The morning post arrived with its usual flurry of wings and scrolls. Elestara glanced up from her plate only when a sharp-tufted owl swooped in with practiced precision and dropped a dark envelope right in front of her porridge.
She didn't need to check the wax seal.
The lettering was distinct, old-fashioned, not quite flourishing but deliberate. Elestara Black, Slytherin House, Hogwarts.
Her chest tightened with something sharp and unspoken.
She slid the envelope into her lap and didn't open it until she was alone upstairs.
The parchment inside smelled faintly of cedar and firewhiskey. The message was brief. Cryptic.
You were born under a difficult name. Wear it well. Legacy chooses those who earn it, not those who reach for it. Inherit with grace. Lead with restraint. Strength is not in loudness.
R.
No signature. There never was.
Elestara folded the letter carefully, the edges crisp against her fingers, and placed it inside the velvet-lined jewelry box she kept hidden beneath her robes.
She stared at it for a long time before closing the lid. Her reflection in the mirror behind her was still and sharp-eyed. She felt the weight of her godfather's words like a stone resting just beneath her ribs.
Later that week, Professor Snape stopped Draco at the end of Potions.
"You'll remain behind," he said without looking up from a sheaf of notes. "You'll begin assisting me in the dungeons on alternate Tuesdays."
Draco looked momentarily stunned. Then he puffed up with pride.
"Yes, sir."
Elestara watched from the doorway, eyebrows raised. When Draco joined her afterward, he was nearly insufferable.
"I'm not surprised," he said. "Father always said I had a particular aptitude."
She rolled her eyes. "Is that what he said when you melted the cauldron at ten?"
He ignored her, but he looked pleased.
Harry noticed the change.
It wasn't big. Just subtle enough to catch his eye.
She seemed quieter in the evenings, more thoughtful. Once, he saw her thumb the edge of something in her pocket before tucking it away. Another time, she lingered in the courtyard long after Theo and Pansy had gone back inside, staring up at the sky with a look that wasn't dreamy—it was calculating.
He didn't know why it stuck with him.
It just did.
He wondered, sometimes, who her family was. Not in the way people gossiped about Sirius Black or whispered about Bellatrix Lestrange. But personally.
Who had raised her to be that composed? That controlled?
She didn't boast like Draco. She didn't shrink like the others. She existed at the edge of every room like she belonged to it—and expected you to act accordingly.
Harry watched from a distance.
He didn't approach.
Not yet.
But he was beginning to understand that whatever Elestara Black was made of, it went deeper than her name.
-
That Friday, Draco took it upon himself to deliver a formal challenge.
He cornered Harry outside Charms, his expression smug and his voice carefully loud enough for surrounding students to hear. "You want to earn your fame properly, Potter? Midnight. Trophy room. Wizards' duel. Wands only—no contact. Unless, of course, you're scared."
Ron immediately stepped forward. "I'm his second."
Draco raised a brow. "Blaise is mine."
Elestara, standing nearby with Daphne, shot him a sharp look. "You picked Blaise instead of me?"
Draco straightened. "You're not getting involved in this."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Blaise is going. That's final."
She stared at him for a beat longer, visibly annoyed. "You're unbearable when you're serious."
For once, he didn't grin. Didn't tease her back. "I'm not letting you get caught."
That silenced her.
She folded her arms and looked away.
Harry, meanwhile, glanced between them, curious. He turned back to Draco. "Fine. Midnight. Trophy room."
Draco smirked.
Elestara didn't look at either of them as she turned and walked off with Daphne, her jaw tight.
Draco watched her go, then stalked in the opposite direction without another word.
That night, she didn't say a word about it. Not to Draco. Not to Theo. Not even in her journal.
But she didn't sleep either.
She watched the clock tick past midnight and wondered what legacy required restraint, and what part of her liked it when people didn't follow that rule.
That night, after the so-called duel failed to happen, Elestara retreated early to the girls' dormitory, not bothering to wait for Draco. She knew exactly where he was: sulking somewhere between self-justification and the warm glow of thinking he'd saved her from potential catastrophe.
She didn't want to see him. Not right now.
The girls' room was dim, firelight flickering low in the grate. Pansy was brushing her hair in front of the mirror, Daphne already curled up on her bed with a copy of Hogwarts: A History propped against her knees.
Elestara threw herself dramatically onto her own bed.
"He's insufferable," she declared to no one in particular.
Pansy didn't even look up. "Draco again?"
"He treats me like some delicate family heirloom he's sworn to protect from cracking."
"Well," Daphne said, without glancing up, "you are a Black heirloom."
Elestara rolled onto her side, groaning. "I'm a person. Not a porcelain sculpture."
Pansy smirked. "You are a bit porcelain."
"I could have been his second. I should have been. But no—'Blaise is going,' he says. As if Blaise gives a damn about dueling etiquette."
Daphne shut her book. "You know he was trying to protect you."
"He didn't even joke about it. Not once. Not even a snide remark."
That, more than anything, was what unsettled her.
Draco never withheld banter. It was how they communicated. For him to go quiet—to be serious—meant he meant it. Entirely.
"It's not that I'm ungrateful," Elestara murmured. "I just hate being benched."
Pansy flopped onto Elestara's bed beside her. "Then hex him tomorrow. That usually cheers you up."
"Tempting."
Daphne joined them, pulling the quilt up around her legs. "You could just talk to him, you know."
"And admit I was annoyed because I care? Gross."
Pansy giggled. "Unthinkable."
They sat like that a while, in the quiet hush of late night, trading barbed comments softened by warm blankets and older friendships. For all Elestara's snide precision and cutting charm, it was these quiet moments that reminded her she wasn't alone in the legacy she carried—or the burden.
She pulled her pillow close and sighed. "He still could have let me go. Just once."
Daphne nudged her knee. "Next time he challenges a Gryffindor to a duel, you'll be the first to know."
Elestara smirked. "Good. Because if he ever calls Potter out again, I'll be the one to land the first spell."
The next morning, Harry sat stiffly at the Gryffindor table, stabbing halfheartedly at a sausage. Every so often, he glanced up across the hall.
Elestara was sitting with her usual crowd—Theo, Daphne, Pansy, and Blaise—talking quietly, sipping her tea with that practiced elegance he was starting to recognize in every gesture.
Draco, sitting right beside her, looked like he was trying to get her attention. She didn't so much as glance his way.
Harry watched Draco scowl, shift in his seat, say something again. Still nothing from her.
A slow grin tugged at Harry's mouth.
There was something deeply satisfying about watching her ignore her own brother.
Ron was halfway through a story about Fred and George enchanting someone's ink to sing Celestina Warbeck when he noticed.
"You look like someone hexed your eggs. Still mad about Malfoy?"
"Not really," Harry muttered, still smirking faintly. "Just thinking."
He didn't say what about.
-
In the Slytherin common room that evening, a quiet conspiracy was unfolding. It had started with a look from Daphne, followed by an exasperated sigh from Pansy, and then Theo muttering something about needing an actual treaty to stop the twin cold war.
They gathered around their usual corner, books open but ignored. Daphne cast Muffliato. Blaise raised an eyebrow.
"This feels excessive," he said.
"It's necessary," Pansy replied.
Theo folded his arms. "You two are exhausting. And we live with you."
Draco raised both brows. "I've been nothing but civil."
"You picked Blaise as your second and didn't even tell Lyra why until she had to drag it out of you with sarcasm," Daphne said.
"I didn't want her involved!"
"Which is sweet," Blaise said. "If you're eighty and she's five."
Draco scowled.
"You've been moody all week," Theo added. "She's been sniping at you like a feral pixie. We're tired."
Pansy pulled out a folded bit of parchment. "Here's the plan. I'll ask her to go on a walk by the lake. I'll leave halfway through. You show up. Say something dramatic. She softens. You make up. The end."
Draco groaned. "I hate how rehearsed this is."
"Which is why it'll work," Daphne said. "You're too stubborn to fix it naturally."
"Fine," he muttered. "But if this backfires, I'm blaming all of you."
"Deal," Theo said. "Now go be charming and brotherly. You've had practice."
The next day, true to form, Pansy looped her arm through Elestara's and coaxed her out onto the path by the Black Lake. The wind was crisp, the water dark and glassy under the pale sun.
"I still don't know why he thought Blaise was a better second," Elestara muttered.
Pansy offered a knowing smile. "Boys are idiots. Especially brothers."
They walked in silence for a few moments. Then, as rehearsed, Pansy made a show of checking her pocket watch and gasping. "Oh—blast it. I left my quill in the library. Be back in a minute. Don't move."
Elestara blinked. "I could come with you—"
"Stay," Pansy said firmly, already jogging off.
Elestara sighed and turned back to the water.
She didn't hear Draco until he was standing just behind her.
"Wow," he said casually. "Ignoring your older brother like that, your heart's as black as the lake."
She snorted. "I'm a Black, remember?"
Draco stepped beside her, hands in his pockets. "Still. Cold."
"Maybe next time don't cut me out."
"I was trying to keep you safe."
"I didn't ask you to."
He looked at her, really looked, and for a second, the teasing dropped. "You're my sister. You're—Lyra."
She went still. He hadn't called her that in days. Not since the duel.
Draco sighed. "I don't always know how to protect you and respect you at the same time."
She softened. Slightly. "Then stop pretending it has to be one or the other."
"So we're... good?"
"For now," she said.
He gave her a sidelong smile. "Want me to pick you as my second next time?"
She smirked. "Only if you want to be outdueled."
He laughed. "Merlin, I missed this."
She nudged his shoulder. "Don't make it a habit."
But she smiled too.
Draco looked at her for a moment longer, the laughter in his eyes softening. Then, without warning, he pulled her into a tight hug.
Elestara immediately squirmed. "Draco! Let go!"
He only laughed harder. "You missed me, admit it."
"You're wrinkling my robes!"
"You love me. Say it."
"I'll hex you."
He released her just in time to avoid a proper shove, stepping back with hands raised in surrender. "Fine, fine. We're fine, then?"
She crossed her arms. "I already told Father."
Draco froze. "You didn't."
She raised a brow, face perfectly blank.
"Lyra."
"I owled him yesterday. Described everything."
"You didn't."
Her lips twitched. "Did."
He gaped at her.
She grinned. "Didn't."
Realization dawned. "You little—"
But she was already darting away with a laugh. Draco shouted her name and took off after her.
They tore across the grass, robes flying, boots thudding against the earth.
Not far from the castle, Harry stood watching from the path leading up the hill.
He saw her laughing, hair tangled in the breeze, Draco chasing after her like a boy who'd never heard of dignity.
For the first time, he saw what they looked like when they weren't performing for anyone at all.
He smiled, quietly, and turned back toward the castle.