Lucinda Malfoy Black was a truly remarkable woman; her extraordinary beauty and aristocratic bearing were impossible to overlook. Her pale blonde hair, shimmering like light gold, fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and her fair, flawless skin made her light green, piercing eyes seem even sharper. Her upright posture, and her gaze could be soothing or terrifying—depending on her intent. She knew very well how others perceived her, and had learned exactly how to use her beauty to her advantage. It was one of the few traits she was glad to have inherited from her otherwise cruel father. She couldn't deny that there were moments where she even enjoyed the power that came with making others uneasy; control had long been her armour—and sometimes even her indulgence. Her clothing was always perfectly tailored to her figure, emphasising both elegance and quiet authority. She was a Malfoy through and through.
Decades ago, when she was still aligned with her family, she had often worn dark shades—emerald, burgundy, and black—in the traditional style of the Malfoys. Now, she deliberately chose lighter tones such as sage and lavender. Those soft colours not only complemented her fair complexion but also set her apart from the sombre appearance of her relatives. As a member of a family built on pride, tradition, and an unyielding belief in blood purity, Lucinda had early learned that emotions were seen as weakness, that the family name had to be carried with dignity, and that loyalty came above all else. Yet even as a child, she began to question those rules, and the cruelty they concealed. She had seen how too often how pride turned into malice, and how power was twisted into arrogance. While her older brother Lucius—once very close to her—embraced the family's ideology and joined the Dark Lord's circle, Lucinda quietly distanced herself from it, and stopped mistaking fear for respect.
Lucinda's greatest wish was to keep her daughter safe—from pain, from the world, from her own past, or even from their own relatives. But the world hadn't make that easy.
It had been an afternoon in spring, together with her five year old daughter Lucinda had walked the streets of Diagon Alley, having promised Betty to go to Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, after buying the necessities they needed. They had just left the Apothecary when they almost bumped into a tall, elegant woman, dressed in the typical style of a noble family, whose now grey hair was tied back in a strict bun. Her stern features had instantly transformed into a sneering grin, her grey-brown eyes fixed on Lucinda. The older woman walked up to Lucinda with a cold, amused tilt of her head.
"Well, well," the woman said, her voice sharp with laughter."Long time no see, Lucinda."
"Walburga," Lucinda replied, nodding with pretended politeness. Of all people it had to be Walburga Black, whom they had bumped into. "I'm sorry for your loss. I heard that your son and your husband—"
"Oh, girl, spare me the polite niceties," Walburga cut her off, with her head held high and a sneering smirk. "I know exactly why you've been hiding. Your late father father tried so desperately to cover it up. You really embarrassed him, the old fool. Always so private, but not with this one. Abraxas always tried so hard to present himself as the perfect Malfoy. Scolding me for having raised a blood traitor. And then his seemingly perfect daughter runs away herself, carrying someone's unworthy child."
She had chuckled clearly amused, then she tilted her head to scan Betty, who stand beside Lucinda, holding onto her mother's hand. Her grip tightened around Betty's, guiding her slightly behind her.
"We share completly different values, Walburga," Lucinda said as calm as possible, not letting her drawn into the tone, "I don't see how my life concerns you in the slightest."
Walburga didn't respond to what had been said; instead, she pointed at Betty. "Is that the breed? May I guess who's the father? A filthy mudblood?"
Lucinda's jaw stiffened, her heartbeat quickening, and she forced herself to breath evenly. "That's none of your concern."
But Walburga couldn't look away. Her eyes lingered on the child—the pale skin, the light brown hair, much darker than Lucinda's, though not quite as dark as Sirius', and the dark green eyes that seemed far too sharp for a five year old's face, yet had the exact shape of his. The older Betty grew, the more she resembled her father. Walburga's frown deepened; recogniction flickered in her eyes. Lucinda's breath shallowed, but she kept her posture steady, giving nothing away. She took Betty's hand tighter and moved to walk past Walburga.
"May I?"
"She looks... like a Black," Walburga hissed, incredulity creeping into her voice. Lucinda had turned her back, gently pushing Betty behind her. She swallowed, her heart began to beat faster.
"Don't tell me she is the blood traitor's child," Walburga spit.
Lucinda froze. That was exactly what she had feared. Walburgas eyes widened in realisation—and her voice rose with fury.
"You ran off with my son?" she yelled, stepping closer, her face twisting with rage. People passing by started to look at them, some even stood and watched the scene. "YOU RAN OF WITH THAT TRAITOR?! And this child—this breed of a traitor—YOU BROUGHT HER INTO THE WORLD?"
She hesitated, then suddenly changed her voice, as if she had realised who stood in front of her. With the eldest behind bars and the youngest dead, Betty was the only heir left.
"But still, she is a Black," she lowered her voice slighlty. "HOW DARE YOU—how dare you keep a Black from me? You think you can hide her from me? SHE CARRIES OUR BLOOD. MY BLOOD. SHE IS RIGHTFULLY MINE."
Something inside Lucinda had snapped. The words weren't just insults anymore—they were a claim. A claim to her daughter she had wanted to protect so badly. She felt her pulse hammer in her ears, her whole body rigid; a cold rage flared in Lucinda's chest. Betty's small hand squeezed hers painfully. She stepped closer to Walburga, now steadying her gaze, speaking directly to the woman whose face would've been beautiful if it hadn't been twisted into a hateful grimace.
"You cast your own son out. You tortured him. You have no right to his—my daughter."
Walburga shouted, refusing to be cowed. "Your father... HE WOULD'VE KILLED YOU—YOU AND YOUR FILTHLY BITCH OF A CHILD."
"Oh, he did." Lucinda said quietly her words cutting like a blade, keeping her gaze on her. "He did try to have me killed—and he failed. And look who's dead now and who is alive." Her heart quickened, but she hadn't taken her eyes off Walburga. She stepped forward, sliding her daughter protectively behind her; the little hands clung to her own so tightly it almost hurt. "Call me what you want. But if you ever speak of my daughter that way again, you will terribly regret it."
Lucinda held her gaze for a moment, but didn't wait for an answer. She turned on her heel and pulled Betty through the crowd, passing Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour and heading straight to the Leaky Cauldron. Betty must have sensed the tension—of course she did—and didn't ask about the promised ice cream. Neither of them spoke a word until they arrived at the Tonks' house. Lucinda, still pale and adrenaline racing through her veins, barely breathed. Her whole body was trembling, and she was unable to bring any words over lips. It was Betty who first regained her voice, after Andromeda had rushed forward, concern written across her face.
"What happened? Are you both all right?"
Betty's small shoulders had shrugged. "We met grandma," she said in all seriousness, her voice surprisingly firm. "She's... a really mad lady."
Lucinda had let out a faint, exhausted laugh. "That's... one way to put it," she murmured, letting herself finally exhale. The following months Lucinda barely let Betty leave the Tonks' property—fortunately Betty didn't seem to mind as she loved spending time in the backyard.
Long before that incident, Lucinda's rebellion had begun in silence. Her hunger for education and knowledge led her to Muggle authors, whose books she kept hidden—sealed with protective blood magic only she could break, and only by her own free will. Yet Lucinda was never an open rebel, not like Lily Evans—who soon became her friend, holding secret book club meetings with Remus Lupin to discuss Muggle literature—after Lucinda's break with Severus Snape, and whom she quietly admired for standing openly for what they both believed was right. During their seventh year, what began as defiance against her father and the marriage he tried to force upon her turned into something far deeper. Sirius Black and Lucinda Malfoy began their secret affair. Sirius, known for his reckless charm and fleeting romances, and Lucinda, with her cold, selfcontrolled demeanour, found unexpected comfort in each other. They understood the worlds they had been born into—and the doubts they shared about them. It was Sirius who first noticed her armour crack, and it was Sirius who made her feel safe enough to let herself go for the first time.
They were still young, not yet graduated, when Lucinda made a shocking discovery—she was with child. Her decision to run away with Sirius—a young man already disowned by his family—marked the final break with her own. The Malfoys, however, handled betrayal differently than the Blacks. While Walburga Black publicly disowned her son, Abraxas Malfoy, the Malfoy patriarch, preferred secrecy. No one was ever to know that Lucinda was carrying the child of a blood traitor—and unmarried, at that. The Malfoys chose silence over scandal and intended to make her disappear quietly. A Malfoy leaves no trace. That was the family's unspoken motto.
Under the protection of Albus Dumbledore, Lucinda and her unborn child survived. Later, she joined the Order of the Phoenix. With her deep knowledge of dark magic and her insight into those families who sympathised with the Dark Lord, she became a valuable ally in the fight against him.
Both Lucinda and Sirius were terrified of becoming parents so young, at a time when witches and wizards were vanishing and no one was safe. Yet when their daughter was born—under exceptional circumstances—they were overwhelmed by love. From her very first breath, Betty was surrounded by warmth and protection, far removed from the coldness of the Malfoy name.
Sirius, especially, shared an unbreakable bond with his daughter. He loved Betty deeply—so intensely that it sometimes frightened Lucinda. She remembered how he had held Betty as a baby, as if she were the most precious thing in the world. How he rose at night to soothe her, sang to her even when he missed every note, played with her for hours, and transformed into the great black dog she loved to cling to. He had been the only one who could calm her when nothing else worked. And then Harry was born. Little Harry, the son of Sirius's closest friends—whom he loved as fiercely as his own child. He and James had dreamed of raising them together, both children growing up side by side like siblings. And indeed, the toddlers soon became inseparable.
Sirius had been a loving father, and a wonderful godfather to Harry, though often chaotic. Lucinda and he argued frequently about parenting—rules, manners, and discipline. She was strict; he was indulgent. He acted impulsively where she planned ahead. Yet even in their fiercest fights, she had never doubted how much he loved his daughter—and those he called family. She had believed he would do anything for Betty. Kill for her. Die for her. Anything, if it meant keeping her safe. But she had been deceived—and then, he destroyed everything.
Lucinda could still recall the day Albus brought her the news. She had refused to believe it. Sirius—a murderer, a traitor? Not the man she had loved, married, and risked everything for. He had betrayed her and his dearest friends. Peter Pettigrew, said to have confronted Sirius after the betrayal, had paid with his life. Lucinda had never thought much of him, but he hadn't deserved that. James, who had been like a brother. Lily, who had become not only like Sirius' sister but one of Lucinda's closest friends. And Harry. Harry, the boy who was the reason for the Potter's hiding in the first place.
But the boy survived, and the Dark Lord was gone. And while the Wizarding World celebrated his fall, Lucinda's world was falling apart.
The truth shattered, and doubt consumed her. Had he truly loved them? Had she been living beside a stranger all along? Sirius had sworn to protect a boy who now lived while his parents were gone. The thought made her suffocate. He was responsible for the deaths of those who loved him—and, in doing so, had betrayed her too. At first, she and Remus Lupin clung to each other for strength. But soon, too shaken and haunted by his own burdens, he disappeared as well. Lucinda sank into a dark pit of grief, fear, and anger. She questioned everything she had believed—not only about Sirius, each touch and promise, but about the few people left and their sincerity. How naive she had been. How easily deceived. The years that followed were an endless struggle—grieving the man she had loved, hating what he had done, and fighting to give Betty the best life she could. She had no choice but to keep going—for Betty's sake, but also for her own.
It was hard. She was still young and penniless—but not powerless. She was smart, and despite rejecting the Malfoy legacy, she knew her name still carried influence. Being the wife of a convicted murderer and traitor made her life difficult enough. A year after Betty's birth, her father had died of dragon pox. With his death, an old generation ended. Lucinda officially reclaimed her name after the Dark Lord's fall, knowing her brother—who had never been as cruel as their father—would shy away from open conflict. With Voldemort gone and his own neck safely out of the noose, Lucius would not dare challenge her.
Lucinda began her career at the Ministry as an office employee in the Department of Magical Transportation, which was then led by Thaddeus Dearborn. Thaddeus, a reserved and analytical man known for his precision, noticed Lucinda quickly—for her sharp intellect, quiet authority, and remarkable knowledge of language. He took her under his wing, recommending her for a position in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Thaddeus generally avoided political involvement and valued order and security above all else, felt sympathy for Lucinda, a young single mother trying to rebuild her life.
As Lucinda moved up in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, she began advocating for equality in the ministry regarding the treatment of Muggleborns, and to build good relations with wizards from other countries. Her clever thinking and steady dedication earned her a place as a trusted advisor to Bartemius Crouch Sr. Their relationship was mutually beneficial. Having endured similar suffering to his son in Azkaban, Bartemius Crouch valued Lucinda's intelligence and strategic skill. Together, they successfully navigated the complex political landscape: he helped her to rise through the career ladder, while she helped to rebuild his reputation, enabling him to regain some of the status and respect that had been lost by his son's brutal actions. Lucinda, however, never followed him blindly. She understood that politics demanded constant alertness, and that power always came at a price. In the Ministry, survival required a clear mind and an uncompromising moral compass. Trust was a tool, and she wielded it carefully.
But it was not only Lucinda who suffered from Sirius' betrayal. Betty was too young to understand what had happened, and the consequences that followed. She didn't understand why her father had suddenly disappeared; why they couldn't visit Harry, her uncles and her aunt Lily. And even though she wouldn't understand their absence, her pain was undeniable. In the first days after his disappearance after his imprisonment, Betty searched everywhere for him. She ran through the house screaming "Dada?" with childish hope he might suddenly appear somewhere. At night, Betty would cry herself to sleep, missing her father's comfort. Lucinda, lacking the strength to soothe her, would lock herself in the basement for hours, crying in silence. When Betty had eventually realised he wouldn't return, her grief seemed to deepen, and it began to effect herself and her magic. Her pain manifested in uncontrollable, wild outbursts—lights flickering, walls trembling, and windows cracking.
One quiet night, Lucinda had heard whispers coming from Betty's nursery; just to find a young Betty sitting in a corner of the room, quietly talking and giggling to someone. When Lucinda had entered the threshold, she froze, and her heart skipped a beat. For a moment, she thought, that Sirius had escaped Azkaban and came back for them. But she had realised that it was only an Illusion, that Betty must have created herself. The illusion was eerie and yet beautiful, Lucinda had realised in that moment how fragile both their worlds had become—and how close she had been to losing control of her own sanity.
The house they had lived in together, the home they had built for themselves, now felt like a cage of nightmares. It was Andromeda Tonks, a cousin of Sirius, and her husband Ted who stepped in, taking them in and providing the support Lucinda needed so desperately, even if was hard to admit. They even helped sell the house for a fraction of its value, lifting a huge burden from her shoulders. A few months later, Ted helped Lucinda secure the position in the Department of Transportation under Thaddeus where he worked, giving her both financial stability and a renewed sense of purpose. Under their care, Betty began to recover, forming a close bond with Nymphadora, who became something like an older sister to her.
Then, a few months before Betty's sixth birthday, the summer Tonks left for Hogwarts, Thaddeus Dearborn—having no heirs of his own—passed away, leaving his small house in London to Lucinda. Seeking stability for herself and her daughter, and feeling like a burden in the Tonk's house even though Andromeda kept insuring they were not, Lucinda gratefully accepted, finally beginning the process of building a new life. Or so she hoped.
Yet the house felt too quiet. In the evening, when Betty was alseep, Lucinda often found herself either in her own little library— the one she had created for herself, with books neatly arranged in shelves reaching up to the ceiling—or in the adjoining basement, a large painting concealing the stairs leading downwards. Down there, among shelves of neatly sorted ingredients and steaming cauldrons, she found a strange calm that steaded her mind. Sometimes Betty would join her, watching with big, curious eyes as Lucinda stirred her wand and poured colourful potions and slaves into phials and tins.
When autumn came with Halloween approaching, her grief felt heavier than ever, and even the calming bubbling of the cauldrons content couldn't keep her thoughts from unravelling. One night, while she was sorting the phials, and noting which ingredients were running low, she felt a light breeze coming from the stairs above, and as she turned she saw Betty, dressed in her nightgown, hair widly tousled, toddling down the steps. She hesitated, then without another word, she came up to Lucinda and whispered, "I can take it away, the hurt."
Before Lucinda could say a word, Betty took her hand. The moment their fingers touched, Lucinda felt a sudden warmth spreading through her chest, and a soft lightness, as if a heavy weight had been lifted from her chest. She stared at her daughter, moved beyond words, kneeling in front of her, pulling her close, unsure weither to be frightened or amazed.
But once they had settled, the grief of separation returned, stronger than before. Every of Betty's trantrum where accompanied by doors slamming until their burst; wind forming almost to whirlwinds. Lucinda felt helpless, not knowing how to soothe her daughter, just as she had felt years earlier. Already sensitive to emotion, Betty absorbed her mother's sorrow as if it were her own, bearing a burden that no child should have to carry. Lucinda felt inadequate as a mother. She had hoped to provide Betty with love and stability, but the magic within her reacted more violently to emotion than Lucinda could have imagined.
As Lucinda's greatest wish was it to keep Betty safe. She tried to give Betty a home full of love, a home herself and Betty's father had lacked; to shield her from the pain herself had endured growing up. Even it that meant to withholding the truth. Lucinda couldn't bring herself to tell Bety what her father had done, and why he had left them. She told herself, once Betty is older, once Betty is capable of understanding. But again, the world wouldn't play her rules.
Lucinda wanted Betty to have as normal a life as possible. That included having normal friendships; Tonks, who was quite a bit older and now attending Hogwarts, couldn't spent time with Betty any longer. While working at the Ministry, Lucinda had met a quirky red haired man named Arthur Weasley who had an unusual fondness for Muggle artefacts. Nevertheless, his warm nature and the fact that he was the father of seven children, three of whom were Betty's age, seemed like the perfect opportunity to introduce Betty with her peers. And there, Betty really thrived.
Together with the twins, she discovered her love and capability of pranks, much to the dismay of their older brother Percy. Betty had spent half the summer with the Weasleys and often didn't want to go home, but then—one afternoon in early September—something happened that made Lucinda realise that she was no longer able to handle the situation on her own. An urgent message from Molly Weasley, Arthur's wife, had reached her at work.
"Lucinda, please, you have to come here immediately. It's... something has happened. Betty has locked herself in the shed for hours. I can't get through to her."
Lucinda had instantly apparated to the Burrow, the youngest children including Molly, already standing in front of a shed next to the house. The youngest girl, and one of the twins, kneeling beside the door, quietly whispering reassuring words, yet Betty wouldn't allow them to open the door. Molly rushed towards her.
"Betty, she is... she had an outburst," the red haird woman said worried, "she's scared, Lucinda. She injured Percy—nothing serious. He's in shock, but he'll be alright. But poor Betty... she must be so frightened by her own power. I can't unlock the door."
Lucinda walked passed Molly towards the shed door. The twins alternatingly telling Molly and Lucinda what had happened. They had spent all afternoon, hiding from Percy, who had still been angry at the children's prank, in the twins bedroom, when Ron asked that one question, that set everything in motion.
"And where's your father, Betty?"
She shrugged her shoulders and told them firmly, faintly smiling, "He's gone. But he'll come back soon."
But then Percy had appeared, overhearing the conversation. "That's nonsense! Your father will never come back! He's a murderer!"
Betty had trembled for a moment. That word "Azkaban", not surely knowing what it meant, must have echoed in her mind.
"You're lying!" Betty had shouted, "He's not! He would never do that!"
But Percy had only responded coldly, "I'm not lying. Your father killed people. Twelve muggles. And now he's rotting in Azkaban, where he belongs!"
And then it happened. Betty's magic erupted uncontrollably, throwing Percy violently across the room. The boy hit the wall with such a force, he fell unconsciously to the floor. According to the twins, a storm erupted, toys flying around and flames creeping up the walls, leaving dark grime marks on the wall.
When Molly finally rushed in, the room was a complete chaos, Percy lying on the floor with a bleeding wound on his head, his arm unnaturally twisted. Betty stand within the chaos, her eyes in wide shock, staring at her hands, and what she had done. Before Molly could react, Betty had stormed out, running out of the house, and locking herself in the shed. Once Lucinda arrived, it took almost the half afternoon, until Betty eventually came out, still shaking, whispering, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."
After this incident, Betty was so frightened and full of guilt that she strictly refused to visit the Weasleys again. Doubts crept in Lucinda. Should she have told Betty earlier? But how did one tell a six year old that her father had done something so unspeakable? So Lucinda decided, that this must be enough knowledge—for now. And Betty, she began to withdraw even further. Betty, who had started using her magic instinctively at an early age and enjoyed experimenting with it—and Lucinda let her do so—now almost stopped, with a few exceptions. Even when they argued, Betty seemed to suppress her magic with all her strength. And that was what frightened Lucinda the most. Not only that Betty had hurt someone and could hurt herself or someone else again. Lucinda knew exactly what happened to children who tried to shut off their magic.
During her travels on behalf of her department, Lucinda had travelled all over the world and met wizards from almost every country. She did not shy away from unconventional methods—at least for Britain. It was Albus Dumbledore who recommended the wizard from Kenya. She remembered the wizard—tall, his short dark coils streaked with grey hair, with friendly dark eyes and an attentive expression. Zuberi Bakari. He was a professor at the East African School of Magic in Uagadou, located on the Ugandan part of the Rwenzori Mountains, where he taught transfiguration. But Lucinda also knew that he was knowledgeable about meditation and the early magical education of children, teaching them to use their magic in a controlled manner, based on his own traumatic experiences in his youth.
Zuberi didn't agree lightly to teach Betty, a British witch, due to the still tense situation between the Kenyan and the British ministries.
"You, a British witch, want me—Kenyan wizard—to teach your daughter what your people have tried to erase? When I was a boy," Zuberi had asked Lucinda firmly. "It was your Ministry, that punished me and my people for not using wands. For following our traditions. Why would I trust you with our ways?"
"Yes, because what they erased was wisdom, not weakness," Lucinda didn't flinch, "and because if she doesn't how to control herself, her magic—she'll destroy herself. I won't let that happen."
Zuberi had said nothing, then he nodded slowly.
"I have seen with my own eyes, what happens to children who suppress their magic," he eventually said. "I do it—for your daughter. Not for you. Not for your ministry. Solely for her."
"I promise you, I will do better," Lucinda said, meeting his gaze. "I will use my position to make amends for the pain the British caused, and to honour the wisdom your people were denied."
Lucinda kept her word; though it was as hard as she expected. Not everyone in the Ministry shared Lucinda's opinion, though she never let herself be put down. And Zuberi, he taught Betty not only how to control her magical abilities through master elemental magic—a skill that in Western Wizarding Societies were often forgotten, but to try to master her inner world a little bit better. By teaching her what was slumbering inside her after all, accidentality outbursts triggered by deep emotions stopped. He encouraged her to mediate regurlarly, to breath consciously in order to develop a deeper understanding of her magic; it was not just a tool, it was part of her, part of every wizard and witch there is.
But Lucinda didn't just trusted Zuberi with Betty. It wasn't only the uncontrollable magic, that Lucinda feared but Betty's inherent capability of Legilimens. It wasn't the sole fact she was capable of such a rare inherent skill, something that took years to master if not being born with. But the possibility to make Betty vulnerable—if she saw the wrong thing. And just being used for her skill.
She knew Betty didn't only need magical training but Occlumence lessons; an ability someone who she had once trusted had mastered. Someone she had once admired him for his ambition and his unappeasable thirst of knowledge. Someone who had broken that trust by giving in the power Dark Magic promised, but following the Dark Lord's ideology. But being desperate to find the best teacher there was, she had to trust Severus Snape again. After the fall, Albus had intervened, ensuring Severus avoided Azkaban and offering him a teaching position. Still, she could see that Albus didn't make such decisions lightly. Perhaps Lily had played a role. That was enough. If Albus trusted Severus with the lives of others, then he could be trusted with Betty. And Lucinda, desperate to keep her daughter safe, could take no greater comfort than that.
Lucinda, however, didn't trust Albus blindly—she often disagreed with him, such as his decision to leave Harry with the Dursleys, Lily's sister Petunia and her husband Vernon Dursley. She understood his reasoning, but she didn't believe the boy's guardianship there was right. Some years after the fall of the Dark Lord, and Harry being placed with his relatives, Lucinda began visiting Arabella Figg, who, on Albus' instructions, lived a few streets away from the Dursleys, on a regular basis to keep on eye on the little boy. Everytime he was there at Arabella's place, whenever the Dursley's wanted to get rid of him, they send him to Arabella's place. Of course that was no coincidence.
Every time Harry was sent over to Arabella's, he was polite, quiet, flinching at every sudden noise—too cautious for a boy his age. It made Lucinda's heart ache. The day she noticed the faint bruises on his wrists, she knew she couldn't stay silent any longer. The next morning, she had knocked on the front door. A large man with a thick moustache had opened the door, scanning her mistrustfully.
"We don't expect visitors. And I'm surely not interested in buying something from you," he sneered immediately.
"I'm not here to sell you anything, Vernon," Lucinda said coolly, "You probably remember me. From the wedding. Your sister-in-law's wedding."
Vernon face turned pale, then, starting from his neck, he turned crimson red. His small eyes narrowed, Lucinda could see the artery pulsing in his neck.
"We don't want your kinds here," he spat. "We told him when we took the boy in. You're not welcome here."
He was about to slam the door shut, but Lucinda who had been prepared put her foot in the door. She looked directly into his eyes, not letting him irritate her.
"I know what you have been doing to Harry. I've seen the bruises."
His expression faltered. From the hallway, a woman's voice called, "Darling? Who's there?" Petunia appeared beside him—and froze, turning pale, unlike her husband, she recognised Lucinda immediately.
Lucinda met her eyes. "Do you think your sister would treat your son like you treat hers?"
"How dare—" Petunia began, but Lucinda's look silenced her, much to Lucinda's satisfaction.
"Make sure your husband keeps his hands from Harry."
She had said quietly, giving both of them one last icy glance, before she had turned on her heel and left, her pulse hammering in her ears.
Not long after, Albus had found out, and he hadn't been pleased. He asked her to come to his office without delay.
"You were not meant to involve yourself so directly, Lucinda," he had said as soon as she entered, gesturing her to take a seat.
Her expression stayed composed, though her posture tightened slightly. After a brief pause, she had obeyed.
Albus had looked at her expectantly.
Lucinda had met his gaze without flinching. "Albus, that boy is being harmed. Do not expect me to just watch and take no action."
Albus watched her for a moment before speaking. "I expect restraint. The boy is meant to grow up away from attention. Shielded from the fame that will inevitably find him when he enters Hogwarts."
Lucinda's jaw tightened. "Away from attention does not mean unprotected. And isolated."
"It means stable," Albus corrected gently. "And stability is precisely what he has there."
Her eyes sharpened. "In the hands of those who would rather be freed from him."
"The enchantment placed upon that home is not symbolic. It is anchored in Lily Potter's sacrifice. That protection holds only as long as he can call that place home. That is why he must remain there."
Lucinda hadn't wanted to accept the simplicity of it, not when she had seen what "remaining" meant in practice.
"This place is certainly not a place a boy like him should call home," she said. Then, more pointedly, "Do you care about the boy's wellbeing?"
Albus had looked at her from behind his desk, his eyes darkening slightly behind his half-moon glasses—not unfriendly, but firm.
"I care about his safety, Lucinda. I always will."
She had held his gaze for a moment longer than politeness required, as if testing there was anything beneath that phrasing that would soften it, would make her understand. But it didn't.
"Safety," she repeated quietly. "He is not safe there, Albus."
The old man's hands had remained folded in front of him. He hadn't corrected her.
"He is protected," he had said instead.
Lucinda had swallowed, shaking her head imperceptibly. "For what cost?"
"He will survive."
There was a brief pause before he answered.
"Lucinda," he said, more gently now, "you and I both know that Lord Voldemort is not gone. It's only a matter of time before he regains his strength and returns. And you know what that means. If Harry leaves that house, he becomes vulnerable. That is not a risk I am willing to take."
His words had unsettled her more than it reassured her. It made her question how he defined welfare at all, and where survival ended and harm began in his calculations.
"And you believe he would not survive in my care?" she had asked. "I can give him a place he can call home. My wards are strong. If there is a way to preserve that protection, I will find it."
There had been a pause before Albus had answered.
"Lucinda," he had said, "you already carry a responsibility that demands your full attention."
His bright blue eyes lingered on her for a moment longer. "And one that mustn't be divided."
Lucinda had held his gaze. Her posture had not shifted, her expression had remained composed, but she had understood exactly what he had been implying—she already had a child whose needs were becoming harder to contain, whose magic was unstable enough to require outside guidance, and that any additional responsibility would only expose what she was already struggling to manage. Even though he hadn't spoken direct accusations, the words had truck a sensitive point.
"I will continue to visit him," she had said, her voice steady, as if he had never made that remark. "And I will bring Betty with me."
"No," Albus had replied quietly. "That will not continue."
Lucinda's expression had tightened slightly. "I will not leave him entirely alone in that house. And I will not pretend I have not seen it."
"You have already involved yourself more than I advised," he had said. "You will not involve your daughter further."
A brief silence had followed.
"What do you imagine happens," Albus had continued, "when she begins to ask why he is left there? What answer do you intend to give her?"
Lucinda hadn't answered immediately. Her gaze had shifted, if only slightly, before returning to him.
"That is not your concern," she had said at last, though the certainty in her voice had lessened.
"It is precisely my concern," he had replied. "Because there is no answer you can give her that does not lead to further questions."
Lucinda's jaw had tightened. "She is a child."
"And not an unobservant one," Albus had said. "You know that as well as I do."
The words had settled heavily between them.
Lucinda had tried to maintain her composure, but her voice had betrayed her, trembling slightly as she spoke.
"He is just a child," she had whispered. "They were supposed to grow up together. Like siblings."
For a brief moment, Albus had said nothing.
"And I very much regret that," he had replied quietly, before going on. "But external observation is sufficient. Intervention is not."
"You call this sufficient?" Lucinda had asked quietly.
"I call it necessary."
She had held his gaze and searched for something that would explain it all to her.
"You have already crossed a line by bringing her so close," he had continued. "Any further contact risks creating an attachment that will complicate the boy's situation—and place a burden on your daughter she was never meant to carry."
Lucinda had pressed her lips into a thin line but had said nothing.
"There will be no more shared visits," Albus had continued calmly. "No more presence within that household. If you observe, you do so from a distance. In a way that does not alter his environment."
"And if that is not enough?" she had asked, her voice lower.
Albus hadn't hesitated. "It will have to be."
Silence had followed, longer this time. Lucinda had been aware that, for him, the conversation was over.
She had risen from the chair in front of his desk and was heading towards the door. She had almost reached the threshold when she had paused, her fingers brushing the doorknob.
Only then she had turned around one last time.
"I'm his godmother, Albus. It was Lily and James' wish that I care for him if anything were to happen to them."
For the first time, something in Albus' expression had shifted, subtle but unmistakable.
"Circumstances change," he had said at last. "You will understand one day."
His gaze held hers for a brief second longer; his expression steady and unreadable, before he had leaned back slightly in his chair.
"You may go."
And with that, he had released her.
***
December 1990, Diagon Alley, London.
It was a week before the Christmas holidays when Lucinda passed through the festively decorated streets of Diagon Alley. She walked determinedly toward Gringotts, up the steps, through the ornate doors, to the goblin seated at the end of the hall behind the counter.
She had read it in Betty's letter, "Flying made me feel freer than ever before."
She hadn't explicitly stated, that she wanted her own broom. But if Lucinda could get Betty anything that would give her freedom, she would get it. The best one available. It was set to go on sale only next summer, but thanks to Lucinda's connections, she already had the opportunity to secure the newest model. Such a broom cost a great deal of gold, even with the generous discount she had received. So much gold that Lucinda didn't possess, despite her well-paid position at the Ministry. Or perhaps didn't want to possess.
"How may I help you?" asked the goblin at the counter.
"I want to access the vault of Sirius Black," Lucinda said, sliding the key across.
How long it had been since she was last here. And how long it had been since she said his name. Sirius had inherited a considerable amount of gold after the death of a kind uncle. Gold that, through marriage, had also belonged to her. Gold that she, after his betrayal, did not want. I managed without your gold too, all on my own, she thought bitterly. Did he know?Probably. Sirius had known Lucinda's ambition, her determination to achieve her goals while holding to her principles. That had been one of the reasons he had fallen in love with her.
"Please follow me," said the goblin, leading her through a door behind the counter.
They climbed into the cart and descended the tracks to the vault that had once promised them an untroubled life. When the cart finally stopped, the goblin led her to a massive metal door and opened the vault. The room was overflowing with gleaming gold coins. More than she would ever need, more than she could have ever dreamed of. But it meant nothing to her. It was for Betty. Once she was old enough. Lucinda took only as much as she needed for the gift she intended to give—the finest broom for her daughter.
Not a single knut more.
Only for the broom. For her Betty.