Last Heir of Death Ch. 4

A/N: All characters in this fic are well above the age of consent. Now with that out of the way, here's the chapter.

The door to their rented room slammed shut behind Harry and Nymeria, the rickety latch barely catching before they were on each other. The air was thick with the day’s tension, and it all came crashing down the second they were alone. No words, no preamble, just a raw, electric pull that had them colliding like they’d been starving for this all day.

Harry’s hands were on her hips before the echo of the door’s slam faded, yanking her close, her body pressing hard against his. Nymeria’s fingers dug into his shoulders, her nails biting through his shirt as she dragged him in, their mouths crashing together in a kiss that was all teeth and heat. She tasted like the peppermint drops she’d bought from a shop earlier, sharp and sweet, and he couldn’t get enough. His tongue swept into her mouth, hungry, claiming, and she met him with the same fire, her lips moving fast and desperate against his.

“Bloody hell, Nym,” he growled into her mouth, his voice rough and low, and his hands sliding up her back, bunching her robes as he went. “Been wanting this since that damn bookshop.”

She laughed, a breathy, wicked sound that vibrated against his lips. “What, watching me charm Slughorn didn’t do it for you?” Her hands were already at his collar, tugging at the buttons with quick, impatient jerks. “Thought you’d jump me right there, the way you were staring.”

“Would’ve,” he shot back, nipping at her bottom lip hard enough to make her gasp. “If I didn’t think he’d have a heart attack.” His fingers found the clasp of her robes, fumbling for a second before it gave way, and he shoved the heavy fabric off her shoulders. It hit the floor with a soft thud, leaving her in a thin blouse and skirt, her skin flushed and warm under his palms.

Nymeria didn’t waste time either—she ripped his shirt open, buttons popping loose and scattering across the worn wooden floor.

“Oops,” she said, not sounding sorry at all, her hands splaying across his chest, her nails raking lightly over his skin. “You’re too slow, Peverell.”

“Slow?” Harry’s laugh was dark, edged with want as he grabbed her wrists, pinning them behind her against the door for a second just to see her eyes flash with lust and arousal. “I’ll show you slow.”

He released her, only to haul her blouse up and over her head in one swift move, tossing it aside. Her bra was next—black, thin, and gone in a heartbeat as he flicked the clasp open and yanked it off, leaving her bare from the waist up.

She arched into him, her breasts pressing against his chest, and the feel of her skin on his sent a jolt straight through him. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he muttered, his hands cupping her tits, his thumbs brushing over her nipples until they hardened under his touch. She moaned, low and needy, her head tipping back as she pushed herself closer into his mauling palms.

“Keep talking like that,” she panted, her fingers diving for his trousers, popping the button and dragging the zipper down with a rough tug. “Might actually get somewhere tonight.” She shoved the fabric down his hips, and he kicked them off, leaving him in just his boxers, the bulge there obvious and straining.

Harry grinned, wicked and wild, and grabbed her skirt next, yanking it down her legs along with her knickers in one go. She stepped out of them, kicking the pile aside, and there she was—naked, all smooth skin and sharp curves, her dark hair spilling loose over her shoulders. Her eyes locked on his, burning with the same hunger he felt, and it was like a burning match to oil.

He didn’t think—he just moved. His arms hooked under her thighs, lifting her clean off the floor, and she yelped, half-laughing as he spun her toward the bed. “Harry—!” she started, but he cut her off by tossing her onto the mattress, watching her bounce once, twice, her hair fanning out around her like a dark halo and her tits flopping about wildly. She propped herself up on her elbows, staring up at him, her lips parted and her eyes blazing with want.

“Goddamn, Nym,” he said, his voice thick as he climbed onto the bed, hovering over her. “Look at you.”

She was all heat and challenge and arousal, her legs spread just enough to tease, and he couldn’t hold back anymore. He pounced, crashing down on her, his mouth finding hers again in a kiss that was pure fire—wet, messy, and desperate.

Her hands were everywhere—tangling in his hair, clawing at his back—while his roamed her body, mapping every inch he could reach. He broke the kiss, trailing his lips down her jaw, her neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks she’d curse him for later. She arched under him, gasping, her fingers tightening in his hair.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed, her voice ragged. “Don’t you dare stop.”

“Not a chance,” he muttered against her skin, moving lower, his mouth closing over one nipple while his hand worked the other, rolling it between his fingers. She moaned louder, her hips bucking up against him, and he could feel how wet she was already, the heat of her damp pussy pressing against his thigh.

“Harry—fuck,” she hissed, dragging his head back up to kiss him again, her tongue plunging into his mouth like she couldn’t wait another second. Her hands slid down his chest, her nails scraping against his muscles until they hit his boxers. She shoved them down, freeing him, and wrapped her fingers around his cock, stroking him hard and fast. He groaned into her mouth, his hips jerking at the feel of her—tight, warm, and relentless.

“Fuck, Nym,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to look at her, her face flushed and wild. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Worth it,” she shot back, smirking as she tightened her grip, her thumb brushing over the tip until he was swearing under his breath. He grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand away, and she laughed—low and taunting. “What, too much for you?”

“You wish,” he growled, shifting down her body, his hands spreading her thighs wide. She watched him, her breath hitching, as he settled between her legs, his mouth hovering just above her. “My turn.”

He didn’t tease—he went straight for it, his tongue flicking over her clit, tasting her, and wide-eyed, she cried out, her hands fisting the sheets. “Oh—fuck, Harry!”

He licked her again, slow and deep, then faster, sucking lightly as she writhed under him, her hips grinding against his face. She was loud—gasps, moans, his name spilling out in a string of curses—and he loved every second of it, driving her higher, his hands gripping her thighs to keep her still.

“Harry—please,” she panted, her voice breaking, and he glanced up to see her head thrown back, her lovely tits heaving. Smirking, he slid a finger inside her, making her gasp, and then immediately inserted another finger, curling them just right.

Nymeria let out a loud wail as she clenched around him, a sharp cry tearing from her throat. “Yes—right there—don’t stop!”

He didn’t—he kept going, his mouth and fingers working her up until she was trembling, teetering on the edge. “Come on, Nym,” he murmured against her clit, his voice rough with need. “Let go for me.”

She did—hard. Her whole body tensed, a loud, broken moan ripping out of her as she came, pulsing around his fingers, her thighs shaking in his grip. He didn’t let up until she was gasping, tugging at his hair to pull him back up.

“Get up here,” she demanded, her voice hoarse but fierce, and he obeyed, crawling back over her, his lips crashing into hers again.

She tasted herself on him, a sharp, heady mix of her own release lingering on his tongue, and it drove her wild. A low, needy moan escaped her as she pressed her mouth harder against his, her tongue diving deeper, chasing that taste while her hands roamed his body with reckless abandon. Her fingers traced the hard lines of his chest, slid down the taut planes of his stomach, and then—without hesitation—wrapped around his cock, still slick and throbbing from their earlier frenzy. She gripped him firmly, stroking once, twice, feeling him pulse in her hand, and her breath hitched with fresh hunger.

“Now,” she demanded, her voice a raw, urgent rasp, her nails digging into his hips with a sting that made him hiss. “Fuck me, Harry—now.” Her eyes locked on his, dark and blazing, daring him to hold back even a second longer.

Harry didn’t need a second invitation. His hands were already on her, rough and possessive, as he lined himself up, the tip of his manhood brushing against her soaked entrance. He didn’t ease in—no slow tease, no gentle build. He thrust into her in one hard, deep stroke, burying himself to the hilt, and the sensation—hot, tight, overwhelming—ripped a guttural groan from both of them.

“Fuck, Nym,” he gritted out through clenched teeth, his voice thick with strain as her walls gripped him like a vice. He paused, just for a heartbeat, letting her adjust to the stretch, but she wasn’t having any of it. Her legs snapped around his waist, her heels digging into his lower back, pulling him even deeper until he could feel every shuddering inch of her.

“Move,” she ordered, her voice breaking with desperation, raw and commanding. “Don’t you dare hold back.” Her hands clawed at his shoulders, her nails leaving crescent marks in his skin, and Harry obeyed—pulling out almost entirely before slamming back in, setting a pace that was fast, brutal, and exactly what they both craved.

The bed groaned under the force of it, the old wooden frame creaking in protest, and the headboard banging against the wall with every thrust. The sound echoed through the room, a chaotic banging that matched their ragged breaths, but neither of them gave a fuck—too lost in the heat, the friction, the way their bodies locked together like they were made for this.

“Damn, you feel so fucking good,” he panted, his hands sliding under her hips, lifting her off the mattress just enough to angle her perfectly. He hit that spot inside her—the one that made her gasp and arch every time—and she rewarded him with a sharp, broken cry, her head tipping back into the pillow. Her dark hair spilled across the sheets, wild and tangled, and the sight of her like that—flushed, undone, completely his—sent a fresh surge of need through him. He gripped her tighter, his fingers bruising her skin, and drove into her harder, faster, chasing that edge they were both hurtling toward.

Nymeria met him thrust for thrust, her hips rocking up to match his rhythm, and her nails raking down his back in long, red lines that burned in the best way. “Harder,” she begged, her voice cracking with the intensity of it, and her breath coming in short, frantic bursts. “Harry—fuck, give it to me harder!”

She was wild beneath him, all fire and demand, her legs tightening around him like she’d never let go. He could feel her trembling, the way her body tensed and quivered with every slam of his hips, and it drove him insane—knowing he was the one pushing her to this.

He gave her what she wanted—shifted his grip, one hand bracing on the mattress beside her head, the other still lifting her hips, and fucked her deeper, faster, the pace relentless. The room filled with the sounds of their bodies colliding—skin slapping against skin, her high, keening moans, his low, guttural grunts. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping down onto her chest, mixing with the sheen already glistening on her skin. Her breasts bounced with every thrust, and he couldn’t resist. He dipped his head to catch one nipple in his mouth, sucking hard, his teeth grazing just enough to make her scream his name.

“Harry—oh fuck, yes!” she cried, her hands flying to his hair, tugging hard as her whole body arched into him. Her voice was wrecked, hoarse from shouting, but she didn’t care, and neither did he. He switched to the other nipple, lavishing it with the same rough attention, and she writhed beneath him, her moans climbing higher, louder, until they were all he could hear. The bed rocked beneath them, the frame squeaking louder, the headboard thudding like a drumbeat, but it was just noise—background to their raw, passionate sex.

“Harry—fuck, I’m close again,” she gasped, her words tumbling out in a rush, and her eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure built. Her walls fluttered around him, tightening with every thrust, and he could feel it too—the pressure coiling low in his gut, his balls drawing up, his thrusts getting sloppier but no less fierce.

“Me too,” he grunted, his voice rough and strained, barely holding it together. He slid a hand between them, his fingers finding her clit, swollen and slick, and rubbed tight, fast circles, pushing her right to the brink.

That did it. That shattered her. Her whole body seized up, a loud, broken scream tearing from her throat as she came, clenching around him so hard it nearly undid him right there. “Harry!” she wailed, her nails digging into his back, and her legs locking him in place as wave after wave crashed through her. Her hips bucked wildly, riding out the orgasm, and the sight of her—head thrown back, mouth open, completely lost—sent him spiraling.

He thrust once, twice more, deep and hard, and then he was gone as well—coming with a low, primal groan, burying himself as far as he could go. He spilled inside her, hot and pulsing, his entire body shaking with the force of it.

“Fuck, Nym,” he rasped, his voice barely audible over the blood pounding in his ears, and he kept moving, slower now, drawing it out for both of them until they were both trembling, utterly spent.

They stayed locked together for a long moment, his weight pressing her into the mattress, her legs still wrapped around him, neither willing to let go just yet. Their breaths came in harsh, uneven pants, chests heaving against each other, sweat slicking their skin where they touched. He could feel her heartbeat hammering under his, fast and wild, matching his own. Slowly, he eased out of her, both of them wincing at the loss, and collapsed beside her on the bed, the sheets a tangled mess beneath them.

He pulled her close, one arm hooking around her waist, dragging her against his side. She curled into him without hesitation, her head resting on his chest, her dark hair sticking to her damp skin. Her fingers traced lazy, aimless patterns across his chest, still slick with sweat, and he felt the faint tremor in her touch—aftershocks of what they’d just done.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered, her voice hoarse and wrecked, but there was a satisfied edge to it that made him grin. “That was…”

“Yeah,” he finished for her, his hand sliding up to tangle in her hair, tugging gently just to feel her shiver against him. “Fucking worth the wait.”

His grin widened as he looked down at her—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and contentment. She was a mess, and he’d never seen her look better.

She laughed, the sound soft and tired that vibrated against his chest, and nuzzled closer, her nose brushing his skin. “Dunno how we’re gonna top that tomorrow,” she mumbled, her words slurring slightly as the adrenaline faded, leaving her boneless in his arms.

“Challenge accepted,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, his lips lingering there as he breathed her in—sweat, sex, and something uniquely Nym. His other hand slid down her back, resting on the curve of her hip, warm and possessive.

They lay there, tangled up in each other, the world outside their cramped little room fading into nothing. The bed was a wreck, the air still heavy with the scent of their passionate fucking, but neither cared.

-Break-

The heavy oak doors of Grimmauld Place thudded shut behind Dorea Black as she stepped into the dimly lit entrance hall, the familiar musty smell of old magic and wax polish hitting her at once. The house was a relic of its time—high ceilings with peeling gilt, portraits muttering faintly on the walls, and a grand chandelier flickering with enchanted candles that hadn’t been cleaned in years.

It was late afternoon, the grey London light filtering through grimy windows, casting long shadows across the threadbare rugs. She shook off her cloak, handing it to a sour-faced house-elf who scurried off without a word, and braced herself. Coming home was never quiet, not with her family.

Sure enough, the sharp clink of teacups and raised voices drifted from the drawing room down the hall. Dorea sighed, smoothing her dark hair where it’d come loose from its pins, and steeled herself for whatever row was brewing today. She’d barely made it halfway when her mother’s voice cut through the air like a whip.

“—and I’ll not have you sullying this house with that rubbish, Pollux! Muggle-lovers and their filth have no place here, and you’d do well to remember it!”

Dorea paused just outside the doorway, peering in. The drawing room was its usual cluttered mess—dark velvet drapes, overstuffed chairs, and a fire crackling in the grate despite the mild weather. Her mother, Irma, stood by the mantel, her thin frame rigid with fury, clutching a teacup so tight it looked ready to crack. Across from her, sprawled in an armchair with his legs crossed, was Dorea’s older brother Pollux, smirking like he’d just won a bet. Their father, Cygnus, sat in his usual spot by the window, nose buried in the Daily Prophet, pretending he wasn’t listening.

Pollux flicked a speck of lint off his robes, his tone lazy but dripping with mockery. “Oh, come off it, Mother. It’s just a pamphlet—hardly the end of the world. You’d think I’d invited a Muggle to tea the way you’re carrying on.”

Irma’s eyes narrowed, her voice rising an octave. “A pamphlet from that daft little group of blood-traitors! You think it’s clever, do you? Bringing their drivel into this house? You’re a disgrace to the name Black, you are—always sniffing round anything that’ll get a rise out of us!”

“Disgrace?” Pollux snorted, sitting up a bit. “That’s rich, coming from you. Half the time you’re nattering on about keeping the blood pure, and the other half you’re fawning over that hag Violetta Bulstrode like she’s Merlin reborn. Her lot’s barely a step up from Muggle stock—don’t think I haven’t checked the records.”

Irma’s face went blotchy red, and she slammed the teacup down on the mantel, tea sloshing over the rim. “How dare you! The Bulstrodes are a fine family—better than you’ll ever deserve, you insolent little toad! If your father had half a spine, he’d have thrashed that cheek out of you years ago!”

Cygnus rustled his paper loudly, still not looking up. “Leave me out of it, Irma. I’m not playing referee today.”

Pollux grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself. “See? Even Father knows you’re barking up the wrong tree. And anyway, if we’re talking blood, maybe you ought to look at your own side—Great-Uncle Regulus was half a nutter, married that Muggle-born tart and got himself blasted off the tapestry for it. Reckon that’s where I get my ‘disgraceful’ streak.”

Irma’s gasp was sharp enough to cut glass. “You vile little—Regulus was a mistake, a blemish we’ve scrubbed clean! You’ll not drag him up to excuse your nonsense! This family stands for something, Pollux—purity, power—and you’re hell-bent on chucking it in the gutter!”

“Oh, give over,” Pollux shot back, rolling his eyes. “Purity’s just a fancy word for inbreeding, if you ask me. Half the Sacred Twenty-Eight are cross-eyed from it. I’m just saying—maybe those Muggle-lovers have a point about freshening the pot.”

That did it. Irma snatched a silver candlestick off the mantel and brandished it like a wand, though she didn’t throw it—Blacks didn’t stoop to brawling, not in their own house. “Freshening the pot? You’re a bloody fool, Pollux Black! A fool and a shame! If I had my way, I’d ship you off to Durmstrang and let them beat some sense into you!”

“Go on, then,” Pollux said, unfazed, leaning back again. “Might be a laugh. Better than sitting here listening to you squawk about the same old rot day in, day out.”

Dorea chose that moment to step in, her voice calm but firm. “Can’t you two give it a rest? I’ve only just walked in, and it’s already a shouting match.”

Irma whirled on her, eyes blazing. “And where’ve you been, miss? Out gallivanting while your brother makes a mockery of us?”

“Shopping for school, Mother,” Dorea said evenly, setting her bag of books on a side table. “Unless you’d rather I turned up at Hogwarts empty-handed.”

Pollux chuckled, tipping his head toward her. “Good old Dorea, always the sensible one. Tell you what, you take over as heir—I’m clearly not cut out for it.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Dorea muttered, shooting him a look. She turned to Irma, keeping her tone steady. “It’s just noise, Mother. Pollux likes winding you up—it’s not worth the fuss.”

Irma huffed, setting the candlestick down with a clang. “Noise or not, I’ll not have this house turned into a den of Muggle-loving claptrap. You’d all do well to remember what we are—Blacks, pure and proper!”

Cygnus finally lowered his paper, peering over the top with a weary sigh. “Enough, Irma. He’s not storming the gates with Muggles—he’s just being a prat. And Pollux, quit poking the bear. I’d like one day without a headache.”

Pollux shrugged, smirking still, but he didn’t push it further. Irma glared at him a moment longer, then swept out of the room, muttering about “standards” and “ingrates” under her breath. Cygnus shook his head and went back to his paper, the rustle of pages signaling the end of the spat—for now.

Dorea grabbed her bag and slipped out before Pollux could drag her into round two. She headed upstairs, her shoes clicking on the polished wood, until she reached the narrow landing outside Arcturus’s room. The door was ajar, and she nudged it open with her elbow, finding her younger twin sprawled across a chaise by the window, a book on hexes propped open on his lap. His dark hair was neatly combed, his robes crisp—every inch the proper son of the Blacks.

He glanced up, one brow arching. “Heard the shouting. Pollux at it again?”

“When isn’t he?” Dorea said, dropping her bag by the door and flopping into an armchair across from him. “Mother’s in a right state—something about a Muggle-lover pamphlet he brought home.”

Arcturus snorted, closing his book with a snap. “The bloke’s got a death wish, baiting her like that. What’s he playing at?”

“Same as always,” Dorea said, kicking her feet up onto a stool. “Likes the chaos. Reckon he’d argue the sky’s green just to see her face go purple.”

“Sounds about right,” Arcturus said, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “Still, he’s pushing it. Mother’s not wrong about the Muggle rot—those sorts haven’t a clue what magic’s worth. But Pollux doesn’t give two Knuts about their ideas—he’s just stirring the pot because he can.”

Dorea shrugged, leaning her head back and gazing at the ceiling. “Father stayed out of it, per usual. Think he’s hoping they’ll tire themselves out one day.”

“Fat chance,” Arcturus said dryly. “Mother would argue with her own shadow if it looked at her funny, and Pollux would egg it on for a laugh. Reckon we’re stuck with this until one of them keels over.”

“Or until I hex them both quiet,” Dorea muttered, earning a chuckle from him.

They sat in easy silence for a bit, the muffled hum of the house settling around them. Arcturus’s room was a stark contrast to the rest of Grimmauld—tidy, with shelves of books and a sleek desk piled with parchment. No clutter, no fuss. It suited him, Dorea thought—he was sharp as a tack, always had been, and he liked things orderly, even if the family itself was anything but.

She shifted, glancing at him. “Speaking of odd rows, I had a bit of a run-in myself today. At Flourish and Blotts.”

Arcturus perked up, setting his book aside. “Oh? What’s this, then? You’re not one for kicking up a fuss—spill it.”

“Not a fuss,” Dorea said, waving a hand. “Just… interesting. Bumped into two new Hogwarts lot—Harry Peverell and Nymeria Black.”

Her brother’s brows shot up, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Peverell? As in the Peverells? Thought that line was dead and buried.”

“So did I,” Dorea said, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “But there he was, cool as you like, picking out books like he’d just popped out of nowhere. Said his lot’s been keeping a low profile—travel, solo study, that sort of thing.”

Arcturus frowned, tapping a finger against his chin. “Low profile’s one way to put it. Peverell’s not just any name—it’s tied up with all that Deathly Hallows business. Old tales, sure, but there’s got to be something to them. Three brothers, three artifacts—powerful stuff if it’s real. You reckon he’s got a whiff of that in him?”

“No clue,” Dorea admitted. “He didn’t let much slip—just played it vague, said he’s more fussed about what’s coming than what’s been. But he’s sharp, Arcturus. Watched me and Melania like he was sizing us up, and he didn’t flinch when we pressed him.”

“Sharp’s good,” Arcturus said, nodding slowly. “But sharp and a Peverell? That’s a mix worth keeping an eye on. If he’s got even a scrap of that old magic, he could be trouble—or useful. What’s he look like?”

“Dark hair, bit messy,” Dorea said, picturing him. “Green eyes, tallish. Looks like he could handle himself, but he’s not flashy—kept it low-key.”

“Sounds like he’s got sense, at least,” Arcturus mused. “And the other one—Nymeria Black? What’s her deal?”

Dorea’s lips quirked. “That’s the real kicker. She says she’s from a squib line—been abroad, Eastern Europe mostly. Turned up with Peverell, and they’re both headed to Hogwarts, sixth years, just like us.”

Arcturus blinked, then let out a low whistle. “A squib line? Blimey, that’s a turn-up. We’ve not had one of those crawl out of the woodwork since Great-Uncle Marius got the boot. You buy it?”

“Mostly,” Dorea said, tilting her head. “She’s got the look—dark hair, that Black jawline. Voice had a hint of something foreign, too, like she’s not fibbing about being away. But there’s more to it, I reckon. She and Peverell—they’re tighter than they let on.”

He raised a brow, leaning back. “Tighter how?”

“Just a feeling,” Dorea said, her tone thoughtful. “They didn’t say much outright—kept it all ‘oh, we’ve crossed paths’ and ‘partners in a venture’—but the way they moved, the little glances? It’s like they’ve got a rhythm, you know? Like they’ve been at it a while, not just some new thing.”

Arcturus’s eyes narrowed, his quick mind already turning it over. “Partners, eh? That’s a tidy cover if they’re hiding something. A squib-line Black and a long-lost Peverell turning up together’s no coincidence—they’re up to something, mark my words.”

“Thought that myself,” Dorea said, nodding. “Didn’t push them too hard—didn’t want to spook them off. But Nymeria… she’s got some serious magic, no question. Squib line or not, she’s a strong witch, and a Black one at that.”

“Blood’s blood,” Arcturus said firmly, his tone taking on that edge he got when he talked family. “Squib line’s a rough start, but if she’s got the spark, she’s one of us. Mother would have a fit, mind—reckon she’d rather pretend the girl didn’t exist than admit a squib branch sprouted a proper witch.”

Dorea snorted. “She’d probably call it a fluke and blame the Eastern air. But yeah, Nymeria’s ours, like it or not. And Peverell—he’s a wild card, but he’s tied to her somehow.”

Arcturus rubbed his jaw, thinking. “Right, here’s how I see it. Peverell’s got a name that carries weight—could mean old magic, could mean trouble. If he’s half as clever as you say, he’s not just stumbling into Hogwarts for a lark. And this Nymeria—she’s a Black, squib line or no. That’s leverage. We don’t know their game yet, but they’re not daft enough to waltz in blind.”

“So, what’s our move?” Dorea asked, watching him closely.

He grinned, that sharp, sly grin that meant he’d already half a plan. “We play nice, that’s what. Cordial, not cosy—keep them close enough to watch, not so close we’re in their pocket. Peverell’s worth a talk—feel him out, see if there’s anything to those Hallows tales. But Nymeria? She’s the one I’d start with. She’s family, Dorea—distant or not, that counts.”

“Counts for a lot,” Dorea agreed, her voice softening a bit. “I liked her, you know. Nosy as I am, but not nasty. Felt… solid, somehow.”

“Solid’s good,” Arcturus said. “And if she’s solid, we can use that. Blacks stick together—always have, always will. Even the ones we’ve shoved under the rug. Blood’s thicker than water, and purer than most out there. Muggle-borns and their ilk can prance about all they like, but they’ll never have what we’ve got—history, power, roots.”

Dorea nodded, though her mind flicked back to the bookshop—Nymeria’s steady gaze, Harry’s quiet watchfulness. “She might not care much for the family claptrap, though. Didn’t strike me as the type to bang on about purity.”

“Don’t need her to,” Arcturus said, shrugging. “She’s a Black—she’s got it in her whether she bangs on or not. Point is, we don’t freeze her out. Squib line’s a sore spot for the old guard, but times are shifting—Grindelwald’s kicking up dust somewhere out there, and we might need every wand we can get. She’s a witch, she’s ours. Simple as that.”

“Fair,” Dorea said, chewing it over. “And Peverell?”

“Same deal—cordial, cautious,” Arcturus said. “If he’s got something up his sleeve, we’ll spot it soon enough. But if he’s tied to Nymeria like you think, he’s part of the package. Two for one, eh?”

Dorea laughed quietly. “Reckon so. They’re a pair, even if they’re playing it down. I’ll bet you a Galleon they’ve got a proper history—more than just ‘crossing paths.’”

“Done,” Arcturus said, smirking. “But I’ll raise you—they’re not just mates. Partners like that? Sounds like they’ve been through the wringer together. Bet they’ve got secrets stacked higher than Gringotts.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Dorea said, her mind ticking back over the day. “They’ve got that air—calm, but ready. Like they’ve seen a scrap or two.”

Arcturus leaned back, folding his arms. “Then we’ve got work to do. Hogwarts will sort them quick enough—see what they’re made of. Until then, we keep it friendly. Nymeria’s blood, and that’s worth something. Peverell’s a question mark, but if he’s half the legend his name suggests, he’s no mug. Either way, we don’t let them slip past us.”

Dorea nodded, feeling the weight of it settle over her. “Right. I’ll nudge Nymeria when we’re at school—nothing big, just a chat. You’ll like her, I think. And Peverell… well, we’ll see.”

“Sounds good,” Arcturus said, picking up his book again but not opening it yet. “Family first, Dorea. Always. Even the odd ones.”

“Even the odd ones,” she echoed, a small smile tugging at her lips. She grabbed her bag and stood, heading for the door. “See you at dinner, Arcturus.”

“Later,” he called after her, already flipping his book open.

As she stepped into the hall, the house creaked around her, the portraits muttering faintly. Grimmauld Place was a mess of noise and pride, but it was hers—and so was Nymeria, in a way. Blood and names, secrets and all. She’d figure her and her partner out, one way or another.

TBC.