
(They had stopped being subtle about it when she was nine. It had been an accident she’d stumbled upon them - her mother, father, Bellatrix, and a pale-faced, but strong-willed, Andromeda - and it had been an accident that had forced the secret into the family chronicles, but it had not been an accident that they began speaking much more openly, if not positively, about the Dark Lord in general. As it was, many of the older generations disliked him; the middling, such as her parents, found him uncouth and callous but a prime representative of what was needed; for Bellatrix and those like her who could almost sense the waning power of purebloods as Dumbledore’s political ascent failed to falter, it was a haven, a wrathful god come to save them from the old man’s tyranny.)
Many of the women had already attempted to trap her in dull conversation about the decor, the dress, or the ceremony. Bellatrix had snubbed them all. Brutally.
“So, how do you think he might surprise you?” A pale-haired, dark-eyed woman had chittered. Her fingers had nervously twirled with fine, moonlight strands of hair, betraying any sort of confidence she’d gathered. “You know, it’s traditional for a wizard to bring a gift to his new wife-”
Bellatrix had leveled her with a glare. “A dagger made of goblin metal.”
The woman had laughed breathlessly, tripping on each inhale. “It’s- ah, usually-”
“My husband is mine,” she’d explained, almost callously, as though she weren’t overthrowing decades of traditions. Any sort of awareness that she had about the severity of her actions was drowned out by sheer apathy. “Therefore, he does as I want. I want a goblin-made dagger.”
A flush had spread up the woman’s cheeks, scarily see-through skin burning a lobster red as she stuttered and stumbled. Her mother hadn’t particularly cared - it had been a long time since anyone had tried to corral Bellatrix - but despite that, she’d softly taken her fingers in the hand and muttered soft sentences of gratitude, smoothing over any offense made. Despite this, it was unlikely that the woman had been of any importance, in the end; she sat alone, near the same age as her eldest sister, with a tendency to fiddle and twitch when she wasn’t occupied. If these short clues were enough to decide it for Ursa, then Bellatrix would surely know.
The afternoon was coming to a close when Ursa slipped out. She’d spent the morning puttering around the wedding venue, quietly listening to her mother berate the poor decorators even as she imagined the tricks that Sirius had shown them on his broom the day before. Druella had been, strangely, particularly upset when hearing that they’d seated Walburga at the same table as Sirius. “Are you a fool?” She’d asked the trembling man, whose clipboard clattered and clanked with every shake. “Do you want there to be murder at this wedding?”
Ursa had it on good authority (Sirius told her; so had Druella, Grandfather, and Narcissa, weirdly enough) that neither Walburga nor Sirius had spoken a word since the infamous howler. No speaking; no writing; no messages through another person, nada. She also knew from equally reputable sources (eavesdropping on Cygnus on a firecall with Orion) that Sirius had become a banned topic in their household. I don’t understand. It’s just a House, Orion had griped.
It’s just Walburga, Cygnus had scoffed, dismissing his woes as though it might be that simple.
(It probably was.)
The wedding venue was gorgeous; luscious, drooping flowers lined every wall, painted a luscious off-white that complimented the lavender and navy elegantly. Tables stacked on top of each other to make a cylindrical design on the wall when not in use, displaying a porcelain dancefloor ringing in tiny daffodils and prancing, dancing horses. The tablecloths were blue-green, ringed in silver star embroidery, and the cups delicately outlines the mythos from which Bellatrix’s name arose, glimmering every so often as the light passed through them at an angle. The windows were stained blue, lightening as they reached the top and sending a cold light into the room. It only made everything seem so much more… Bellatrix, if you removed the colour and flowers.
This combined wasn’t the most welcoming atmosphere to linger in. The outside was much the same as it had always been, albeit uncomfortably saturated in magic to keep the numerous arrangements of flowers and towering, blooming trees alive, but the centuries had already prepped it for the weddings and funerals held within its walls, sp her mother had only tutted over the lack of archways and swept away. Without the interference of magic, it was a formidable maze, winding, twisting through the grounds of Blaeckastle; with, including all the ritual magic and expertise of the Lestranges, it was veritably impossible for anybody to find their way back to the main room without aid.
Luckily, Ursa’s blood had the secret key that would let her dander back in one piece. Not on time or with any sort of calm candor, but unlike the many skeletons that she’d found hurriedly dumped in the bushes, she’d return breathing, bleeding human woman.
She spent an hour aimlessly wandering through the northern plaza. Unlike the interior, the gardens were built for human inhabitancy, centuries old and yet still standing; the architecture was nothing like that at the modern Black manor or even the victorian Grimmauld Place. Each stone brick was intricately decorated, hiding years of history inside their still-life panels, and only on the highest tower did the restorative magic begin to waver, revealing rounded stone molding to the power of the elements and heady magic.
After the reception, Ursa could imagine that the plaza would be packed. The public only ever glimpsed a few of the castle’s ominous battlements, the looming curtain walls, and the shining slip-hooks that pulled up the gates. To see more than a passing glance of the tapestries and spruce cravings snatched through the green glare of the Floo was seen as a luxury; to see the interior in its unholy glory would be an experience told to their grandchildren in the years to come.
In fact, Ursa herself had never had the chance to explore it in its entirety. Not in the same way that she knew the manor or Grimmauld Place. The hiding places were obscured by her ignorance. Every etching was just as foreign as the last. The fourth daughter of the second son was no important family member to mentor carefully, nor was she someone you’d be fond of through parental association. Her father visited annually as one of the main figureheads of the generation, but it was a cold, impersonal meeting based on facts and statistics, more to be like a CEO talking to the members of the board than a grandson to grandfather.
It was perhaps why she lingered between the hangings, fingers catching on the loops of the wall vines as she peered through the skylight. It appeared to be well-maintained and loved, but she doubted that it saw many visitors that were of human nature. If her fears were assured, then nobody had visited in a very long time, but the clean shine of the white patio wood betrayed normal assumptions falsely. The steps echoed with the clunk of her footsteps, the black muck from the flowerbeds the only mark on a clean sheet of parchment.
Ursa turned her head to look at the trail of childish footprints that lead halfway across the garden, momentarily guilty that she’d given housework to the elves. But, and she reasoned as she must to keep her sanity, they would have had little work for such a large workforce, as the years passed with fewer and fewer inhabitants. Perhaps her inelegance might be a boon.
“Who’s there?”
Her head snapped around. The voice was vaguely familiar in both tone and tonality, but too distant to be put to a specific person. Ursa crept down the last of the steps. Streaks of green jolted in the corner of her eyes, as her fingers pulled them taught, then let those. A vague awareness of being watching niggled at the back of her mind, and the spike of adrenaline booted honed instincts into full gear: her fingers clenched around the wood of her wand - not too tight to make the movements stiff, but not loose enough to drop it - and her muscles became alight with readiness, preparing to move at any second.
“Step out!” The voice barked, suddenly closer. There was a hoarse, rough edge that grew stronger as they yelled. No way.
Ursa side-stepped into the open, preparing to meet a wand pointed to her throat - but instead, she met an empty sprawl of a wonderful world. The wind turned crimped and cut bushels of marigolds to golden dancers, buds of innocent indigo daring to kiss the ground. Between the cracks of the long winding road, thumb-sized blooms with all the reflection of the blue sky lined the walkway from the burnished wall of the kaleidoscopic glass fountains to the vanishing point where high hedges dotted with lilacs, peonies, and hyacinths. But it was absent of conscious life; no dainty, dancing butterflies, no oozing worms, not even the flicker of a blackbird in the high noon sky.
The wind tickled the back of her neck.
Ursa spun on her heel, colours blurring in a tornado of exulted panic. Her pulse matched the pace of the rabbit, the race ran with such fervor that she feared her veins would pulse and then pop. Without looking, she knew her knuckles had gone white, any and all of her father’s teachings slipped through her fingers like water. The wand pointed at her was black, slightly grey as the cold afternoon slipped over it, and at the end of it-
“Little sister,” Bellatrix smiled. It was neither kind nor hurtful; the plain sort of apathy that she had carried with her since she was born, tinged only with amusement. In a flurry of movement, the walnut wand was sheathed and her face spared a scorching. “Announce yourself next time.”
“I didn’t know you were here!” Ursa told her indignantly, distantly aware of the slowing of her mind like a train arriving at a station. As far as she was to know, her sister was fielding off the boredom of organizing a pureblood-based event, not gallivanting in the garden plaza.
“I told everyone we were taking a break. Did you not hear me, baby sister?”
Ursa shrugged. “No. I’m only here because mother’s trying to teach me patience. I think.”
In fact, it was more likely due to the fact that it was a Sunday - therefore, no tutoring - and her father was off gallivanting in the Ministry for the second time this month. Ursa had been left alone exactly twice before; once, she had been injured by her own runic arrays, and therefore the only chaos she had caused had been the licensed kind, but the second time she had lit the secondary receiving room on fire. Both her parents had firmly agreed that she was not to be left without adult supervision in the future.
“Well,” Bellatrix sniffed. “I suppose that sparing you mother’s attention ought not to return them to me. That weasel-faced caterer seemed to have enraged her enough. Still, if I find that my location was sniffed out because of you, baby sister, I’ll sit you next to Great Aunt Cassiopeia for the entire wedding.”
With that ominous threat, her sister returned to the side table she had procured for whatever nefarious deed she was to commit next. The surface itself was no more out of place than the high pillar of the patio; between its four legs, wood wove leaves and berries in a masterwork of carpentry, the flat painted a glittering gold. Panels made the interior of the leaves, ivory with flecks of forest green. Scatted on the surface were parchment piles, soft, dipping hills that verged on sliding onto the tiling. “What?” Bellatrix snapped.
The wind picked up in the plaza again. The wards kept the environment between spring and summer, but it didn’t prevent the heavy, ceaseless autumn rains from beating down or the fierce gales of the Scottish highlands from snapping and bursting through the garden. The parchment scattered across the tiling, fulfilling unspoken threats; her sister hissed through the teeth, but they were witches, and a flick of her wand had them neatly stacked again.
“What?” Bellatrix snapped. Ursa tilted her head; the manner of her temper was similar to when she was instructed by their parents not to do something this time, Bella. Frustration rather than anger.
“I can stop them from falling off the table.” Ursa offered. She studied indoors for the majority of the year, only daring to venture out during the very best weather. Even then, it was at her mother’s prodding. You’re like a ghost, darling, she’d tug at the darkening curls of her fringe.
“You, really?” She scoffed. “Pray tell, how?”
Ursa shuffled closer. Like a wounded animal, her sister had to be approached carefully. She’d whirled on Narcissa the summer of the year that Andromeda had left, leaving a pale scar that stretched from Cissa’s collarbone to the curve of her shoulder. Bellatrix had been promptly relocated to Great Aunt Cassopeia’s home until the conclusion of the school break, but Ursa doubted it had the effect that her parents so wanted her Great Aunt to have; it was more likely that instead of teaching Bellatrix restraint and forethought, she’d been lectured in the intricacies of dark cures and ancient magic, giving her a greater insight to her preferred method of violence than Ursa was comfortable with.
“There’s a runic array that blocks out elements.” Ursa began. “It’s similar to the one over the grounds, but the castle is too big to host an array like that. On a smaller scale, it’s easy enough to do, and it should leech off the natural land instead of either of our magic.”
Bellatrix narrowed her gaze, and Ursa fought not to shrink beneath its’ cold analytic nature. “And what,” Bellatrix started. Ursa kept a smile from her face. “Would this entail, dear sister?”
Because runes, including runic arrays, were studied by all of the Black girls at some point in their lives. Some later than others. It would be - was - Ursa’s specialization, as black magic was for Bellatrix and political intrigue was for Narcissa, but copying and writing arrays? Even a beginner could learn that. Most of the generic arrays were kept in a public record, but they started and ended with arrays that could be created after two years of study. Anything beyond that was hoarded as a goblin kept their gold - and Ursa did the same. In her room, beneath a floorboard (there were two, in fact - a fake board and a real board. Both were trapped extensively) a tiny book about the size of her palm detailed every array she’d managed to create.
This had been one of her first creations. In fact, she’d used it on the windows when she wanted to star-gaze during the most wrathful days of winter. Handing it away to her sister was only a mite of annoyance, frankly.
“I want to know what’s on the parchment.” Ursa swung back on her heels, hands clenched behind her back. Two fingers crossed over each other.
“Do you?” Bellatrix’s eyes gleamed. “Do you, really? You know that you can’t say anything about this, Ursa. Not to mother, not to Narcissa. Not to anyone.”
Ursa raised her eyebrow. “And does mother know you’re here yet?”
Her head fell back in a barrage of laughter to reveal a pale stretch of neck, bared in joyful admission. “It’s the accounts for the Northern Division. You know, they say that He only wants powerful witches and wizards, Ursa, but I wouldn’t be too miffed if we got a secretary - not one of those Mudblood workers, though. A proper wizard. Perhaps I ought to imperio one of those specky Ministry workers. It would save my time being given to jobs that are beneath me.”
“You know who he is, don’t you, little sister?” Bellatrix prowled closer, a smile curling her face. Lips stretched to reveal flecks of ivory. “You might be mother’s little heir, but you’re not Narcissa or that one. You’re like me: as Black as the blood in your veins. I’ve seen the scorch marks you’ve decorated the manor with, and murmurs of the Dark Lord have long since reached the ears of our dear family - yours too, I’d bet. Don’t ignore them.”
Ursa had frozen. Nobody had dared to mention the Dark Lord to Ursa. The topic had been banned around children in a unanimous, silent agreement. Neither she nor Narcissa had heard anything directly: this did not stop Narcissa from leafing through the rumors at Hogwarts to sift gold from the riverbed nor did it stop Ursa from lurking between the cracks of the doors while the adults talked. It wasn’t overly hard to gain information. In a strange way, it was almost as though her parents wanted her to know without having the conversation and all the intricate questions she was sure to ask. She wondered, sometimes, if that was the case. So many things had been given to her second-hand.
On the same hand, it meant that she’d only talked to her sister about it in double-speak, vaguely referencing muffled conversations that she’d snatched parts of. The Dark Lord was a thought kept in her mind, not spoken on her tongue. The pages of the Daily Prophet were the only time that she observed the thoughts of somebody else regarding the topic of Voldemort - and that, even, was buried beneath subtext and the failed attempt to redirect the public from the horror that was about to emerge.
“I don’t…” want to join the Dark Lord. Ursa stopped herself, chastising the loose nature of her tongue. “I don’t know much.”
Bellatrix clicked her tongue. “Well. That’s because you’re much too young, but it’s not like you’d see much action. You already have baby Reggie and little Siri to be our front-line fighters - and me, of course.” Her sister placed a hand on her shoulder, leading her to the table. Her eyes were glinting with the same obsession that had seen the dueling hall left in pieces. “Don’t worry, Ursie, if this array of yours really works, I doubt that He would waste your talents on the battlefield.”
The day of Bellatrix’s wedding - or the morning, rather - was the first time that Ursa, Regulus, and Sirius had been in a room alone since the oldest of them had left for Hogwarts.
They were all dressed in their Sunday best. Now equipped with a wand, it seemed her mother had judged Ursa prepared for the totality of a society witch's life. Away were with her dresses cut to the malleable fashions better for children, and in with the recent fashion. Her dark blue robes were short-sleeved, large swathes of fabric falling away at her elbows to trap light in a hollow cavern. They were buttoned tightly from waist to collarbone, only relenting to flare out and up around her neck like a wide turtleneck sweater. The edges of the fabric were accented in dark, stormy grays and where it cinched at her waist, there was a pale stripe of silver clasped together with a belt of glittering bronze. When she ran her fingers over the fine silk, she could feel the tell-tale bumps and nodules of her own constellation, no wider than a palm-width. The ensemble beneath was a satin-silk under-dress of black and grey, going from beneath her jaw to the floor. When she spun, the grayscale hues skirted around her feet, reflecting the colors of the dawn as it shone through the dressing-room skylight.
“Beautiful.” Her mother had said during the fitting. For this one day, Ursa had been spared attempting to wrangle her hair into a semblance of normalcy. Instead, it fell around her shoulders, falling from a high ponytail, pinned back with a circlet clip of serpents. “Oh, wonderful, darling. I knew I was right in choosing those colors for you.”
Regulus and Sirius had been given a matching set of dress robes, assigned not by Walburga but under the strict orders of their head of house to present a united front. Unity in all, Lord Arcturus had written. Regulus was green and silver; Slytherin from the tip of his nose to the bottom of his nose. No accents dared flutter on the hems, nor did any sort of intricate design loop up and around his high neckline. Yet every swath of plain-colored fabric shimmered beneath the enchanted lights of the halls: his solemn nature granted him a natural sense of superiority that didn't need to be exaggerated by any fine ornaments. Contrasted to Sirius, both of them appeared as paupers.
The thread that etched gold into his green garment was proper metal, refined into such thin strands to etch swirling lions and snakes into his sleeves. Each creature had gemstone eyes of cut rubies casting strange shadows where they caught the right light. Sirius did not deviate from the status norm of the current fashions of a high neckline, short sleeves, and a belted waist, preferably linked with some sort of precious metal, but it was perhaps only second to the fine white silk robes that Bellatrix herself wore. Even the groom was outshone. The most peculiar feature of it all, though, would appear to be the thick heavy Heir ring, worn by Sirius with permission of Orion.
“They really do mean to make a Gryffindor heir,” Regulus murmured to her as they waited for Sirius to return.
Ursa shot him a sharp look, but Regulus only shrugged. As far as Ursa knew, the rules of disownment were particular at the best of times: only marriage without permission, direct breakage of the Lord’s orders and nefarious misconduct, which itself had an intricate and delicate definition that changed as those in power decided to define it, could truly take a person out of the line of succession. She’d concluded that, due to Sirius’ ability to claim Lordship and then decide who would inherit it, he’d been personally disowned by Walburga and Orion rather than Arcturus himself. It had, in some ways, appeased the worry that encroached further and further upon her mind as the years passed.
But yet, declaring that some branch member would be stricken from the line of succession is one thing. But wondering about the heir, even as his brother, was something tantamount to sacrilege. Ursa hissed. “Hush up, you.”
“It’s true,” Regulus whispered back. “Mother says - she says that he’s picking up blood traitor sensibilities. Associating with mudbloods and muggles alike. We’ve never had someone like that lead our house before, Ursa. Do you really think that the rest of the House would stand for it?”
And if the House refused to stand for it, then the House would not stand. More than once had a disliked Lord been forcibly removed from power, and to many, even quiet Regulus Black would be better than an unruly blood traitor.
“Sirius will be Lord one day, Reg,” Ursa murmured. “Don’t you want him to be?”
“Of course I do!” Regulus whispered furiously. A door down the hallway creaked, and the low, conversational tones of Sirius conversing with his father floated up the hall. Regulus frowned. “He’s my brother. I just… don’t want him to get hurt.”
The tension between them dissipated the moment that the pair entered the small side room. Druella was absent from Ursa’s side, for this; rather, she was with the main bridal party, alongside Narcissa and their distant female Black relatives. Just verging on the age that was deemed proper for a young witch to accompany a bride, she was regulated to Uncle Orion’s care for the majority of the ceremony. Ursa had no complaints. Reg and Sirius were much more pleasant company.
“Now.” Orion began once they had all settled. He spoke softly, and so little to Ursa that she could count on one hand the time they’d spent together. “The first lunch will take place in Lettane Hall. The ceremony will be in the Lestrange chapel-house. You will all sit in the front row, and when it’s over, you’ll be Flooing back for the first dinner at the castle.” His gaze sharpened. “None of you will be here for the second dinner, do you understand? By half past ten, you’ll be returning to the manor with me. No if, ands, or buts about it.”
“Mother will be staying, though?” Sirius raised his eyebrows. Regulus and Ursa shared a look.
“Hush, Sirius.”
The Floo to the Lestrange house went without fuss. As typical, they were of the first wizards to arrive, barring the groom’s family. Both the bridal party and the father of the bride would be absent, as the time-honored tradition of the first lunch demanded. It did not, however, prevent the sister of the bride or her cousins from attending; but it made everything so much duller. Most of the exciting members of her family were absent, and she was stuck trying to play peacemaker when they stuck Sirius between Rabastan Lestrange - a natural-born imbecile - and his squirrely Volant cousin who kept trying to fling jabs at his current Hogwarts House.
“Mother sent me to Britain to be educated properly.” The Volant boy sneered as he gazed down at Sirius, who never took insults easily. “I suppose there is always a fault somewhere.”
Regulus had uneasily roped in a handful of children into a game of Exploding Snap, one of these mercifully being Rabastan himself, though he’d begun to lord his elder age as it had progressed. It left Ursa with one fish to wrangle rather than two. “Sometimes,” she began, slowly, before Mount Sirius could erupt. “It’s a fault in the blood, rather than the school. I couldn’t imagine it, of course, being as we are… but some are not so lucky.”
Beyond that - and, in truth, it was not more than Ursa had both witnessed and experienced as a temporary member of the Pureblood Ladies Weekly Tea And Gossip Club - it all ran rather smoothly. The lunch was lavish and plentiful, with similar magic to Hogwarts keeping the plates full and the cups brimming, but it was obvious there was more excitement to come, as many adults kept their portions small and sizeable, barely taking sips of the red wine as they chattered anxiously amongst themselves.
Orion took them from the table ten minutes before the bell signaled the start of the ceremony. Ursa did not need to be a genius to spot the groom’s own party disappear from the hall, nor had she missed Rabastan excuse himself with a quietness unlike him. “Be quiet, now.” He warned them all.
They sat on the right of the chapel-house pews. As with most chapel-houses, it was centered in the Lestrange graveyard, the wards heavy and thick. It had a similar triangular structure to the muggle kind, but the wooden beams were bare, the window panes absent of artistry and the pews hard, cold, and unadorned. Wealth can be shown, but magic is not in the painter’s brush nor born from the carpenter’s skill, her mother had said, what use is finery when a chapel-house changes every century, moving with the changing world? A disrespect of the ways is what we give it upon decoration, and that is a danger far more severe than any rumor of poverty may pretend to be.
Very few traditions carried forward between the muggle and magical world; for instance, Ursa knew that it was likely Bellatrix had met with Rodolphus this morning, that flower-girls and ring-bearers were no more than fanciful dreams, and that the only bouquet in the room was at the altar, and had been for the duration of the week. But one remained; the bride (or, in a matrilineal marriage, the groom) came to the groom at the family altar.
Bellatrix was just as stubborn and fierce in white lace and ivory silk robes. No softness would ever emerge in her. A thousand jewels dripped from her hair, her face, and her fingers, but there was no doubt that she valued them only for the aesthetic value that the harsh lighting cast across her face. Years of high living had given her a standard of dress far beyond normal. Then the entourage followed; Druella first, then Narcissa (and Andromeda… if she were here), Walburga, Lucretia, Melania, Irma, Cassiopeia, and so on and so forth. The purpose of them was an ancient one of the passing of the bride from their birth family to another, but it also served to keep them from doing a runner the night before.
But all of Bellatrix’s austere beauty did not even cause Rodolphus to blink. His ancient, stooped-back, cold-faced father waited unsteadily beside his youngest son, wrinkled fingers passing the freshly forged family ring to the groom. “Poor man,” Sirius murmured.
The officiator was just as old as the head of the house. Officants were a rare breed, particularly in their study of ritual magic. If they could, many would choose one born of their own House, but alas, it was an obscure, difficult area of study that only those with great skill in both family history, runes, and distinct magical power ever achieved mastery in the subject. The purpose of bonding a new member to a house was rather easy, handled by the main ritual master, and completed in more than a second, but separating the blood member from their first house was significantly more difficult. It wasn’t always the case - as with her mother, who was both a Rosier and a Black and would be with Ursa when she came of age - but marrying the heir of a house usually stipulated a full joining of a witch or wizard to the house.
“Imagine not being a Black,” Ursa spoke quietly. The trio shared a hesitant look; but it was true, wasn’t it? She’d only ever been bonded to her blood-born family in both lives. Her magic had only ever been of the House of Black; her blood ran thick with destruction and mischief; she knew more curses than charms, more insults than compliments.
But any opinion Bellatrix had on her marriage had been long washed away. “We are joined today to witness the joining of two people, man, and woman, as husband and wife.” The officiator spoke in a gravely, strained voice as he paged through an open book. His fingers were stained with a strong black ink. “To be bonded together today, tomorrow, and forevermore, for better, for worse, for sickness and health. If anyone wishes to contest this joining, speak now.”
The room emanated with an uneasy silence. (Besides her, Sirius mimed raising his hand and was sharply cuffed around the head for the transgression.)
On Bellatrix’s hand, a sharp, white light was emitted.
Ursa expected to feel an absence of something, perhaps to see her sister flinch or frown or be generally unhappy. But this was not fanfiction: there was no active awareness of what family magic you belonged to, beyond the natural inclinations that nudged you to branches of magic. It only mattered in terms of blood-wards and annual rites.
“So from this day I proclaim Rodolphus and Bellatrix one of heart, one of mind, of magic,” and down her pale wrists, blood trickled down where the officiant had writ the joining rune on her arm. “And loathe being those who separate them.”