Duties of the Hostess
Title: Duties of the Hostess
Author: wotcher_wombat
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 17,995
Character/Pairings: Dorea Black Potter, Bellatrix Black, Black Family Tree
Summary: After a number of heartbreaks, Dorea Black Potter hosts an enormous party and all of the Black family is invited. Through the strength of her family and a few surprises, Dorea finds herself more powerful than she ever believed.
Notes: You might want to pull out your Black Family Tree for this fic. I was asked for obscure Blacks, and I delivered most of them. This came out with a little more angst-ridden than I intended in my quest for plot, but I hope I managed to keep it all in balance. Thanks to Lisa for the beta and last-minute-emergency emails!
January 1, 1956
The light almost shone too brightly once she wrenched the dark, heavy drapes from the window, and Dorea Black Potter had to squint in the weak January light. She hadn’t been in some of these rooms for close to twelve years, and there was much to do before they would be presentable. With a flick of her wand, she banished the furniture coverings to the laundry, sending particles of dust dancing across the room. The furniture was exquisite, if a bit old fashioned, but most of it would have to be moved to accommodate the number of guests for the party. Hopefully, they wouldn’t need an expansion charm.
She closed her eyes, trying to picture Twin Hollies teeming with company once more. The image was terrifying, exhilarating, and exhausting. While the task of preparing her home seemed daunting, Dorea didn’t mind the work. It kept her busy. However, the party itself worried her. Could she still possess the ability to slip back into her old life after so much time had passed? She wanted to tell herself that it was like riding a broomstick, that once learned it was never forgotten, but she had her doubts.
Dorea strode to the piano in the corner, lifted the cover from the keys, and struck a C major chord. Yes, that would certainly need tuning. She tried to play a song she vaguely recalled from her childhood tutelage, but after several clumsy attempts, she decided that the piano would remember it much better without her help. As the keys played a stirring, if out of tune, rendition of March of the Hippogriffs, Dorea’s eye was caught by a stack of stray papers peeking out from beneath the lid of the piano bench. Curious, she stood up and retrieved the pages before she realized what they were.
“Oh,” she whispered, grief settling over her features.
She held a dog-eared copy of her own unfinished manuscript of children’s stories, chronicling the adventures and triumphs of the Black family through the centuries. Dorea absentmindedly thumbed through the handwritten pages. Her most recent project for the manuscript, trying to transcribe an ancient song her Aunt Elladora used to sing to her when she was a child, had been utterly forgotten in the wake of heartbreak.
Dorea collapsed back onto the piano bench, her mind reeling.
She had never considered herself among the great heroes of her family. At the age of thirty-six Dorea still resembled a small, timid girl who read more than she spoke, who politely smiled more than she laughed, and who moved with a practiced grace to mask her physical frailties. She never cherished any ambitions to become a great heroine often lauded in children’s stories; her aspirations were much more modest.
Not for the last time, Dorea wondered if hosting this party was a mistake.
January 28, 1956
“Pollux declined his invitation, for obvious reasons, I’m sure,” Charis Crouch said as she helped her cousin with the final preparations for the party. “I’ll bet you my last galleon that Walburga and Cygnus won’t appear tonight either. And, of course, Alphard is conveniently abroad.”
As Dorea Potter charmed the last of the centerpieces, she shook her head. “Have you so little faith in the strength of our family?” she asked in her soft, wispy voice, which would seem perpetually earnest if not for a strategically raised eyebrow.
Charis laughed. “Do you underestimate the strength of your brother’s grudge? He’s never forgiven you for getting Twin Hollies-and you, the youngest of us all, with the grandest estate!”
“Well, I was the only one willing to live with Mother until the end. Pollux tried to oust Mum from her own house-what did he think would happen?” Dorea sighed softly. “Surely he’s not still upset about that matter. It was ages ago! I’d think he’d be pleased now with his Walburga settled nicely at Grimmauld Place. She and Orion seem rather happy together.”
“I doubt it. She’s a spiteful little thing-just like her father.”
Pretending to be scandalized, Dorea gasped. “Charis Black you are full of venom today!” she teased.
“Hardly venom,” Charis remarked with a roll of her eyes. “And besides, it’s your fault. You know parties put me in the mood for gossip. It’s been too long-I’ve kept it all pent up. It’s been years since you hosted a ball!”
Dorea closed her eyes and took a sharp breath. Through great concentration of will, her hands only shook slightly. “I do what I can,” she said in a deflated voice, turning away from Charis.
With an uneasy gulp and a shift in her posture, Charis watched her cousin closely from the corner of her eye. The women might have been close as sisters and shared a dormitory room for seven years, but there were some topics they didn’t dare broach. “Listen, I didn’t mean that the way it-” Charis began.
“I believe we’ve taken care of all the decorations,” Dorea said too-brightly, as if nothing had happened. She bustled across the room, her long blue dress robes trailing behind her. “Perhaps we should try to find our husbands?”
Charis nodded, taking her cue. “If you say so. I’m not sure why we bother-they’re about as useless at a party as a Glumbumble!”
Both cousins laughed, and Charis hugged Dorea in an entirely informal manner, heedless of their elegant setting. Arm in arm they left the dining hall with an unspoken understanding that while family might share in sorrows, they would also share in joy.
Mr. Charlus Potter found his wife in the front hall of their home. “Well dear, the house-elves are in a tizzy, the place looks magnificent, and our darling Mrs. Crouch has already sharpened her fangs for another night of gossip-mongering. All signs point to a smashing good party.”
“Heavens, Mr. Potter, you make it sound as if I plan on devouring someone!” Charis laughed. “I promise I’ll be on my best behavior!”
“Yes, and I know exactly how much that promise is worth,” Mr. Potter teased.
Charis gave an exaggerated gasp and a self-important toss of the head. “If that’s the way you intend to treat me, then I shall just leave! My word is my bond!”
“As if you could stay away,” Mr. Potter mumbled, earning him a playful smack.
Dorea shook her head and stepped between her husband and cousin. “Must I always be the one to prevent your brawls?” she asked.
“Come now, Dorea!” Charis protested. “He started it-”
Mr. Potter guffawed. “Ah, but we all know Mrs. Potter loves me best-your point is invalid, Mrs. Crouch!”
“You two are no better than children!” Dorea interceded, trying her best to ignore her husband and cousin sticking their tongues out at one another. “And you should both know by now that children are not invited,” she concluded, a familiar dull weight pulling at her stomach with those words. “Adult Attendance Only” the invitations read, and Dorea had sent them out with knots in her stomach and a mournful ache in her heart.
“Right, right,” Charis muttered uncomfortably, again studying her cousin for guidance in the proper way to diffuse the situation.
The apprehension in her closest friend’s eyes made Dorea ill. At times the eggshell-treading could be as painful as the unthinking blunders. It made her want to scream and rage in a most unladylike manner. “Why don’t you round up Mr. Crouch before the other guests arrive?” Dorea suggested with a polite smile, and Charis ducked back to the smoking room, looking glad of the direction.
How long before Dorea Black Potter became the strange old witch on the hill who hated all youth and baked children into pie? Every village had one of those; perhaps it was time Dorea accepted her fate. She certainly hadn’t hoped for that label years ago when she and her husband set up the nursery, their heads filled with soft pink and blue thoughts, their eyes bright with possibilities and expectations.
She trembled at the memory, though she tried not to show it. One simply didn’t mention such personal tragedies in polite company-and Dorea held herself strictly to this tenet. All the same, she felt so much smaller than her younger self, the woman who once hosted the grandest, most lavish private parties in wizarding Britain. The evening stretched out before her, and she felt less than ready for the task ahead.
“A knut for your thoughts?” her husband asked once they were entirely alone. He stepped up behind her, running his hands down his wife’s shoulders to her elbows before wrapping his arms around her. His touch was warm, gentle, and insistent, but she could not relax into his embrace.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Dorea replied without the slightest hint of melancholy. “I just hope the evening goes well.” It was almost the entire truth.
“I suppose you’d like me to be on my best behavior, too?” Mr. Potter murmured, his lips close to her ear. “No elbows on the table, no picking fights with your family, no sneaking off to some remote corner of the house for some passionate necking-”
Dorea gasped, shocked even out of her gloom. “Must you be so vulgar?”
“Hey, that’s what those teenagers are calling it these days, you know,” Mr. Potter laughed. “You’ve got to stay with the times!”
“You’re no… whatever they’re calling themselves now. You’re no teenager,” Dorea replied, almost at the point of teasing him back-a rarity.
“Perhaps not,” he conceded. “But I’m young enough in here,” he added, placing his hand directly over Dorea’s heart. “That’s where it matters, isn’t it?”
Dorea smiled, extracting herself from her husband’s arms. “I believe you’re young like a phoenix,” she whispered earnestly. “One day you’ll be younger than me.”
Mr. Potter turned his rouge grin on her. “That’s hardly a compliment, Mrs. Potter. Phoenixes are old, old, old. Besides, if either of is us going to be a Phoenix, it’s you, my dear. You are, by far, the strongest woman I have ever known.”
Dorea stepped back. “Please don’t tease me.”
“I’m not teasing,” he whispered, his blue eyes flashing. “I’m proud of you.”
Dorea nodded and looked away. Charlus Potter had always been a good actor; he looked utterly sincere. Dorea was anything but strong. Had her husband conveniently forgotten her reclusive existence of the past three years? There was no strength in that, she knew, and it was only through her husband’s tender, consistent prodding that she agreed to take on the challenge of hosting this party tonight. Her great comeback. She felt flimsy as a sheet of wet paper.
“The guests should be here in just a moment,” she said quietly, folding her hands together, her nerves again becoming problematic. “I think everything is prepared. I hope we haven’t overlooked something vital.”
“I’m sure it will all be splendid, darling,” Mr. Potter repeated for the seventy fifth time that evening. “Remember, these are our friends and family-people who love you. They’re coming for you, not for your champagne fountain or the singing wood-nymphs.”
Dorea nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course.” Her family was the only reason she agreed to this in the first place, and the idea of seeing so many of her loved ones together kept her planning and organizing even when her anxiety threatened to overwhelm her. “You’re entirely right, and I’m so pleased that so many agreed to come tonight,” she said, needlessly smoothing her hair. “I know I’m being silly. It’s just… difficult to start again after so much time.”
“I know it is,” Mr. Potter said kindly, winking at her. “You’ll be fantastic.”
Dorea squared her shoulders, garbing herself in formality like battle armor. “Thank you, Mr. Potter. We’d best get ourselves into position to greet our guests. I’ll wait by the front door for the Apparating guests and the Portkeys. If you could-”
“Yes, yes, the Floo. I’m on my way.” He kissed her (perhaps a bit too passionately for the occasion in Dorea’s opinion), and disappeared around the corner, leaving Dorea blushing slightly in his wake.
She strode to the large front doors of the mansion and opened them with a wave of her wand, letting in the last of the pale winter twilight. The two large holly trees at the end of the front garden were laden with berries and spiky green leaves, and stood in vibrant contrast to the dull January landscape around them. The winter freeze loomed just beyond the front doorway, and though a heating charm kept it from entering the household, Dorea still felt the chill deep in her bones. She widened her stance slightly, and braced herself for the onslaught of guests. The first Portkey would arrive soon, and Twin Hollies would be teeming with people, life, and merriment.
She could handle this, she assured herself, so long as she smiled.
For the next hour or so, Dorea welcomed droves of people into her household as the daylight steadily faded from the sky. The muscles in her face were starting to ache, and she knew she would somehow have to seek out the visitors who had been only welcomed by her husband at the Floo. Finally, when the winter stars were in full array above them, she greeted the last Portkey and made her way further inside where the party was already in full swing.
In many ways, Twin Hollies was an ideal place to host an extravagant party. The estate offered large, expansive rooms for dance, festivity, and merriment. Dancers swept across the center of the vast ballroom where the dulcet, unearthly singing of wood-nymphs kept rhythm to a stately waltz. However for all its enormous rooms, the estate also contained a number of intimate recesses for more private conversations. Guests filled the drawing room with lively conversation, and the smaller, more informal parlors echoed with laughter. Dorea curtseyed and welcomed her guests all in turn, navigating the crowd in the drawing room with considerable skill as everyone greeted her with a kind word.
“Dorea! How wonderful it is to see you! Let me look at you- Oh, you look more and more like your mother every day! Doesn’t she, Richard? Doesn’t she look just like dear Violetta?” exclaimed elderly Mrs. Eugenia Clagg.
“I must say, Mrs. Potter, it is such a rare treasure to meet you,” said Mr. Wilfred Davies with a sweeping bow. “I am honored to be invited to your home.”
“It’s about time, old girl!” crowed Terrence Pennifold. “Here I thought you were becoming a shut-in! Now, which way to the food?”
“You’ve truly outdone yourself, my dear cousin,” praised Callidora Longbottom. “This enchantment is just gorgeous,” she said, gesturing above their heads with a bejeweled hand. Intricate spell-work suspended large chandeliers above every room, and high above that a dizzying array of stars twinkled from the lofty ceilings. When members of the Black family were inside Twin Hollies, the constellations and stars of their namesakes would burn with a brighter intensity. “The stars are brilliant tonight. It’s such a lovely touch.”
“Thank you, Cal,” replied Dorea, blushing modestly. “I am so thankful to have so many family members here this evening.”
“Ah, well, the House of Black never could resist a good invitation, as you well know. We must all keep up the family tradition,” Callidora said, adding with a chuckle, “I do fear for you if let Charis loose this evening, though. That’s one tradition I wish Father hadn’t started-my sisters are entirely too wild!”
“Your sisters?” Dorea gave her cousin an arch look, glancing about to ensure no one else was paying attention to their conversation. One could not speak freely about the truly rebellious Black daughter. “Have you heard from your other sister, then?”
Callidora leaned forward and whispered. “I just got a letter from Cedrella the other day, actually. Fear not, she’s as wicked and wily as ever. Deliriously happy, of course. She just had another boy-Billius Weasley, they’re going to call him-and Arthur just turned five not too long ago-”
Dorea nodded, feeling slightly sick with unwanted jealousy. It seemed the bearing of children was another Black family tradition-even among those no longer counted as Blacks. It seemed highly unfair to Dorea, who had followed the rules all her life, that all her cousins would now have multiple children when she had none. Even Charis-her dearest friend in the world and most beloved of cousins, who always strived to protect Dorea from anguish-even she had young voices beseeching her on the other end of their daily Floo calls. Dorea wanted to feel complete happiness for her loved ones, but she always came away so crushed and empty, grieving anew.
“Dorea? Are you all right?” Callidora asked suddenly.
Dorea blinked, and focused on Callidora once more. “I am terribly sorry, Cal. My mind was wandering-I do beg your pardon. What did you ask?”
Callidora leaned closer still. “I merely asked after your brother, but if you’d rather not...” She trailed off, looking worried, then added in barely a whisper, “Has-has something happened to him?”
“Oh-oh, no, Cal! Marius is fine,” Dorea clarified. “He’s still trying to write that novel of his, staying up all hours of the night with his quill poised above a blank sheet of parchment. He just moved into a new flat, and he hopes his neighbors will be colorful enough to provide some inspiration. He’s perfectly well, I assure you.”
“Good,” sighed Callidora. “For a moment I was frightened! Marius is such a dear soul. I always drop a galleon or two in the Society for the Support of Squibs box in Diagon Alley, and I think of him.”
“Yes, Triple S has really helped him through a lot of tight spots,” Dorea said. She glanced around the room guiltily, then whispered to Callidora, “I do, however, have a confession on that count. Since Marius could not attend tonight, I have invited in his stead the president of Triple S, a Mr. John T. Carrick. Even if the family would like to ignore my brother, they shall not ignore the issue. I-well, I suppose that’s my own small act of rebellion.”
Callidora gave her an appraising eye. “That’s hardly a move I’d expect from you, Dorea. But I’ve no doubt your heart is in the right place. Please relay to Marius that I hope the words come swiftly and easily-whenever he does decide to sit down and write the novel.”
With a deliberate shake of her head, Callidora stepped back and quickly sought to change the subject. Dorea supposed she couldn’t blame her for her discomfort. It was one thing to slip a few galleons anonymously into a box, it was quite another to openly invite the president of such an organization to one’s home. For her cousin’s ease Dorea let the issue drop without protest, though she made note of how far Callidora’s support truly extended.
“Speaking of which, how is your book coming along?” Callidora continued. “I’ve always thought it was a tremendous idea, compiling all the Black family legends into a book of children’s stories. It must be quite lengthy by now.”
Again, Dorea felt her stomach take a sour turn. “I’m afraid I haven’t touched that manuscript in years,” she said slowly, her mouth growing dry. “It’s been left by the wayside, and I doubt I shall ever feel the inclination to pick it up again.”
“Oh, there’s a pity,” Callidora lamented. “Hopefully, you’ll be struck by sudden inspiration in the near future. It seemed such a worthy project; I’d hate for you to give up half-way through.”
Dorea couldn’t find the words to tell her cousin that any hopes for finishing a book of children’s stories had fled after her fourth failed attempt to produce a child with which to share it. She stared mutely at Callidora, unable to articulate how very painful the whole ordeal had become. How could she begin to fit words to the experience?
Over three years ago she had talked and planned and schemed about the stories to put in this book, sharing amusing anecdotes she planned to include to an amiable crowd at her last great party. Dorea’s laugh had held a certain joyous resonance, buoyed as she was by the secret promise of life carried within her body. This pregnancy had lasted longer than any of the others-they had even told Charis about it-and every stolen glance at her husband seemed like reassurance that this time it would work out. Every day felt like a celebration, and she had never dared carried such hope in her heart as she had at that last party. Gleefully she had collected stories she and her family remembered hearing from their childhoods, with the expectation that she would tell them to her own dear, precious, miraculous child.
The next day it was all gone.
No, personal tragedies like these could not be mentioned. Even dear Charis had to surmise and draw her own conclusions. No one really knew the worst of it. As much as she loved her family, this was a burden Dorea would have to bear alone and in silence. Not for the last time, Dorea felt the nearly-irresistible urge to run back to her bedroom and hide until the party was over.
Fortunately, she was spared from having to think up an appropriate response to Callidora when Harfang Longbottom swept up and requested the presence of his wife for the Pixie Polka. Dorea graciously bade them a temporary farewell and followed to the ballroom in order to observe the vigorous dance for a moment. As the dancers hopped to and fro, Dorea made an attempt to rally her good spirits.
“Cousin Dorea!” boomed the unmistakable voice of Arcturus Black, and she spun around to find herself in a warm, if crushing, embrace.
Arcturus Black stood out in any crowd; a head and shoulder above everyone else, his broad red face bore a weathered look, and he took great pride in being physically fit and active. His black hair and full mustache were only starting to take on streaks of gray, and he looked in every way the part of a distinguished, if wealthy, outdoorsman. He and his daughter, Lucretia (who was more like her father than her petite frame would lead people to believe), looked almost out of place without their large hunting trophies in hand.
“It’s so good to see you,” Dorea gasped, hoping her cousin would loosen his grip. She feebly pushed herself backwards, and Arcturus released her with a beaming smile. “How was your trip to Africa?” she asked, straightening her robes.
“Marvelous!” declared Arcturus. “Absolutely marvelous. Bagged myself an Erumpent-even managed to capture a wild Fwooper. Lucretia and I simply thrive on expedition, don’t we, dear?”
Lucretia Prewett appeared at her father’s right side, cigar in hand and dragging her lanky and timid husband, Ignatius Prewett, along with her. “Oh yes,” she agreed. “I wouldn’t have missed this trip for the world-such marvelous sport! Even if my husband hid himself inside the tent the entire time, we all had a most exquisite adventure.”
“I wasn’t in the tent the entire time,” Ignatius piped up. “Don’t forget about the incident with the distressing damselfly.”
Arcturus exploded in laughter, and his daughter and son-in-law joined him in their private joke. The three continued to share half-told anecdotes and in-jokes about their holiday, laughing merrily all the while. Dorea smiled good-naturedly, not understanding half their meaning, though in many cases she dared not ask for clarification.
After he’d had his fill of reminiscing, Arcturus wiped a tear of mirth from his eye, and turned his attention to his cousin once more. “You really should have come, Dorea. It would have done wonders for your health, put some color in you.” He again laid his heavy hand on Dorea’s shoulder, and added more gently, “I’m glad to see you’re up and about again, though. The party is magnificent.”
Dorea blushed, but was spared having to make a reply when a young man with sandy hair and a large, red nose began to hail their group from across the room.
“Ah, yes, you remember my nephew, Mr. Volney McMillan,” Arcturus explained under his breath as the youth drew closer. “No doubt he wants to confer with us Blacks all evening, but perhaps he has some great diversion to entertain us all. One must humor my wife’s side, of course.”
“Ah, familial duties,” Lucretia laughed.
“Uncle Arcturus,” said Volney McMillan once he approached their group, with a few other guests at his heels. He bowed, and gave a delighted smile. “It’s so wonderful to see you again, and at such a spectacular occasion!”
“The pleasure is mine,” Arcturus said formally. “However, credit for the occasion falls on our beloved hostess,” he added with a gesture to Dorea.
After the appropriate amount of compliments and flattery to his hostess, Volney McMillan turned his attentions to Arcturus once more. “I did have a query for you, Uncle, since you’re such a great champion of sport and athletic exertion. What do you think about this whole Muggle affair in Italy? Started a few days ago-Olympics, I believe they’re calling them.”
“Another one?” broke in Mrs. Camilla Harkiss, a plump little woman draped in furs, whose husband currently owned half of Diagon Alley. “Didn’t they just have those the other summer? Back in Helsinki, remember? It ruined my whole holiday, all those Muggles crawling around like they owned the world. Isn’t once enough?”
“Well, we all know how Muggles like repetition,” joked Arcturus, his laughter rumbling like distant cannon fire. “It’s part of their make-up.”
Clearly, this is not where Volney McMillan had intended the conversation to lead. “Don’t you think that’s highly unfair? Have you ever paid attention to the games?” he asked. “They’ve been held for ages, and the Muggles are really quite talented.”
“Oh no, here he goes bragging on the Muggles!” laughed Mrs. Harkiss.
Volney McMillan raised his chin defensively. “Yes, they’re Muggles-that’s hardly my point. I think it’s a marvelous idea, no matter who they are,” he argued. “The best athletes in the world competing against one another in the-”
“Oh honestly,” Lucretia interrupted, looking over her shoulder as her husband lit her next cigar. “You can hardly call them the best athletes when Randall Umfraville isn’t counted among them! Best Keeper the Falcons ever had, if you ask me.”
“Certainly!” boomed Arcturus, clapping a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “Best player in the league! Best Keeper we’re like to see in this century! Wouldn’t you agree, Cousin Dorea?”
All eyes turned to her, and Dorea did her best not to shift uncomfortably. This was hardly her area of expertise, and certainly not anything that interested her. “I’m afraid I don’t follow any of the sporting events,” she said apologetically. “However, if Arcturus deems this Keeper the best in the league, then it must be so.”
Arcturus beamed at her, and everyone smiled in agreement.
“Here here!” piped in Ignatius Prewett, perhaps a little too late and too timidly as none in the group paid him any mind.
Volney McMillan was still determined to make his point. “They can hardly hold a Quidditch competition in the middle of the Muggle games,” he protested. “The Muggles have to perform their own-”
“You mean to tell me that because a group of Muggles gather in Italy to strap bits of wood to their feet and slide down mountains, I should be impressed?” Arcturus laughed. “I’m far more impressed with my post owl-should I throw a festival in its honor, too?”
This statement met with resounding laughter, but Volney McMillan was slowly turning red with frustration. “I’m only saying that if you look at how limited they are without magic, and look at what they can do in spite of it-it is impressive!” he proclaimed. “I tell you, the whole Olympics affair is really something to see. The wizarding world should take a page from their book and start our own competition-”
“You sound like that Muggle-loving Dumbledore,” teased Mrs. Harkiss.
Volney McMillan puffed up his chest, losing the last bit of his temper. “How dare you compare me to him-”
“There’s no reason for this to turn ugly,” broke in Lucretia, taking another puff of her cigar. “I mean, I can talk politics with the best of you gentlemen-and yes, Mr. McMillan, it all boils down to politics-but this is a party, is it not? In respect for our gracious host, let us all veer away to the dance floor, yes?”
“Precisely, my girl!” Arcturus Black laughed again, this time clapping his heavy hand on his son-in-law’s back. “Ignatius, take my daughter for a turn on the dance-floor, will you, son? Mrs. Harkiss, I’m sure our spouses wouldn’t mind if we had a dance together.” He turned a skeptical eye to Volney. “Dear nephew, perhaps you’d best compose yourself.”
The crowd dispersed to the dance-floor, leaving a seething and bewildered Volney McMillan alone with Dorea. Taking pity on the poor man, she gave him the opportunity of finishing his conversation. “So, Mr. McMillan, you must tell me what you had in mind for the wizarding world to take away from these Olympics.”
Looking grateful, though still quite embarrassed, he continued. “I just believe that the idea itself is exceptional. The best wizards and witches in the world competing in more than just Quidditch-”
He never got the opportunity to finish detailing his grand design, for at that moment Charis Crouch approached them, sending him into another grand bow. Dorea gladly extended her hand to her dearest friend, grateful for an ally and trying to silently tell Charis what a relief it was to have her at her side again.
“Mrs. Crouch, a pleasure.” Volney McMillan made a great show of straightening his robes in a most regal manner, as if still trying to shake off his discomfiture. His eyes cast about the room fretfully, clearly looking for something to say to Charis. “I must say, I’m surprised that the other Arcturus Black is not present. Where is your father this evening, Mrs. Crouch?”
Charis bowed her head, a grim look momentarily passing over her face in stark contrast to her usual mischievous grin. Dorea squeezed her cousin’s hand in sympathy, knowing this was another difficult subject of which they rarely spoke. Charis quickly remembered herself and cleared her throat. “Regrettably, my father is too ill to attend tonight. He does send his warmest regards.”
“Oh.” Volney stared resolutely at his shoes, and it seemed even he knew there was no hope in repairing such a social blunder. After a mildly awkward pause, he raised his head, looking apologetic. “Ladies, I must beg your leave, but it has been lovely speaking with you this evening.” With a final bow, he departed in the direction of the drawing room.
“What a pleasant young fellow,” Charis chirped. “Such gifts of language and decorum! And what tact! Truly, you must invite him round more often.”
“I shall not speak ill of my guests,” Dorea said with a sly smile, glad to see Charis in her natural state of sarcasm and impishness. Though, to be honest, there was no way Volney McMillan could have known that Charis’s father was one setback away from his deathbed. Regardless, her sympathies always went with Charis.
“Oh, Dorea, you are too good. I shall simply speak ill of them for you,” laughed Charis. “For example, did you manage to see what Mrs. Cornelia Yaxley decided to wear for the occasion? She has on so many feathers that she looks like an old riled hen.”
Dorea shook her head, repeating, “I shall not speak ill of my guests.”
They continued on in this vein until Charis suddenly gripped Dorea’s arm and spun her towards the doorway. “Oh ho, Saint Dorea, I believe I see a test to your goodly resolve approaching,” Charis whispered gleefully. “By Merlin, here comes our lovely cousin Lycoris. Aren’t we all pleased to see her?”
Stifling a groan, Dorea braced herself as her least favorite cousin approached.
A tall, scowling woman, perpetually dressed in dowdy robes, Lycoris Black had always been an old maid. She belonged to a certain set of ladies from wealthy homes, which, with other siblings to carry on the family name and produce heirs, were taught by their parents to believe that no man would ever be good enough for them. The desired result of this upbringing was that the woman would never marry, serve to take care of her parents in their old age, and manage the family property. After her father’s death in 1952, Lycoris found herself in possession of a great deal of money and little else with which to occupy her time. Public opinion held that Lycoris spent her days indulging in her favorite hobby of finding fault with everything and everyone who came into her path.
“I hope you have the appropriate amount of doilies on display,” Charis whispered with a roll of her eyes.
“One strategically placed in every room,” Dorea whispered back.
Charis snickered. “You think of everything.”
With a glare that would intimidate even the most formidable beast, Lycoris Black walked with a purpose as she approached Charis and Dorea. “I suppose I must thank you for the invitation,” Lycoris said by way of an introduction. “Otherwise I might find myself snubbed at your next event. Honestly, Dorea, does family mean so little to you now? Just because you married a Potter doesn’t make you any less of a Black!”
Eyes wide in confusion, Dorea did her best to smile in the face of her guest’s scowl. “Whatever do you mean, Cousin Lycoris?” she asked timidly.
Lycoris huffed in frustration. “You see fit to invite half the wizarding world to your ball, yet you have hatefully denied your own brother the invitation. Have we come so far that you would leave Pollux and his descendants to languish? I thought better of you, Dorea, and apparently I was mistaken.”
“Oh,” Dorea sighed. Unwilling to cast her brother in an unflattering light, she chose her next words very carefully. “I am sorry that you are deprived of Pollux this evening. In the future, I do hope that he might be able to attend my parties. However, is there anything I can do to relieve your distress tonight?”
Lycoris narrowed her eyes. “You are quite the gracious host, but I fear that pretty words will not mask your true nature now that I have been made aware of it. Dorea Black, you are-”
At this point, Charis had obviously had enough of Lycoris abusing Dorea, because she interrupted with a hard edge in her voice. “Don’t make yourself ridiculous, you old bat. Of course Dorea invited her brother-and Walburga, and Alphard, and Cygnus-but they all stoutly refused. She never even heard back from Cygnus! Any fool can see that Pollux is the one still clinging to resentment, not Dorea. If you say otherwise, Lycoris Black, you are either willfully stupid or malicious!”
Dorea paled, horrified at the insults Charis had thrown at Lycoris.
“Oh-oh, is that so?” sputtered Lycoris, puffing herself up to her full stature, preparing to return Charis’s sentiments tenfold. “I’ll have you know-”
“Peace, ladies!” Dorea beseeched stepping between her cousins. “I beg you, do not cause a scene. Surely we need not upset ourselves over something so trivial?”
At this reprimand, Charis immediately backed down, but Lycoris, full of wounded pride was far too agitated to recoil so easily. With a heady intake of air, Lycoris began to continue her campaign, but at that moment another person entered into the fray, quite unknowing of what he was interrupting.
“Ah, Mrs. Potter,” said an unimposing little man with a squat round face. “I’m not sure if you remember me by face-we only met the once,” he explained in a rush, extending his hand to Dorea while Charis and Lycoris continued to bicker. “I am John T. Carrick, leader of the Society for the Support of Squibs, and I am so pleased by your kind invitation tonight. Your donations are most appreciated.”
“It was the least I could do, Mr. Carrick. The plight of Squibs has always been close to my heart. I find your organization highly honorable and necessary,” Dorea replied with heartfelt enthusiasm. “I look forward to assisting in any way-”
“And furthermore-” Lycoris had now reached a full-blown bellow. “Your behavior at the Saint Mungo’s Gala was absolutely deplorable!”
Mr. Carrick, along with half the ballroom, turned towards Lycoris with wide eyes, and Dorea flushed with embarrassment. Seeing no other recourse, she decided to make introductions and hope that would sufficiently cool down hot tempers.
“Allow me to introduce my cousins,” Dorea said, struggling not to cringe. “This is my cousin, Mrs. Charis Crouch. Charis, this is Mr. Carrick with Triple S.” She paused while both parties made the appropriate bows and platitudes, before turning to the still-seething Lycoris. “And, of course, this is my other cousin, Miss Lycoris Black.”
An expression of awe seeped over the round face of Mr. Carrick. “The Miss Lycoris Black?” he asked quietly, holding out a wavering hand. “I am so honored to meet you, Miss. I would like to express my most sincere-”
With another withering look, Lycoris gathered herself to her full height. “You all must excuse me,” she spat, before storming off in the opposite direction. After watching in shock for a moment, Mr. Carrick also made his excuses and went chasing after Lycoris. Charis shook her head, but Dorea remained mystified.
“No doubt he’s after all that money Uncle Sirius left to her-and I respect him for trying,” Charis provided with a shrug. “She’ll never donate a sickle, of course, not if it has anything to do with Squibs. Hateful woman.”
“Charis,” Dorea whispered, reprimand in her tone. “There’s no need to insult Lycoris so. I am completely mortified.”
“Did you expect me to sit there and let her say such terrible things about you?” Charis argued. “You weren’t going to speak up for yourself, so someone had to! You’re too kind to take that sort of mistreatment. I had to protect you.”
While Dorea was still upset, her anger cooled in a rush of affection. “It doesn’t matter how old we all get. I am perpetually the little one of the family,” Dorea sighed.
“That’s right.” Charis nodded. “Never forget that I am a smidge older than you, Dorea Black, and therefore I have the authority that comes with age and maturity!” she teased. “Besides, you possess such a sweet demeanor that people can’t help but protect and defend you. Little do they know of the storm constantly brewing inside your head-the vixen inside just waiting to jump out and shock us all!”
“Hmm,” Dorea mused. “I wish your inner vixen weren’t always so vocal.”
Charis laughed, and with promises that they would both make up with Lycoris before the end of the evening, all was forgiven. After observing the dancers for a moment, Dorea and Charis watched in amusement as little Persephone Fudge, barely nineteen, timidly made her way through the crowd and curtsied before them. She wore pale peach robes, which, in conjunction with her fair complexion, made her seem frail and ill. She smiled sheepishly and mumbled something inaudible, her face turning whiter by the moment. After an awkward hesitation, she let out a sound that resembled a meep and fled to the other side of the room.
“I wonder what that was about?” Charis laughed. “Pixies got her tongue?”
“Oh, don’t be cruel to her,” Dorea pleaded. “She’s shy.”
Charis seemed to take this as a challenge. “There’s no reason to be shy in this day and age-after all, it’s just us. We’re not so terrible, are we?”
“Yes, established older women, Blacks to boot, hosting this enormous party, with contacts in every corner of the wizarding world.” Dorea rolled her eyes. “Can you really blame her? She’s nervous. It’s perfectly natural,” she explained. “It’s quite embarrassing and painful to be that shy around people. Have pity, Charis.”
“Ha!” Charis tossed her head. “Only fools are shy!”
“I’m shy,” Dorea responded quietly.
“Well,” Charis considered the matter. “You’re the exception. And besides, I shan’t be vicious to her. She shall be… my project for the evening.”
“One of many, I’m sure,” Dorea pointed out. “Please be kind.”
“I always am, aren’t I?” Charis snickered, with a wicked glimmer in her eye.
Dorea, knowing that look all too well, followed her dear cousin as she sought out little Persephone, hoping to ease the youth’s embarrassment. They found her next to the platform where the wood-nymphs were performing.
“Why, my dear Miss Fudge,” Dorea began kindly. “I was just remarking to Mrs. Crouch what a lovely set of robes you’ve chosen. I’m so happy you could attend my little get-together.”
“Th-thank you, Mrs. Potter,” Persephone stammered with another self-conscious curtsey. “A compliment from you means the world-”
“All right, now that Dorea has made nice,” Charis interjected loudly, “What is the meaning of that little display back there?”
Dorea felt the urge to slap the back of her cousin’s head. So much for niceties.
“I-I-I only-well, I-” little Persephone stuttered, looking lost.
With a surge of pity, Dorea tried to smooth the situation. “Mrs. Crouch, you must make allowances for Miss Fudge’s retiring nature. I’m sure she meant nothing but the greatest of respect for us. I appreciate how difficult it can be to speak with new acquaintances. It’s all perfectly understandable.”
“Why, that’s no way to go through life!” Charis laughed, taking Persephone by the arm. “You can’t always be afraid to make contacts. You must speak up for what you want in the world-no one else will do it for you. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that before? Is this your first social event?”
“No, I suppose-well-I mean-” the girl stammered.
Charis wrinkled her nose. “Now, do you expect me to believe that you walked all the way across the room to mumble at us? I should hope not.”
Poor little Persephone looked miserable as she stammered helplessly. “I m-merely-I only wanted to-to meet you. I’d heard about-one hears such fascinating-I just wanted to say that I had met you.”
At this, Charis looked like a cat that had swallowed the canary. “And what, what exactly, have you heard, Miss Fudge?” she laughed. “Come now, you are in good company, child. Tell me what has sent you tripping into my path.”
Persephone leaned forward, clearly bracing herself under Charis’s piercing gaze. “Is-is it true, Mrs. Crouch, that you once ran n-naked through the halls of Slytherin to fetch your sponge-bag?” whispered the girl, wide eyed and terrified.
Dorea blushed on behalf of her cousin, but Charis grinned wildly. “Oh, my dear! That’s the tame version,” she boasted, launching into a greatly exaggerated account of how she came to be without clothes in the halls of Slytherin during their sixth year.
“You ladies must excuse me,” Dorea interrupted. “I must see to my other guests.” Having been there during the actual event, Dorea had no desire to listen to its retelling, though the story Charis often delighted to tell was hardly as funny when it actually happened. She remembered her dear cousin weeping for days afterwards in humiliation, but she didn’t begrudge Charis for her retrospective amusement.
“Fine,” Charis said with a smirk. “Go and be responsible, if you must. Miss Fudge and I can entertain ourselves without supervision.”
Dorea raised her eyebrows at her cousin, a final warning to be nice, and then left Charis to her diversions. Alone again, Dorea resumed her quest as hostess to speak with every single person at the party personally. She managed to duck and weave around those guests with which she’d already spoken as she traversed the edges of the ball room, catching snatches of their conversations as she passed.
“Of course, you must admit that this Voldemort fellow has a point,” Quintus Yaxley remarked, accidentally sloshing his drink. “I find myself picking up the Prophet these days just to read his editorials. Clever chap.”
“Whoever he is, he must be some kind of upstart. Why else would he use a pseudonym?” Callidora Longbottom shook her head. “I make it a point not to give credence to anyone without knowing their family. It’s a matter of personal safety, if nothing else.”
Having already greeted both Callidora and Mr. Yaxley earlier in the evening, and hardly interested in the virtues of rhetoric, Dorea sidestepped the group discussing the merits of this Voldemort’s editorials. When her way forward became blocked by a group of gossiping Gamp sisters, and her way backwards was impeded by elderly Mrs. Eugenia Clagg and her chair which was charmed to follow her in case she needed it, Dorea had to make a less-than-dignified side excursion through a large potted garden to her left. She emerged to overhear a conversation she was definitely not supposed to hear.
“Well, of course, the Potter family once had a great estate themselves-not as fine as this one, of course, but few could ever hold a candle to the Blacks,” whispered Perpetua Fancourt her companion, Aimee Burke.
“So he sold the Potter estate once he married little Dorea?” asked Aimee.
“Oh, heavens, no. He sold it long before they ever met-after his father and elder brother were killed back on the continent, early in the war. They say he was just heart-broken, and couldn’t bear to stay in that house. Of course, by the time it was all over, he’d lost most of his family.” Perpetua Fancourt shrugged her shoulders, a gesture that hardly spoke of high sympathy. “Tragic thing, really.”
“Senseless,” agreed Aimee Burke with a sharp nod. “I never understood why the Potters had to get themselves so mixed up in that affair with Grindelwald. Honestly, it was none of their concern.”
“Indeed. They paid for it with many lives. Gryffindors, the lot of them.”
“If I may be frank,” continued Aimee Burke, leaning in conspiratorially. “I never understood why little Dorea ever married Charlus Potter in the first place. He’s far too old for her! I’m surprised they’ve lasted this long.”
“In my opinion, Dorea married him because she was scared to marry any one else,” Perpetua Fancourt said with a knowing grin. “His age was an asset to her. Dorea was always a timid thing-I think the idea of marriage just terrified her. Potter was the safe option-no fire, if you catch my drift. I’ve never seen even the tiniest spark of passion between them-and well, their lack of children speaks for itself.”
Still unnoticed by the speakers, Dorea struggled to remain calm as a protective rage flared through her body. How dare they say such things-make such silly and uneducated statements about her marriage and her husband? She nearly screamed at them in a way that would have made Charis’s baser instincts glow with pride. However, before she had a chance to act, a much more dignified option presented itself when she saw her husband chatting with his good friend, Mr. Eustace Dalton, not very far away.
Brushing a bit of plant debris off her robes, Dorea cleared her throat, causing Perpetua and Aimee to jump. “Ladies,” she said with an incline of her head and a polite smile, relishing the twin looks of panic that flashed across their faces when they realized Dorea had heard everything. She sped by them, her head high, making a direct line to her husband. “Mr. Potter, would you care to dance?” she asked in a carrying voice. Barely sparing a glance to catch the sheer dread on the two ladies’ faces, Dorea allowed herself to be swept onto the dance-floor.
“Dancing at your own party, what a novelty!” exclaimed Mr. Potter. “And now that we’re dancing together, it has finally become the perfect party.”
Dorea blushed. “Everyone seems to be having a good time,” she said modestly.
“Yes, but are you having a good time?” Mr. Potter asked, squeezing her waist in emphasis, his kind eyes watching her carefully. “If you’re not enjoying yourself, we can always Apparate over to Diagon Alley and raid Fortescue’s ice cream,” he added in a rousing whisper.
“Mr. Potter, we could hardly leave our own party!” Dorea protested. “Our guests would be-”
“Perfectly fine without us. We’ll let Charis handle it,” Mr. Potter snickered.
“Yes, and find Twin Hollies in shambles when we returned,” Dorea shuddered. “No, we could not possibly leave, my dear. It would be utterly irresponsible.”
Mr. Potter bowed his head, knowing refusal when he heard it. “Well, I still maintain my invitation to find a shadowy corner and indulge in some passionate necking,” he offered with a wag of his eyebrows.
Dorea laughed softly, and leaned her head on her husband’s shoulder, inhaling his comforting scent. He held her closer, and together they waltzed lazily across the floor. She marveled at how perfectly they still fit together. After all this time, after their lives had changed so drastically, after so many hopes had been dashed, she still could not think of another person on earth she would have chosen over her husband. Perhaps they weren’t always happy, perhaps there was no visible spark as Perpetua Fancourt had said, but Dorea could not imagine a more perfect match for her than Charlus Potter.
“Thank you, my dear,” Dorea whispered into Mr. Potter’s ear as the closing chords of the song rang through the ballroom. “You are a marvel.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” he replied, trying to sneak a quick kiss, but Dorea ducked his lips, backing away with a shy smile.
“Don’t be indecent!” she playfully chided.
“Let’s have another dance,” he offered.
She shook her head. “I must honor my duties as hostess, and I must make up with Lycoris as soon as I can.”
“If you insist,” Mr. Potter grumbled, though he reluctantly let go of her hand.
Author: wotcher_wombat
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 17,995
Character/Pairings: Dorea Black Potter, Bellatrix Black, Black Family Tree
Summary: After a number of heartbreaks, Dorea Black Potter hosts an enormous party and all of the Black family is invited. Through the strength of her family and a few surprises, Dorea finds herself more powerful than she ever believed.
Notes: You might want to pull out your Black Family Tree for this fic. I was asked for obscure Blacks, and I delivered most of them. This came out with a little more angst-ridden than I intended in my quest for plot, but I hope I managed to keep it all in balance. Thanks to Lisa for the beta and last-minute-emergency emails!
January 1, 1956
The light almost shone too brightly once she wrenched the dark, heavy drapes from the window, and Dorea Black Potter had to squint in the weak January light. She hadn’t been in some of these rooms for close to twelve years, and there was much to do before they would be presentable. With a flick of her wand, she banished the furniture coverings to the laundry, sending particles of dust dancing across the room. The furniture was exquisite, if a bit old fashioned, but most of it would have to be moved to accommodate the number of guests for the party. Hopefully, they wouldn’t need an expansion charm.
She closed her eyes, trying to picture Twin Hollies teeming with company once more. The image was terrifying, exhilarating, and exhausting. While the task of preparing her home seemed daunting, Dorea didn’t mind the work. It kept her busy. However, the party itself worried her. Could she still possess the ability to slip back into her old life after so much time had passed? She wanted to tell herself that it was like riding a broomstick, that once learned it was never forgotten, but she had her doubts.
Dorea strode to the piano in the corner, lifted the cover from the keys, and struck a C major chord. Yes, that would certainly need tuning. She tried to play a song she vaguely recalled from her childhood tutelage, but after several clumsy attempts, she decided that the piano would remember it much better without her help. As the keys played a stirring, if out of tune, rendition of March of the Hippogriffs, Dorea’s eye was caught by a stack of stray papers peeking out from beneath the lid of the piano bench. Curious, she stood up and retrieved the pages before she realized what they were.
“Oh,” she whispered, grief settling over her features.
She held a dog-eared copy of her own unfinished manuscript of children’s stories, chronicling the adventures and triumphs of the Black family through the centuries. Dorea absentmindedly thumbed through the handwritten pages. Her most recent project for the manuscript, trying to transcribe an ancient song her Aunt Elladora used to sing to her when she was a child, had been utterly forgotten in the wake of heartbreak.
Dorea collapsed back onto the piano bench, her mind reeling.
She had never considered herself among the great heroes of her family. At the age of thirty-six Dorea still resembled a small, timid girl who read more than she spoke, who politely smiled more than she laughed, and who moved with a practiced grace to mask her physical frailties. She never cherished any ambitions to become a great heroine often lauded in children’s stories; her aspirations were much more modest.
Not for the last time, Dorea wondered if hosting this party was a mistake.
January 28, 1956
“Pollux declined his invitation, for obvious reasons, I’m sure,” Charis Crouch said as she helped her cousin with the final preparations for the party. “I’ll bet you my last galleon that Walburga and Cygnus won’t appear tonight either. And, of course, Alphard is conveniently abroad.”
As Dorea Potter charmed the last of the centerpieces, she shook her head. “Have you so little faith in the strength of our family?” she asked in her soft, wispy voice, which would seem perpetually earnest if not for a strategically raised eyebrow.
Charis laughed. “Do you underestimate the strength of your brother’s grudge? He’s never forgiven you for getting Twin Hollies-and you, the youngest of us all, with the grandest estate!”
“Well, I was the only one willing to live with Mother until the end. Pollux tried to oust Mum from her own house-what did he think would happen?” Dorea sighed softly. “Surely he’s not still upset about that matter. It was ages ago! I’d think he’d be pleased now with his Walburga settled nicely at Grimmauld Place. She and Orion seem rather happy together.”
“I doubt it. She’s a spiteful little thing-just like her father.”
Pretending to be scandalized, Dorea gasped. “Charis Black you are full of venom today!” she teased.
“Hardly venom,” Charis remarked with a roll of her eyes. “And besides, it’s your fault. You know parties put me in the mood for gossip. It’s been too long-I’ve kept it all pent up. It’s been years since you hosted a ball!”
Dorea closed her eyes and took a sharp breath. Through great concentration of will, her hands only shook slightly. “I do what I can,” she said in a deflated voice, turning away from Charis.
With an uneasy gulp and a shift in her posture, Charis watched her cousin closely from the corner of her eye. The women might have been close as sisters and shared a dormitory room for seven years, but there were some topics they didn’t dare broach. “Listen, I didn’t mean that the way it-” Charis began.
“I believe we’ve taken care of all the decorations,” Dorea said too-brightly, as if nothing had happened. She bustled across the room, her long blue dress robes trailing behind her. “Perhaps we should try to find our husbands?”
Charis nodded, taking her cue. “If you say so. I’m not sure why we bother-they’re about as useless at a party as a Glumbumble!”
Both cousins laughed, and Charis hugged Dorea in an entirely informal manner, heedless of their elegant setting. Arm in arm they left the dining hall with an unspoken understanding that while family might share in sorrows, they would also share in joy.
Mr. Charlus Potter found his wife in the front hall of their home. “Well dear, the house-elves are in a tizzy, the place looks magnificent, and our darling Mrs. Crouch has already sharpened her fangs for another night of gossip-mongering. All signs point to a smashing good party.”
“Heavens, Mr. Potter, you make it sound as if I plan on devouring someone!” Charis laughed. “I promise I’ll be on my best behavior!”
“Yes, and I know exactly how much that promise is worth,” Mr. Potter teased.
Charis gave an exaggerated gasp and a self-important toss of the head. “If that’s the way you intend to treat me, then I shall just leave! My word is my bond!”
“As if you could stay away,” Mr. Potter mumbled, earning him a playful smack.
Dorea shook her head and stepped between her husband and cousin. “Must I always be the one to prevent your brawls?” she asked.
“Come now, Dorea!” Charis protested. “He started it-”
Mr. Potter guffawed. “Ah, but we all know Mrs. Potter loves me best-your point is invalid, Mrs. Crouch!”
“You two are no better than children!” Dorea interceded, trying her best to ignore her husband and cousin sticking their tongues out at one another. “And you should both know by now that children are not invited,” she concluded, a familiar dull weight pulling at her stomach with those words. “Adult Attendance Only” the invitations read, and Dorea had sent them out with knots in her stomach and a mournful ache in her heart.
“Right, right,” Charis muttered uncomfortably, again studying her cousin for guidance in the proper way to diffuse the situation.
The apprehension in her closest friend’s eyes made Dorea ill. At times the eggshell-treading could be as painful as the unthinking blunders. It made her want to scream and rage in a most unladylike manner. “Why don’t you round up Mr. Crouch before the other guests arrive?” Dorea suggested with a polite smile, and Charis ducked back to the smoking room, looking glad of the direction.
How long before Dorea Black Potter became the strange old witch on the hill who hated all youth and baked children into pie? Every village had one of those; perhaps it was time Dorea accepted her fate. She certainly hadn’t hoped for that label years ago when she and her husband set up the nursery, their heads filled with soft pink and blue thoughts, their eyes bright with possibilities and expectations.
She trembled at the memory, though she tried not to show it. One simply didn’t mention such personal tragedies in polite company-and Dorea held herself strictly to this tenet. All the same, she felt so much smaller than her younger self, the woman who once hosted the grandest, most lavish private parties in wizarding Britain. The evening stretched out before her, and she felt less than ready for the task ahead.
“A knut for your thoughts?” her husband asked once they were entirely alone. He stepped up behind her, running his hands down his wife’s shoulders to her elbows before wrapping his arms around her. His touch was warm, gentle, and insistent, but she could not relax into his embrace.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Dorea replied without the slightest hint of melancholy. “I just hope the evening goes well.” It was almost the entire truth.
“I suppose you’d like me to be on my best behavior, too?” Mr. Potter murmured, his lips close to her ear. “No elbows on the table, no picking fights with your family, no sneaking off to some remote corner of the house for some passionate necking-”
Dorea gasped, shocked even out of her gloom. “Must you be so vulgar?”
“Hey, that’s what those teenagers are calling it these days, you know,” Mr. Potter laughed. “You’ve got to stay with the times!”
“You’re no… whatever they’re calling themselves now. You’re no teenager,” Dorea replied, almost at the point of teasing him back-a rarity.
“Perhaps not,” he conceded. “But I’m young enough in here,” he added, placing his hand directly over Dorea’s heart. “That’s where it matters, isn’t it?”
Dorea smiled, extracting herself from her husband’s arms. “I believe you’re young like a phoenix,” she whispered earnestly. “One day you’ll be younger than me.”
Mr. Potter turned his rouge grin on her. “That’s hardly a compliment, Mrs. Potter. Phoenixes are old, old, old. Besides, if either of is us going to be a Phoenix, it’s you, my dear. You are, by far, the strongest woman I have ever known.”
Dorea stepped back. “Please don’t tease me.”
“I’m not teasing,” he whispered, his blue eyes flashing. “I’m proud of you.”
Dorea nodded and looked away. Charlus Potter had always been a good actor; he looked utterly sincere. Dorea was anything but strong. Had her husband conveniently forgotten her reclusive existence of the past three years? There was no strength in that, she knew, and it was only through her husband’s tender, consistent prodding that she agreed to take on the challenge of hosting this party tonight. Her great comeback. She felt flimsy as a sheet of wet paper.
“The guests should be here in just a moment,” she said quietly, folding her hands together, her nerves again becoming problematic. “I think everything is prepared. I hope we haven’t overlooked something vital.”
“I’m sure it will all be splendid, darling,” Mr. Potter repeated for the seventy fifth time that evening. “Remember, these are our friends and family-people who love you. They’re coming for you, not for your champagne fountain or the singing wood-nymphs.”
Dorea nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course.” Her family was the only reason she agreed to this in the first place, and the idea of seeing so many of her loved ones together kept her planning and organizing even when her anxiety threatened to overwhelm her. “You’re entirely right, and I’m so pleased that so many agreed to come tonight,” she said, needlessly smoothing her hair. “I know I’m being silly. It’s just… difficult to start again after so much time.”
“I know it is,” Mr. Potter said kindly, winking at her. “You’ll be fantastic.”
Dorea squared her shoulders, garbing herself in formality like battle armor. “Thank you, Mr. Potter. We’d best get ourselves into position to greet our guests. I’ll wait by the front door for the Apparating guests and the Portkeys. If you could-”
“Yes, yes, the Floo. I’m on my way.” He kissed her (perhaps a bit too passionately for the occasion in Dorea’s opinion), and disappeared around the corner, leaving Dorea blushing slightly in his wake.
She strode to the large front doors of the mansion and opened them with a wave of her wand, letting in the last of the pale winter twilight. The two large holly trees at the end of the front garden were laden with berries and spiky green leaves, and stood in vibrant contrast to the dull January landscape around them. The winter freeze loomed just beyond the front doorway, and though a heating charm kept it from entering the household, Dorea still felt the chill deep in her bones. She widened her stance slightly, and braced herself for the onslaught of guests. The first Portkey would arrive soon, and Twin Hollies would be teeming with people, life, and merriment.
She could handle this, she assured herself, so long as she smiled.
For the next hour or so, Dorea welcomed droves of people into her household as the daylight steadily faded from the sky. The muscles in her face were starting to ache, and she knew she would somehow have to seek out the visitors who had been only welcomed by her husband at the Floo. Finally, when the winter stars were in full array above them, she greeted the last Portkey and made her way further inside where the party was already in full swing.
In many ways, Twin Hollies was an ideal place to host an extravagant party. The estate offered large, expansive rooms for dance, festivity, and merriment. Dancers swept across the center of the vast ballroom where the dulcet, unearthly singing of wood-nymphs kept rhythm to a stately waltz. However for all its enormous rooms, the estate also contained a number of intimate recesses for more private conversations. Guests filled the drawing room with lively conversation, and the smaller, more informal parlors echoed with laughter. Dorea curtseyed and welcomed her guests all in turn, navigating the crowd in the drawing room with considerable skill as everyone greeted her with a kind word.
“Dorea! How wonderful it is to see you! Let me look at you- Oh, you look more and more like your mother every day! Doesn’t she, Richard? Doesn’t she look just like dear Violetta?” exclaimed elderly Mrs. Eugenia Clagg.
“I must say, Mrs. Potter, it is such a rare treasure to meet you,” said Mr. Wilfred Davies with a sweeping bow. “I am honored to be invited to your home.”
“It’s about time, old girl!” crowed Terrence Pennifold. “Here I thought you were becoming a shut-in! Now, which way to the food?”
“You’ve truly outdone yourself, my dear cousin,” praised Callidora Longbottom. “This enchantment is just gorgeous,” she said, gesturing above their heads with a bejeweled hand. Intricate spell-work suspended large chandeliers above every room, and high above that a dizzying array of stars twinkled from the lofty ceilings. When members of the Black family were inside Twin Hollies, the constellations and stars of their namesakes would burn with a brighter intensity. “The stars are brilliant tonight. It’s such a lovely touch.”
“Thank you, Cal,” replied Dorea, blushing modestly. “I am so thankful to have so many family members here this evening.”
“Ah, well, the House of Black never could resist a good invitation, as you well know. We must all keep up the family tradition,” Callidora said, adding with a chuckle, “I do fear for you if let Charis loose this evening, though. That’s one tradition I wish Father hadn’t started-my sisters are entirely too wild!”
“Your sisters?” Dorea gave her cousin an arch look, glancing about to ensure no one else was paying attention to their conversation. One could not speak freely about the truly rebellious Black daughter. “Have you heard from your other sister, then?”
Callidora leaned forward and whispered. “I just got a letter from Cedrella the other day, actually. Fear not, she’s as wicked and wily as ever. Deliriously happy, of course. She just had another boy-Billius Weasley, they’re going to call him-and Arthur just turned five not too long ago-”
Dorea nodded, feeling slightly sick with unwanted jealousy. It seemed the bearing of children was another Black family tradition-even among those no longer counted as Blacks. It seemed highly unfair to Dorea, who had followed the rules all her life, that all her cousins would now have multiple children when she had none. Even Charis-her dearest friend in the world and most beloved of cousins, who always strived to protect Dorea from anguish-even she had young voices beseeching her on the other end of their daily Floo calls. Dorea wanted to feel complete happiness for her loved ones, but she always came away so crushed and empty, grieving anew.
“Dorea? Are you all right?” Callidora asked suddenly.
Dorea blinked, and focused on Callidora once more. “I am terribly sorry, Cal. My mind was wandering-I do beg your pardon. What did you ask?”
Callidora leaned closer still. “I merely asked after your brother, but if you’d rather not...” She trailed off, looking worried, then added in barely a whisper, “Has-has something happened to him?”
“Oh-oh, no, Cal! Marius is fine,” Dorea clarified. “He’s still trying to write that novel of his, staying up all hours of the night with his quill poised above a blank sheet of parchment. He just moved into a new flat, and he hopes his neighbors will be colorful enough to provide some inspiration. He’s perfectly well, I assure you.”
“Good,” sighed Callidora. “For a moment I was frightened! Marius is such a dear soul. I always drop a galleon or two in the Society for the Support of Squibs box in Diagon Alley, and I think of him.”
“Yes, Triple S has really helped him through a lot of tight spots,” Dorea said. She glanced around the room guiltily, then whispered to Callidora, “I do, however, have a confession on that count. Since Marius could not attend tonight, I have invited in his stead the president of Triple S, a Mr. John T. Carrick. Even if the family would like to ignore my brother, they shall not ignore the issue. I-well, I suppose that’s my own small act of rebellion.”
Callidora gave her an appraising eye. “That’s hardly a move I’d expect from you, Dorea. But I’ve no doubt your heart is in the right place. Please relay to Marius that I hope the words come swiftly and easily-whenever he does decide to sit down and write the novel.”
With a deliberate shake of her head, Callidora stepped back and quickly sought to change the subject. Dorea supposed she couldn’t blame her for her discomfort. It was one thing to slip a few galleons anonymously into a box, it was quite another to openly invite the president of such an organization to one’s home. For her cousin’s ease Dorea let the issue drop without protest, though she made note of how far Callidora’s support truly extended.
“Speaking of which, how is your book coming along?” Callidora continued. “I’ve always thought it was a tremendous idea, compiling all the Black family legends into a book of children’s stories. It must be quite lengthy by now.”
Again, Dorea felt her stomach take a sour turn. “I’m afraid I haven’t touched that manuscript in years,” she said slowly, her mouth growing dry. “It’s been left by the wayside, and I doubt I shall ever feel the inclination to pick it up again.”
“Oh, there’s a pity,” Callidora lamented. “Hopefully, you’ll be struck by sudden inspiration in the near future. It seemed such a worthy project; I’d hate for you to give up half-way through.”
Dorea couldn’t find the words to tell her cousin that any hopes for finishing a book of children’s stories had fled after her fourth failed attempt to produce a child with which to share it. She stared mutely at Callidora, unable to articulate how very painful the whole ordeal had become. How could she begin to fit words to the experience?
Over three years ago she had talked and planned and schemed about the stories to put in this book, sharing amusing anecdotes she planned to include to an amiable crowd at her last great party. Dorea’s laugh had held a certain joyous resonance, buoyed as she was by the secret promise of life carried within her body. This pregnancy had lasted longer than any of the others-they had even told Charis about it-and every stolen glance at her husband seemed like reassurance that this time it would work out. Every day felt like a celebration, and she had never dared carried such hope in her heart as she had at that last party. Gleefully she had collected stories she and her family remembered hearing from their childhoods, with the expectation that she would tell them to her own dear, precious, miraculous child.
The next day it was all gone.
No, personal tragedies like these could not be mentioned. Even dear Charis had to surmise and draw her own conclusions. No one really knew the worst of it. As much as she loved her family, this was a burden Dorea would have to bear alone and in silence. Not for the last time, Dorea felt the nearly-irresistible urge to run back to her bedroom and hide until the party was over.
Fortunately, she was spared from having to think up an appropriate response to Callidora when Harfang Longbottom swept up and requested the presence of his wife for the Pixie Polka. Dorea graciously bade them a temporary farewell and followed to the ballroom in order to observe the vigorous dance for a moment. As the dancers hopped to and fro, Dorea made an attempt to rally her good spirits.
“Cousin Dorea!” boomed the unmistakable voice of Arcturus Black, and she spun around to find herself in a warm, if crushing, embrace.
Arcturus Black stood out in any crowd; a head and shoulder above everyone else, his broad red face bore a weathered look, and he took great pride in being physically fit and active. His black hair and full mustache were only starting to take on streaks of gray, and he looked in every way the part of a distinguished, if wealthy, outdoorsman. He and his daughter, Lucretia (who was more like her father than her petite frame would lead people to believe), looked almost out of place without their large hunting trophies in hand.
“It’s so good to see you,” Dorea gasped, hoping her cousin would loosen his grip. She feebly pushed herself backwards, and Arcturus released her with a beaming smile. “How was your trip to Africa?” she asked, straightening her robes.
“Marvelous!” declared Arcturus. “Absolutely marvelous. Bagged myself an Erumpent-even managed to capture a wild Fwooper. Lucretia and I simply thrive on expedition, don’t we, dear?”
Lucretia Prewett appeared at her father’s right side, cigar in hand and dragging her lanky and timid husband, Ignatius Prewett, along with her. “Oh yes,” she agreed. “I wouldn’t have missed this trip for the world-such marvelous sport! Even if my husband hid himself inside the tent the entire time, we all had a most exquisite adventure.”
“I wasn’t in the tent the entire time,” Ignatius piped up. “Don’t forget about the incident with the distressing damselfly.”
Arcturus exploded in laughter, and his daughter and son-in-law joined him in their private joke. The three continued to share half-told anecdotes and in-jokes about their holiday, laughing merrily all the while. Dorea smiled good-naturedly, not understanding half their meaning, though in many cases she dared not ask for clarification.
After he’d had his fill of reminiscing, Arcturus wiped a tear of mirth from his eye, and turned his attention to his cousin once more. “You really should have come, Dorea. It would have done wonders for your health, put some color in you.” He again laid his heavy hand on Dorea’s shoulder, and added more gently, “I’m glad to see you’re up and about again, though. The party is magnificent.”
Dorea blushed, but was spared having to make a reply when a young man with sandy hair and a large, red nose began to hail their group from across the room.
“Ah, yes, you remember my nephew, Mr. Volney McMillan,” Arcturus explained under his breath as the youth drew closer. “No doubt he wants to confer with us Blacks all evening, but perhaps he has some great diversion to entertain us all. One must humor my wife’s side, of course.”
“Ah, familial duties,” Lucretia laughed.
“Uncle Arcturus,” said Volney McMillan once he approached their group, with a few other guests at his heels. He bowed, and gave a delighted smile. “It’s so wonderful to see you again, and at such a spectacular occasion!”
“The pleasure is mine,” Arcturus said formally. “However, credit for the occasion falls on our beloved hostess,” he added with a gesture to Dorea.
After the appropriate amount of compliments and flattery to his hostess, Volney McMillan turned his attentions to Arcturus once more. “I did have a query for you, Uncle, since you’re such a great champion of sport and athletic exertion. What do you think about this whole Muggle affair in Italy? Started a few days ago-Olympics, I believe they’re calling them.”
“Another one?” broke in Mrs. Camilla Harkiss, a plump little woman draped in furs, whose husband currently owned half of Diagon Alley. “Didn’t they just have those the other summer? Back in Helsinki, remember? It ruined my whole holiday, all those Muggles crawling around like they owned the world. Isn’t once enough?”
“Well, we all know how Muggles like repetition,” joked Arcturus, his laughter rumbling like distant cannon fire. “It’s part of their make-up.”
Clearly, this is not where Volney McMillan had intended the conversation to lead. “Don’t you think that’s highly unfair? Have you ever paid attention to the games?” he asked. “They’ve been held for ages, and the Muggles are really quite talented.”
“Oh no, here he goes bragging on the Muggles!” laughed Mrs. Harkiss.
Volney McMillan raised his chin defensively. “Yes, they’re Muggles-that’s hardly my point. I think it’s a marvelous idea, no matter who they are,” he argued. “The best athletes in the world competing against one another in the-”
“Oh honestly,” Lucretia interrupted, looking over her shoulder as her husband lit her next cigar. “You can hardly call them the best athletes when Randall Umfraville isn’t counted among them! Best Keeper the Falcons ever had, if you ask me.”
“Certainly!” boomed Arcturus, clapping a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “Best player in the league! Best Keeper we’re like to see in this century! Wouldn’t you agree, Cousin Dorea?”
All eyes turned to her, and Dorea did her best not to shift uncomfortably. This was hardly her area of expertise, and certainly not anything that interested her. “I’m afraid I don’t follow any of the sporting events,” she said apologetically. “However, if Arcturus deems this Keeper the best in the league, then it must be so.”
Arcturus beamed at her, and everyone smiled in agreement.
“Here here!” piped in Ignatius Prewett, perhaps a little too late and too timidly as none in the group paid him any mind.
Volney McMillan was still determined to make his point. “They can hardly hold a Quidditch competition in the middle of the Muggle games,” he protested. “The Muggles have to perform their own-”
“You mean to tell me that because a group of Muggles gather in Italy to strap bits of wood to their feet and slide down mountains, I should be impressed?” Arcturus laughed. “I’m far more impressed with my post owl-should I throw a festival in its honor, too?”
This statement met with resounding laughter, but Volney McMillan was slowly turning red with frustration. “I’m only saying that if you look at how limited they are without magic, and look at what they can do in spite of it-it is impressive!” he proclaimed. “I tell you, the whole Olympics affair is really something to see. The wizarding world should take a page from their book and start our own competition-”
“You sound like that Muggle-loving Dumbledore,” teased Mrs. Harkiss.
Volney McMillan puffed up his chest, losing the last bit of his temper. “How dare you compare me to him-”
“There’s no reason for this to turn ugly,” broke in Lucretia, taking another puff of her cigar. “I mean, I can talk politics with the best of you gentlemen-and yes, Mr. McMillan, it all boils down to politics-but this is a party, is it not? In respect for our gracious host, let us all veer away to the dance floor, yes?”
“Precisely, my girl!” Arcturus Black laughed again, this time clapping his heavy hand on his son-in-law’s back. “Ignatius, take my daughter for a turn on the dance-floor, will you, son? Mrs. Harkiss, I’m sure our spouses wouldn’t mind if we had a dance together.” He turned a skeptical eye to Volney. “Dear nephew, perhaps you’d best compose yourself.”
The crowd dispersed to the dance-floor, leaving a seething and bewildered Volney McMillan alone with Dorea. Taking pity on the poor man, she gave him the opportunity of finishing his conversation. “So, Mr. McMillan, you must tell me what you had in mind for the wizarding world to take away from these Olympics.”
Looking grateful, though still quite embarrassed, he continued. “I just believe that the idea itself is exceptional. The best wizards and witches in the world competing in more than just Quidditch-”
He never got the opportunity to finish detailing his grand design, for at that moment Charis Crouch approached them, sending him into another grand bow. Dorea gladly extended her hand to her dearest friend, grateful for an ally and trying to silently tell Charis what a relief it was to have her at her side again.
“Mrs. Crouch, a pleasure.” Volney McMillan made a great show of straightening his robes in a most regal manner, as if still trying to shake off his discomfiture. His eyes cast about the room fretfully, clearly looking for something to say to Charis. “I must say, I’m surprised that the other Arcturus Black is not present. Where is your father this evening, Mrs. Crouch?”
Charis bowed her head, a grim look momentarily passing over her face in stark contrast to her usual mischievous grin. Dorea squeezed her cousin’s hand in sympathy, knowing this was another difficult subject of which they rarely spoke. Charis quickly remembered herself and cleared her throat. “Regrettably, my father is too ill to attend tonight. He does send his warmest regards.”
“Oh.” Volney stared resolutely at his shoes, and it seemed even he knew there was no hope in repairing such a social blunder. After a mildly awkward pause, he raised his head, looking apologetic. “Ladies, I must beg your leave, but it has been lovely speaking with you this evening.” With a final bow, he departed in the direction of the drawing room.
“What a pleasant young fellow,” Charis chirped. “Such gifts of language and decorum! And what tact! Truly, you must invite him round more often.”
“I shall not speak ill of my guests,” Dorea said with a sly smile, glad to see Charis in her natural state of sarcasm and impishness. Though, to be honest, there was no way Volney McMillan could have known that Charis’s father was one setback away from his deathbed. Regardless, her sympathies always went with Charis.
“Oh, Dorea, you are too good. I shall simply speak ill of them for you,” laughed Charis. “For example, did you manage to see what Mrs. Cornelia Yaxley decided to wear for the occasion? She has on so many feathers that she looks like an old riled hen.”
Dorea shook her head, repeating, “I shall not speak ill of my guests.”
They continued on in this vein until Charis suddenly gripped Dorea’s arm and spun her towards the doorway. “Oh ho, Saint Dorea, I believe I see a test to your goodly resolve approaching,” Charis whispered gleefully. “By Merlin, here comes our lovely cousin Lycoris. Aren’t we all pleased to see her?”
Stifling a groan, Dorea braced herself as her least favorite cousin approached.
A tall, scowling woman, perpetually dressed in dowdy robes, Lycoris Black had always been an old maid. She belonged to a certain set of ladies from wealthy homes, which, with other siblings to carry on the family name and produce heirs, were taught by their parents to believe that no man would ever be good enough for them. The desired result of this upbringing was that the woman would never marry, serve to take care of her parents in their old age, and manage the family property. After her father’s death in 1952, Lycoris found herself in possession of a great deal of money and little else with which to occupy her time. Public opinion held that Lycoris spent her days indulging in her favorite hobby of finding fault with everything and everyone who came into her path.
“I hope you have the appropriate amount of doilies on display,” Charis whispered with a roll of her eyes.
“One strategically placed in every room,” Dorea whispered back.
Charis snickered. “You think of everything.”
With a glare that would intimidate even the most formidable beast, Lycoris Black walked with a purpose as she approached Charis and Dorea. “I suppose I must thank you for the invitation,” Lycoris said by way of an introduction. “Otherwise I might find myself snubbed at your next event. Honestly, Dorea, does family mean so little to you now? Just because you married a Potter doesn’t make you any less of a Black!”
Eyes wide in confusion, Dorea did her best to smile in the face of her guest’s scowl. “Whatever do you mean, Cousin Lycoris?” she asked timidly.
Lycoris huffed in frustration. “You see fit to invite half the wizarding world to your ball, yet you have hatefully denied your own brother the invitation. Have we come so far that you would leave Pollux and his descendants to languish? I thought better of you, Dorea, and apparently I was mistaken.”
“Oh,” Dorea sighed. Unwilling to cast her brother in an unflattering light, she chose her next words very carefully. “I am sorry that you are deprived of Pollux this evening. In the future, I do hope that he might be able to attend my parties. However, is there anything I can do to relieve your distress tonight?”
Lycoris narrowed her eyes. “You are quite the gracious host, but I fear that pretty words will not mask your true nature now that I have been made aware of it. Dorea Black, you are-”
At this point, Charis had obviously had enough of Lycoris abusing Dorea, because she interrupted with a hard edge in her voice. “Don’t make yourself ridiculous, you old bat. Of course Dorea invited her brother-and Walburga, and Alphard, and Cygnus-but they all stoutly refused. She never even heard back from Cygnus! Any fool can see that Pollux is the one still clinging to resentment, not Dorea. If you say otherwise, Lycoris Black, you are either willfully stupid or malicious!”
Dorea paled, horrified at the insults Charis had thrown at Lycoris.
“Oh-oh, is that so?” sputtered Lycoris, puffing herself up to her full stature, preparing to return Charis’s sentiments tenfold. “I’ll have you know-”
“Peace, ladies!” Dorea beseeched stepping between her cousins. “I beg you, do not cause a scene. Surely we need not upset ourselves over something so trivial?”
At this reprimand, Charis immediately backed down, but Lycoris, full of wounded pride was far too agitated to recoil so easily. With a heady intake of air, Lycoris began to continue her campaign, but at that moment another person entered into the fray, quite unknowing of what he was interrupting.
“Ah, Mrs. Potter,” said an unimposing little man with a squat round face. “I’m not sure if you remember me by face-we only met the once,” he explained in a rush, extending his hand to Dorea while Charis and Lycoris continued to bicker. “I am John T. Carrick, leader of the Society for the Support of Squibs, and I am so pleased by your kind invitation tonight. Your donations are most appreciated.”
“It was the least I could do, Mr. Carrick. The plight of Squibs has always been close to my heart. I find your organization highly honorable and necessary,” Dorea replied with heartfelt enthusiasm. “I look forward to assisting in any way-”
“And furthermore-” Lycoris had now reached a full-blown bellow. “Your behavior at the Saint Mungo’s Gala was absolutely deplorable!”
Mr. Carrick, along with half the ballroom, turned towards Lycoris with wide eyes, and Dorea flushed with embarrassment. Seeing no other recourse, she decided to make introductions and hope that would sufficiently cool down hot tempers.
“Allow me to introduce my cousins,” Dorea said, struggling not to cringe. “This is my cousin, Mrs. Charis Crouch. Charis, this is Mr. Carrick with Triple S.” She paused while both parties made the appropriate bows and platitudes, before turning to the still-seething Lycoris. “And, of course, this is my other cousin, Miss Lycoris Black.”
An expression of awe seeped over the round face of Mr. Carrick. “The Miss Lycoris Black?” he asked quietly, holding out a wavering hand. “I am so honored to meet you, Miss. I would like to express my most sincere-”
With another withering look, Lycoris gathered herself to her full height. “You all must excuse me,” she spat, before storming off in the opposite direction. After watching in shock for a moment, Mr. Carrick also made his excuses and went chasing after Lycoris. Charis shook her head, but Dorea remained mystified.
“No doubt he’s after all that money Uncle Sirius left to her-and I respect him for trying,” Charis provided with a shrug. “She’ll never donate a sickle, of course, not if it has anything to do with Squibs. Hateful woman.”
“Charis,” Dorea whispered, reprimand in her tone. “There’s no need to insult Lycoris so. I am completely mortified.”
“Did you expect me to sit there and let her say such terrible things about you?” Charis argued. “You weren’t going to speak up for yourself, so someone had to! You’re too kind to take that sort of mistreatment. I had to protect you.”
While Dorea was still upset, her anger cooled in a rush of affection. “It doesn’t matter how old we all get. I am perpetually the little one of the family,” Dorea sighed.
“That’s right.” Charis nodded. “Never forget that I am a smidge older than you, Dorea Black, and therefore I have the authority that comes with age and maturity!” she teased. “Besides, you possess such a sweet demeanor that people can’t help but protect and defend you. Little do they know of the storm constantly brewing inside your head-the vixen inside just waiting to jump out and shock us all!”
“Hmm,” Dorea mused. “I wish your inner vixen weren’t always so vocal.”
Charis laughed, and with promises that they would both make up with Lycoris before the end of the evening, all was forgiven. After observing the dancers for a moment, Dorea and Charis watched in amusement as little Persephone Fudge, barely nineteen, timidly made her way through the crowd and curtsied before them. She wore pale peach robes, which, in conjunction with her fair complexion, made her seem frail and ill. She smiled sheepishly and mumbled something inaudible, her face turning whiter by the moment. After an awkward hesitation, she let out a sound that resembled a meep and fled to the other side of the room.
“I wonder what that was about?” Charis laughed. “Pixies got her tongue?”
“Oh, don’t be cruel to her,” Dorea pleaded. “She’s shy.”
Charis seemed to take this as a challenge. “There’s no reason to be shy in this day and age-after all, it’s just us. We’re not so terrible, are we?”
“Yes, established older women, Blacks to boot, hosting this enormous party, with contacts in every corner of the wizarding world.” Dorea rolled her eyes. “Can you really blame her? She’s nervous. It’s perfectly natural,” she explained. “It’s quite embarrassing and painful to be that shy around people. Have pity, Charis.”
“Ha!” Charis tossed her head. “Only fools are shy!”
“I’m shy,” Dorea responded quietly.
“Well,” Charis considered the matter. “You’re the exception. And besides, I shan’t be vicious to her. She shall be… my project for the evening.”
“One of many, I’m sure,” Dorea pointed out. “Please be kind.”
“I always am, aren’t I?” Charis snickered, with a wicked glimmer in her eye.
Dorea, knowing that look all too well, followed her dear cousin as she sought out little Persephone, hoping to ease the youth’s embarrassment. They found her next to the platform where the wood-nymphs were performing.
“Why, my dear Miss Fudge,” Dorea began kindly. “I was just remarking to Mrs. Crouch what a lovely set of robes you’ve chosen. I’m so happy you could attend my little get-together.”
“Th-thank you, Mrs. Potter,” Persephone stammered with another self-conscious curtsey. “A compliment from you means the world-”
“All right, now that Dorea has made nice,” Charis interjected loudly, “What is the meaning of that little display back there?”
Dorea felt the urge to slap the back of her cousin’s head. So much for niceties.
“I-I-I only-well, I-” little Persephone stuttered, looking lost.
With a surge of pity, Dorea tried to smooth the situation. “Mrs. Crouch, you must make allowances for Miss Fudge’s retiring nature. I’m sure she meant nothing but the greatest of respect for us. I appreciate how difficult it can be to speak with new acquaintances. It’s all perfectly understandable.”
“Why, that’s no way to go through life!” Charis laughed, taking Persephone by the arm. “You can’t always be afraid to make contacts. You must speak up for what you want in the world-no one else will do it for you. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that before? Is this your first social event?”
“No, I suppose-well-I mean-” the girl stammered.
Charis wrinkled her nose. “Now, do you expect me to believe that you walked all the way across the room to mumble at us? I should hope not.”
Poor little Persephone looked miserable as she stammered helplessly. “I m-merely-I only wanted to-to meet you. I’d heard about-one hears such fascinating-I just wanted to say that I had met you.”
At this, Charis looked like a cat that had swallowed the canary. “And what, what exactly, have you heard, Miss Fudge?” she laughed. “Come now, you are in good company, child. Tell me what has sent you tripping into my path.”
Persephone leaned forward, clearly bracing herself under Charis’s piercing gaze. “Is-is it true, Mrs. Crouch, that you once ran n-naked through the halls of Slytherin to fetch your sponge-bag?” whispered the girl, wide eyed and terrified.
Dorea blushed on behalf of her cousin, but Charis grinned wildly. “Oh, my dear! That’s the tame version,” she boasted, launching into a greatly exaggerated account of how she came to be without clothes in the halls of Slytherin during their sixth year.
“You ladies must excuse me,” Dorea interrupted. “I must see to my other guests.” Having been there during the actual event, Dorea had no desire to listen to its retelling, though the story Charis often delighted to tell was hardly as funny when it actually happened. She remembered her dear cousin weeping for days afterwards in humiliation, but she didn’t begrudge Charis for her retrospective amusement.
“Fine,” Charis said with a smirk. “Go and be responsible, if you must. Miss Fudge and I can entertain ourselves without supervision.”
Dorea raised her eyebrows at her cousin, a final warning to be nice, and then left Charis to her diversions. Alone again, Dorea resumed her quest as hostess to speak with every single person at the party personally. She managed to duck and weave around those guests with which she’d already spoken as she traversed the edges of the ball room, catching snatches of their conversations as she passed.
“Of course, you must admit that this Voldemort fellow has a point,” Quintus Yaxley remarked, accidentally sloshing his drink. “I find myself picking up the Prophet these days just to read his editorials. Clever chap.”
“Whoever he is, he must be some kind of upstart. Why else would he use a pseudonym?” Callidora Longbottom shook her head. “I make it a point not to give credence to anyone without knowing their family. It’s a matter of personal safety, if nothing else.”
Having already greeted both Callidora and Mr. Yaxley earlier in the evening, and hardly interested in the virtues of rhetoric, Dorea sidestepped the group discussing the merits of this Voldemort’s editorials. When her way forward became blocked by a group of gossiping Gamp sisters, and her way backwards was impeded by elderly Mrs. Eugenia Clagg and her chair which was charmed to follow her in case she needed it, Dorea had to make a less-than-dignified side excursion through a large potted garden to her left. She emerged to overhear a conversation she was definitely not supposed to hear.
“Well, of course, the Potter family once had a great estate themselves-not as fine as this one, of course, but few could ever hold a candle to the Blacks,” whispered Perpetua Fancourt her companion, Aimee Burke.
“So he sold the Potter estate once he married little Dorea?” asked Aimee.
“Oh, heavens, no. He sold it long before they ever met-after his father and elder brother were killed back on the continent, early in the war. They say he was just heart-broken, and couldn’t bear to stay in that house. Of course, by the time it was all over, he’d lost most of his family.” Perpetua Fancourt shrugged her shoulders, a gesture that hardly spoke of high sympathy. “Tragic thing, really.”
“Senseless,” agreed Aimee Burke with a sharp nod. “I never understood why the Potters had to get themselves so mixed up in that affair with Grindelwald. Honestly, it was none of their concern.”
“Indeed. They paid for it with many lives. Gryffindors, the lot of them.”
“If I may be frank,” continued Aimee Burke, leaning in conspiratorially. “I never understood why little Dorea ever married Charlus Potter in the first place. He’s far too old for her! I’m surprised they’ve lasted this long.”
“In my opinion, Dorea married him because she was scared to marry any one else,” Perpetua Fancourt said with a knowing grin. “His age was an asset to her. Dorea was always a timid thing-I think the idea of marriage just terrified her. Potter was the safe option-no fire, if you catch my drift. I’ve never seen even the tiniest spark of passion between them-and well, their lack of children speaks for itself.”
Still unnoticed by the speakers, Dorea struggled to remain calm as a protective rage flared through her body. How dare they say such things-make such silly and uneducated statements about her marriage and her husband? She nearly screamed at them in a way that would have made Charis’s baser instincts glow with pride. However, before she had a chance to act, a much more dignified option presented itself when she saw her husband chatting with his good friend, Mr. Eustace Dalton, not very far away.
Brushing a bit of plant debris off her robes, Dorea cleared her throat, causing Perpetua and Aimee to jump. “Ladies,” she said with an incline of her head and a polite smile, relishing the twin looks of panic that flashed across their faces when they realized Dorea had heard everything. She sped by them, her head high, making a direct line to her husband. “Mr. Potter, would you care to dance?” she asked in a carrying voice. Barely sparing a glance to catch the sheer dread on the two ladies’ faces, Dorea allowed herself to be swept onto the dance-floor.
“Dancing at your own party, what a novelty!” exclaimed Mr. Potter. “And now that we’re dancing together, it has finally become the perfect party.”
Dorea blushed. “Everyone seems to be having a good time,” she said modestly.
“Yes, but are you having a good time?” Mr. Potter asked, squeezing her waist in emphasis, his kind eyes watching her carefully. “If you’re not enjoying yourself, we can always Apparate over to Diagon Alley and raid Fortescue’s ice cream,” he added in a rousing whisper.
“Mr. Potter, we could hardly leave our own party!” Dorea protested. “Our guests would be-”
“Perfectly fine without us. We’ll let Charis handle it,” Mr. Potter snickered.
“Yes, and find Twin Hollies in shambles when we returned,” Dorea shuddered. “No, we could not possibly leave, my dear. It would be utterly irresponsible.”
Mr. Potter bowed his head, knowing refusal when he heard it. “Well, I still maintain my invitation to find a shadowy corner and indulge in some passionate necking,” he offered with a wag of his eyebrows.
Dorea laughed softly, and leaned her head on her husband’s shoulder, inhaling his comforting scent. He held her closer, and together they waltzed lazily across the floor. She marveled at how perfectly they still fit together. After all this time, after their lives had changed so drastically, after so many hopes had been dashed, she still could not think of another person on earth she would have chosen over her husband. Perhaps they weren’t always happy, perhaps there was no visible spark as Perpetua Fancourt had said, but Dorea could not imagine a more perfect match for her than Charlus Potter.
“Thank you, my dear,” Dorea whispered into Mr. Potter’s ear as the closing chords of the song rang through the ballroom. “You are a marvel.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” he replied, trying to sneak a quick kiss, but Dorea ducked his lips, backing away with a shy smile.
“Don’t be indecent!” she playfully chided.
“Let’s have another dance,” he offered.
She shook her head. “I must honor my duties as hostess, and I must make up with Lycoris as soon as I can.”
“If you insist,” Mr. Potter grumbled, though he reluctantly let go of her hand.