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Chapter Text

DECEMBER 12, 1977

It starts off as joke – most things do, with them.

It's 1977, the winter air is cold and biting and Dorcas feels like throwing up whenever she thinks of the future.

The world outside of the castle has grown darker, these past years. It's a subtle kind, a violence that often hides behind lowered gazes and trembling hands: no one speaks of it, up until it comes back and leaves a massacre in its wake.

Her friends – Pandora and Barty and Evan and Regulus – are terribly, horribly close to it. Barty and his father, the twins and their family, Regulus and his everything.

He's a Black. They're a whole other category of fucked up, as far as she's concerned.

The Meadowes are neutral, historically, perhaps occasionally leaning towards Light but firmly in the gray area that allows them to move with a bit more freedom than the rest of their peers – she won't be dragged into it and, though she cannot imagine not fighting, it's a small relief all the same.

The others have no such luxury: Pandora has taken a stand and has already been shunned, Evan is buckling under the pressure, Barty is in the middle and increasingly angrier about it. Regulus is doomed and they all pretend not to see it, stubbornly holding onto the hope of a last year together, without being broken by the war.

It's not even Christmas yet but the castle is already half empty, students leaving to join their families early just in case. Dorcas hurries through the courtyard, burying her face in the green scarf and tightening her grip on the books in her arms, blinking rapidly to dislodge the stubborn snowflakes that have landed on her lashes.

The others must already be waiting for her and she quickens her pace.

“Meadowes,” Potter falls into step with her, “About practice times-”

“Busy, we'll talk about it tomorrow.” Dorcas replies, moving out of the way of a couple of first years.

“No running!” He shouts after them hurriedly, as if just remembering that he's supposed to be Head Boy, “Listen, if you'll give me just a couple of minutes to explain I think you'll see the sense in letting us have first pick-”

“Pretty sure I won't.”

James snorts, odiously optimistic as always.

“It's just this week! Hols start soon and after that it'll all go back to normal, I swear."

For some reason, the word seems to have some amusing meaning to him and it only encourages her to stick to her convictions. She jumps the vanishing step at the very end of the staircase and stops in her tracks, watching him stumble.

“Potter. No.” She tells him firmly, “I should think you'd recognise the word with how often Evans has shouted it at you.”

“I'll have you know she's not shouting it anymore.”

“Good for you,” Dorcas wants nothing more than to curl up by the fire with her closest friends and a warm pastry and she's quickly losing patience with this entire thing, “But my answer's the same. You know very well that nobody on my team will be able to train, not at home.”

“Yeah,” His tone darkens, “They'll all be off following after a murderer, won't they?”

And there it is – the bitter judgement that follows her through the halls. For being sorted into the wrong house, for keeping the wrong company. Nevermind that her family has only ever sorted Slytherin, nevermind that her friends are just kids trying desperately to save themselves in the same way everyone is, lately.

Dorcas has never been anything but herself, unapologetic to the bones even when it only got her problems, and the constant reminders of her wrong choices make her skin itch and her hands curl into fists.

But nevermind that because James Potter, paragon of virtue, has passed his judgement and so has half the school after him and she can't scream in his stupid face without them calling her hysterical.

“Fuck off.” She replies, marching on without bothering to look back.

“Real classy!”

She pays him no mind, walking past the entrance of the Hufflepuff common room and towards her own.

It's 1977 and Dorcas is tired.

The Slytherin common room is often empty these days, with more and more groups hiding out in their dorms, doors firmly shut and locked to keep out unwanted listeners.

Her friends are sprawled on the couch closest to the imposing fireplace, Pandora and Barty stretching out on the soft carpet like they always do, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders.

“About time,” Barty calls out, leaning back against Evan's legs, “We've been waiting ages for you.”

“Shut up,” Evan replies for her, smacking him with a Quidditch magazine, “Five minutes ago you were in bed scratching your arse.”

“The beginning of the end?” the cover proclaims in bold letters, the Chudley Cannons depicted moments after their latest loss and something in her goes cold just as Pandora laughs, setting off Barty's temper once more.

This year, everything has been about the war, every article and every letter, all coming together to form a cacophony of noise that leaves her stumbling through an headache.

Dorcas takes the spot next to Regulus, taking comfort in his silent, watchful gaze – he smiles at her, the same frozen quality to him that seems to be blooming in her lately.

The fire crackles merrily and she wills herself to breathe in the warmth and remember: Dora, her hair like a burning halo, Barty and Evan and their constant bickering. Them, in the golden light, forever at her side. The kind of dream she can't hold onto.

“Alright, leave me alone,” Barty's voice is muffled and he lets out a whine when Pandora accidentally elbows him in the gut while rolling off of him, “Ow, fucking Merlin, Dora, those things are sharp.”

“A weapon's always useful.”

“Bloody hell, what beast raised you?”

“Look who's talking,” Dorcas tilts her head, “Didn't you almost scratch someone's eyes out just last week?”

“I had a good reason.”

“Sure,” Evan scoffs, “Any reason is good enough for you.”

It's a joke but only just – Barty has been behaving more erratically than usual this year. It's as concerning as it is expected.

Because it has been a theme of their life so far, reality rearing its head when they least want it to, Regulus decides that now is a good enough time to burst their bubble.

“I'm getting married. Or dying, whichever comes first.”

Dorcas almost breaks her neck with how fast she turns to look at him and the others are no better.

Regulus stares them all down, eyes deceptively clear. He's always been an excellent liar.

“Mate, I'm sure you think you're very handsome but-”

“What does that mean?” She stops the pathetic attempt at a joke, “The dying part.”

“You knew they'd make me join at some point,” He reminds them, seemingly indifferent, “It's either fulfilling that or finding another duty to please them.”

The firelight casts weird, ominous shadows over him, stripped of its previous warmth. Turns him into perfect marble, with the sharp cheekbones and loose, boyish curls.

Her heart aches for the kid she'd met on the train, with those gentle, pained eyes. Now, years later, they look almost the same.

Almost. 

“And you think it'll work?” Pandora scoots closer, already biting her nails.

“It'll get them off my back for now, at least.”

“And that's enough?” Evan grabs his sister's hand, tugging it away from her mouth and shaking his head at her.

“Has to be,” Barty's the one who answers, nodding at Regulus, “Good for you. Who's the unlucky lady?”

“No idea.”

They stare. Regulus raises a single eyebrow.

“Are you serious?”

“Well, it's not like there are many options. Someone pureblood, someone Slytherin, someone I can stand, preferably.”

“Right,” Evan states drily, “That is gonna give us trouble, I fear.”

“Well,” Barty cracks up, grinning with too many teeth, “The last one leaves only our Dorcas, actually.”

Pandora giggles at that and Regulus throws a pillow at him even as a smile inevitably breaks his stoic façade.

“Now there's a couple,” He continues, jumping up and spreading out his arms grandly, “And you can thank me for my services by naming your firstborn after me.”

“Quit it,” Dora forcing him back down next to her, “I don't think I've ever seen a couple less suited to one another than this, oh, great matchmaker.”

“Liar,” Dorcas tugs lightly on one of her braids, “That is simply not true, Rosier.”

Their eyes meet in the soft light and Pandora smiles sharply at her, eyes crinkling – this is their game, has been since they met. Dora will give out some sort of knowledge or fact that she feels is absolute, be it a vision or not, and Dorcas will strive to go against it, no matter how idiotic or futile, aware that it is exactly what the other intended.

Prove me wrong or let me win.

Slytherins are far too competitive for their own good and she is no different.

“Something you want to admit to, Meadowes?”

“Reg and I work well together. We'd be able to pull it off.”

At her side, Regulus chokes on his spit amongst the playful catcalls of their friends.

It would be enough, it could be enough, to end it here, another joke to take off the edge from a less than perfect day except – for everyone in this damned school, Dorcas is in the wrong house and has the wrong friends and makes the wrong choices.

And here is her friend, with a way to postpone the inevitable, to give her more time before all of those pricks start being right. What is she supposed to do? Not help? The seed has been planted and she can't help but take it seriously.

Dorcas is a pureblood from a valued, prestigious line. They might not be allies but there has long been mutual respect between their families, even if the situation has gone downhill lately. A marriage, the promise of an heir soon even – that would surely be enough to make them hesitate in sending him off to war, to ensure the survival of their line. In the face of that, they won't be able to object.

Pandora's smirk, Regulus' shadowed figure.

There's a chance here, that Dorcas has never had before: to prove them all wrong, make them choke on their assumptions.

She stays behind, when the others gather themselves and leave for dinner, watches as the dorms slowly empty – all throughout, Regulus sits with her, perfectly still. Politely detached, the way the Black heir is expected to be.

Dorcas hasn't even asked him to, he just knew to wait with her. It only strengthens her conviction: they can make this work.

“You weren't joking,” Regulus states flatly, “Is that it?”

“You know I wasn't.”

“You really shouldn't let Pandora influence you like that.”

Dorcas smiles, shaking her head.

“It's how we work. Butt out of it, Black.”

“Sure, when the challenge of the day isn't marrying me, I'll be more than happy to leave you to it.”

“Marrying you isn't the challenge,” She frowns, almost upset, “Making your plan work is.”

He sighs, frustrated, and mindlessly fidgets with the heavy silver rings he always wears – the one sporting the Black crest is the most noticeable, shining ominously, sucking out the warmth around it.

“It's the same thing, isn't it?”

“No,” Dorcas protest, “No, it's not. The challenge is helping you.”

“And you'd do that by trapping yourself?” He laughs incredulously, “Have you even considered what that would mean? And what about McKinnon?”

“What about her? This is about you.” She bristles, irritated at the way the conversation is going.

“Dorcas,” And now Regulus' voice has gone soft, open, “You've been in love with her for years.”

“Don't be daft. A crush isn't love.”

It's sweet, that he'd worry about that. Not surprising, either. For all of his icy silences and perfect posture, Regulus is gentle, at his core – caring. Dorcas feels lucky every time she gets to see that side of him, even more so when it's directed at her.

He's kind, Regulus, as much as he tries not to be. It wouldn't be so bad, to marry someone like him.

“She's been waiting for you,” He carries on, uncaring of her protest, “Everyone knows that.”

It's true, admittedly. It's Dorcas' last year and the tension between her and Marlene has only grown. She can see it sometimes, in the teasing smirks that are sent her way: another challenge, albeit different from the ones she's used to.

It's true but so is what she said. Dorcas could love that girl but she doesn't, not yet. Regulus, however, she loves already – he's her best friend, the boy she met in second year and immediately clicked with, that silent pull that spoke of kinship. Of belonging.

Regulus Black was Dorcas' first friend.

That kind of love cannot be replicated and she won't bother to even try.

“The same way everyone knows I care for you,” She replies, staring right back at him, “The same way everyone knows I'd do anything for my friends.”

“My parents-” It's a weak defense and she blows right past it.

“The Meadowes are a good family, if they'd given you a list of choices then I know I would've been on it.”

“I really don't want to trap you,” He's almost whispering now, reaching to fix his collar, to smooth down his vest, to tug at his hair, “I don't want you to resent me.”

Dorcas' heart breaks a little and she imagines the bloodied shards raining down at their feet, swallowing grief and anger in equal measure.

They take care of each other, always. But Regulus has never quite been able to accept it, after Sirius.

“I won't,” She promises, “It's my choice.”

The silence that follows her words should make her nervous but it only seems to settle something in her bones as does the way he closes his eyes for a few moments, suddenly still after his bout of nervous movement.

This is the right thing to do, she knows.

“Alright,” Regulus sighs at last, “Alright.”

“You'll send the letter tonight?”

“If you're sure, they need to approve as soon as possible,” He looks at her again, cautious, “When I go back for Yule, this needs to be the topic of discussion instead of Him.”

She understands the hesitation. Soon means that even if she wants to back out she won't be able to, that the contract will be drafted before the New Year, possibly.

Dorcas is sure, though, so this means nothing to her except that she's so close to her objective already. She can feel the change in the air.

“I'll write to my family as well, then.”

“You'll tell me, if you don't want to go through with it anymore?” Regulus asks, voice quiet, subdued in a way she hates.

In response, Dorcas grabs his hand, tangles their fingers together – silver rings shining under the firelight, interrupted by the golden shine of her own jewellery.

They've always made quite the pair, the two of them.

“I promise.”

DECEMBER 13, 1977

The next morning, sitting by her friends at breakfast, Dorcas tries to ignore Pandora's searching gaze, reaching for tea with trembling hands.

Regulus had waited for her before leaving, unusually late when he prefers getting started earlier than most, and she had given him a smile to reassure him. She has no regrets about sending that letter. The night did not change her mind, only strengthened her resolve.

Barty and Evan remain in the dark, perhaps voluntarily – both smart enough to know something is changing but biding their time instead of demanding explanations.

She lets her eyes stray to the Gryffindor table, toward a head of choppy blonde bangs, and feels the slightest pang in her chest. Not regret but loss, for a road not taken. Marlene smirks, waving, and Dorcas turns back to the food in front of her, pushing away her plate in favour of another cup of tea.

“One of these days,” Regulus says pleasantly at her side, “You're going to faint mid lesson and realise that you can't survive on just that.”

Pandora giggles quietly, biting into her toast.

“A lost cause.”

“You're all far too dramatic for your own good,” Dorcas rolls her eyes, “I've made it just fine for almost seven years, haven't I?”

“Yeah. Because we slip fruit into your bag every morning.” Evan snarks, snapping out of whatever debate he and Barty had gotten caught in.

The other turns to her with a lazy smirk, chewing with his mouth open just to make her gag. Regulus groans in disgust, balling up a napkin and throwing it at his head. It bounces off, ends up in Barty's tea.

Dora laughs brightly at his dismayed expression, ignoring the disgruntled looks her bronze-blue tie is gathering. After years of sitting at the Slytherin table, she's grown pretty much impervious to their ways. It's one of the many things Dorcas admires about her.

It's then, that a hush falls over the Great Hall. She doesn't really need to check to know what has happened but she turns anyway, looking as a black crow circles them once, twice, before depositing a letter by Regulus' plate.

It's pitch black, of course, with silver, glittering ink identifying the sender as one A.S.B, Head of House Black.

Their proposal wouldn't have gotten to him, if it hadn't been acceptable. Dorcas feels a sliver of satisfaction, waiting impatiently for her own response to fall on her empty plate, the family owl screeching above them.

With trembling hands, uncaring of the looks she's getting, she opens the silver envelope, rubbing her thumb over the imprint of the family's Sigil. At her side, Regulus waits, stone faced, making no move to read his own letter – the Blacks are nothing if not ostentatious and this is no different. Had it been a negative response, there would've been no letter at all. It's up to the Meadowes, now, to make their move.

Giddy with excitement, she forces herself not to react while she reads, all too aware of the many eyes that have been fixed on her since her owl arrived. Instead, Dorcas inspects the wording – notes her mother's scrawled if this is what you wish for, dearest at the very end – and calmy slides it back into its envelope.

She sips her tea, vaguely nauseous at the bitter taste, and tucks her letter in the pocket of her robes. Without a moment's hesitation, Regulus follows her lead, seemingly uncaring of the speculative gazes, and so do the others, closing ranks and falling back into the familiar bickering.

She's hit with immense fondness for them, in that moment. The kind of affection that warms her entire body, igniting in her chest. Another reminder of what she can't afford to lose.

Underneath the table, she taps gently against Regulus' thigh and he slides his own hand to grasp hers. She squeezes once, tangling their fingers together, and an invisible weight seems to slide off his shoulders. Dorcas hides another smile behind her cup. Already, she knows it will be worth it.

She's not surprised when the pureblood Gryffindors openly stare in class, even when McGonagall purses her lips and reminds everyone to pay attention before they lose a limb.

It does bother her, though, makes her skin prickle. Especially because the most stubborn ones turn out to be none other than Regulus' brother and his group of friends. Right behind them are the girls that often surround Marlene, Lily and Mary.

There's something like pity in their eyes, a complicated mix of sympathy and anger, and she bristles. Typical of them, to see a victim in need of saving from the big, bad snake. They seem to be unaware that Dorcas is a snake herself, most of the time, and it grates.

Refusing to give them a reaction, she quickly turns the frog on her desk into a series of Slytherin themed objects – a cup, a jewellery box, a snow globe – and sets it aside, receiving an approving nod from McGonagall. If her professor's eyes linger a while longer, she pays it no mind.

“Meadowes!” Sirius calls at the end of the lesson, elbowing his way through the mass of students towards her, “Let's chat.” He smiles, trying to put an arm around her shoulders.

Trying because Dorcas doesn't even need to think to reach up and stop him. She glares and he only smiles brighter in response with a sharp edge that most people wouldn't notice. Good thing she's well versed into the bullshit Black family dynamics.

“I have nothing to say to you.” She answers flatly.

James, Remus and Peter follow them because of course they do, she expected nothing else.

“I'm concerned,” Sirius tells her, stuffing his hands in his pockets, “About those letters. They seemed... odd, yes?”

“Quite.” James nods, inserting himself in the conversation, “Reminded me of some old customs.”

Out of all of this, what pisses her off the most are Peter and Remus' earnest looks, the way they bite their lips with genuine worry. They can't possibly have known what the letter meant, not until someone else explained it to them and yet, there they go again, underestimating her like every other idiot in this castle.

“Did they,” Dorcas drawls, “Can't say I care, frankly. If you'll excuse me.” She side steps another attempt to grab her, swiftly turning to the right and making her way down the stairs. 

None of them have Potions as a class after OWLS and it works in her favour so often that she could weep. If only Lily Evans weren't so smart.

“Marlene told me about your letter,” She says, wasting no time, all while stirring her cauldron, “I didn't know those kind of things still happened.”

“Funny. I don't remember talking to McKinnon today.”

“Dorcas,” Lily's eyes are wide and green and it's not as infuriating to see the emotion in them, not when it's so clearly coming from a place of care, from someone that knows her, “What's going on?”

She takes a moment to find the proper words. It's not easy to reassure someone outside of Slytherin about her plans because they've no way of truly understanding the situation. One wrong word and they would see her as some sort of martyr, planting a knife in her own chest in the name of Regulus Black.

But that's not it, that's not who Dorcas is. All that she is doing is for herself because she's afraid, she's terrified, of losing the people she loves the most, utterly paralysed at the idea of letting them slip through her fingers – and they wouldn't understand. They don't know her like that. They don't know her friends like that.

Regulus, especially, has always carried the shadow of his name. They wouldn't understand why she'd be willing to do this, to go through with a half made plan in the flimsy hope of holding onto him. 

How can Dorcas explain Regulus Black to an outsider? To someone that's never hugged him and felt him melt against their shoulder, never seen him all but spit fire at whoever dared to bother them, never watched him laugh so hard he cried because Barty tripped and fell over his own robes.

How can Dorcas make him human in their eyes, when they've only ever seen him as the physical manifestation of his name?

And, then, the obvious answer: she can't.

It stings but it's true and she cannot afford to shy away from it. She can't change how they see Regulus but she can use their view of her, to stall the questions and avoid the fights.

“Everything is how I want it to be,” She tells Lily firmly, making sure to keep her voice level, “And I need you to trust me on this.”

“I do,” Lily admits after a moment of silence, green eyes honest but pained, “It's for Marlene, that I worry.”

Dorcas swallows around the same loss that she'd felt that morning, feels it lodging in her throat. What had been between her and McKinnon, what slow burning embers they had stoked these past years, cannot be allowed to continue. The silent promise between them won't ever be spoken aloud or followed up on.

If a word describes her, it is dedicated and, in this, she won't allow herself any leeway. It's too important. The person that would suffer from it is too dear to her heart to risk.

Marlene McKinnon could've been the love of her life. But her friends already are and that is final, she knew as soon as she made that decision that there would be no coming back from it.

“She's not so fragile,” Dorcas reminds her, “And she has plenty of good friends like you.”

“She'll be furious.”

“I'll tell Reg to never wander the halls alone.”

Already, she can feel the impact this will have over the companionship they've developed in this class but her words earn her a smile and, for the moment, it's enough.

It feels almost silly, that the choice should be taken out of her hand after all. Dorcas does not go looking for Marlene, despite all the time spent readying herself for it. Despite all the well thought out words on the tip of her tongue.

It doesn't last long at all – she doesn't know why she thought it would. They are nothing, not truly, and there is no time wasted on it.

Marlene simply walks at her side after their last class, falling into step easily, and looks at her with that same mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Sirius thinks congratulations are in order.” She says, matter of fact.

“He's not wrong,” Dorcas mutters, adjusting the strap of her bag so it won't dig in her shoulder, “They will be.”

And that's it. Marlene says alright in that unbothered tone that Dorcas knows better than to believe and skips away, slipping from her fingers like she'd never been there at all. Easy. Uncomplicated.

There's another pang of loss, in her chest. Some unexplainable emptiness.

There's not a discussion about it, no plan in place – Dorcas simply makes her up to the owlery, after class, knowing that Regulus will join her.

He doesn't disappoint her, he never has.

Quiet, thoughtful Regulus waits for her near the cages, leaning slightly against the chilled stone, a scarf wound around his neck despite the pleasant warm that comes with the charms he's layered on his clothes.

“You're sure,” He says and it's not a question, “Truly.”

“Are you?”

She slips her arm around his own, basks in the comfort even as the winter air nips at her nose sharply. Waiting for a sign – it's supposed to be them. Dorcas is desperate but she won't do it, if he's not onboard. If he doesn't believe.

It's going to be them or nothing at all.

“Yes,” He swallows. It's so loud in the quiet, she can't help but hold him tighter, “Yes.”

“We'll make it work,” Dorcas reminds both of them, holding her letter with trembling hands, “You and I, we'll make it work.”

They stand together for a long time, watching their owls take flight into the darkening sky.

When they're too far, at last, to be seen, Dorcas feels no regret nor fear but a terrible sort of excitement, shaking her head to toe. Regulus turns against her, hiding his face in her hair and barking out a nervous laugh and she thinks he must feel it too.

It's a good sign.

Chapter Text

Family

There was a great hush when Dorcas stepped through the front door, their previously loud home going silent, as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. A snuffed out candle.

Her father had come to pick her up via portkey, awkward and silent even as he held her between his arms for a long time, clutching at her like she might disappear. Dorcas thought she'd seen a suspicious wetness in his brown eyes but it had been quickly obscured by the shine of his glasses.

Now, her family seemed to be unsure on how to move around her, having obviously waited at the entrance, all crammed together in the small space and talking so loudly she'd been able to hear their words from the garden.

She's lost her mind, Jacob had been shouting, her older brother's voice full of righteous anger, stop it.

She'd known it wouldn't be as easy as the letter had made it seem.

Still, mother rushed towards her, sweeping her up in an embrace – fretting over her windswept hair and clothes and trying fruitlessly to hide the worry in her grey eyes.

“Mama,” She murmured, “I'm fine. You believe me, right?”

Tabitha Meadowes was not loud with her emotions. She often made herself into an unassuming presence, neutral and fair, only ever raising her voice when her children needed it, when her family demanded it. Dorcas had found great comfort in it, in childhood, when fights would break out and her siblings would point their fingers at their sister, aware that she'd receive a lighter punishment.

Her mother was a listener, the kind of woman that inspired calm and a mellow sort of quietness, filled with giggles and whispered games.

Now, though, she was betrayed by her eyes, the quirk of her mouth, the lingering touches she pressed on her daughter's skin, as if trying to reassure herself that Dorcas was still here.

“I do, my dove. We all do,” She kisses her forehead, ignoring her son's incredulous scoff, “But we also know you. And this has never been part of your plans before.”

“But will you keep trusting me?” Dorcas insists, reduced to nothing more than a child under her mother's careful hands, the same little girl that crawled in her arms to cry away her sorrows.

“Always. You know this.”

In her eyes, Dorcas sees the very same glint she often spies in the mirror, the steely determination that keeps her head held up high.

There will be explanations later, fights and loud discussions around the dinner table but now she is in her mother's arms and nothing else matters.

Dorcas, 

Fiancée, I should say. Congratulations on your gamble, it has paid off. Upon returning to our house, there were no more mentions of Him nor questions about my future in His ranks. 

Grandfather, an usually disapproving shadow in the corner of the room, was quietly satisfied by the match - or so Narcissa tells me. Apparently, he personally ordered it be finalised as soon as possible and demanded they cease their discussions with Him to properly welcome you in our House. What that means, I've no idea but it has bought us some time.

Narcissa says it is likely this will be a quick betrothal, followed by a grand wedding. Mother agrees even as her displeasure is evident. She had wanted me at Bellatrix's side before the summer, I believe, and certainly not at the altar.

What father thinks is inconsequential. As always, I doubt he is doing much of it at all.

What does your family think and what madness pushed them to agree to your senseless request, I wonder.

Cordially,

R.A.B.

Reg,

It does warm my heart to read of your undying devotion to your family - and Orion, most of all! What beautiful sentiments of affection you have expressed towards him throughout the years, I am glad they have not faded.

Congratulations to us, fiancé. Already, our plans are paying off nicely. You should remember to never doubt me again. 

I knew it would be quick when I suggested we send off those letters, Reg, there's no need for warnings. Though I fear we'll not make it to the wedding, no matter how soon that may be, if you ever find yourself near my brother. He's not convinced, it seems. Not that anyone is, truthfully.

My family is not as complicated as yours - I ask and, if it is proper to do so, I am given. They need not understand to approve and my grandmother, for one, did not bat an eye at the prospect of our marriage.

Best regards,

Dorcas

They have never had such an awkward Christmas, before.

Dorcas could not help but wish for it to end sooner, caught between her parents' apprehensive look and her siblings' uncertainty.

Jacob had refused to give his opinion, when she had finally snapped and told him to get on with it – and there was the difference between her and her eldest brother.

They had sat in tense silence amidst their extended family, all of them trying to pretend not to have heard the news, and ignored one another, far too stubborn to find a middle ground.

Now, Dorcas lay curled up beneath her heavy quilt, ignoring the creaking of footsteps in the hallways and the noise of her bedroom door being pushed open.

The sound of bare feet on the wooden floors betrays her sister again and she sighs, scooting backwards so Danae could take her place under the blankets – smiling widely and humming in delight, their mother's songbird through and through.

“Jacob said you're getting married,” The ten year old whispers, looking around as though someone might pop out of the shadows and reprimand her for her late night escapade, “Are you?”

“Sure am,” Dorcas groans, burying her face in the pillow, “Why?”

Danae tugs at one of her braids, seemingly studying the contrast of their natural brown hair with the pale blonde her older sister had chosen years before, and giggles quietly.

“Who's marrying you?” She laughs, mean as only kids can be, and Dorcas makes a sound of protest even as amusement bubbles up in her chest.

“What do you care? Jacob didn't tell you to be mad?”

But she already knows the answer. It is such a Jacob thing to do, she feels her previous anger come back at full strength, has the urge to wake her brother up just so she can scream at him for meddling.

Danae shrugs, finally letting go of her hair.

“You don't look sad about it,” Her younger sister says, “He told me you would be but you're not, so it's fine.”

Truthfully, Dorcas is sad sometimes, upset at the changing world around her – but not Regulus, not this, specifically. Just everything else.

“Smart. More than he is, at least.”

“Dad says I'm smarter than you both.”

“Now you're pushing it.”

Dorcas,

I find that receiving the approval of an elderly woman that is believed to have gone mad about three decades ago is not as reassuring as one might've thought.

Sincerely,

R.A.B.

Reg,

Your latest letter ended up in the wrong hands and now my youngest sister seems to have sworn revenge on you, in our grandmother's name.

That'll teach you to bad mouth my Head of House.

Eagerly awaiting your apology,

Dorcas

“Child.”

Dorcas freezes, coming to a stop in the middle of the deserted hallway – the New Years is to be celebrated at their family's oldest property, imbued with magic and carefully hidden among the sprawling hills, as is their family's tradition.

Out of everyone that might've been calling, she had not been expecting her.

“Grandmother.” She turns quickly, lowering her head respectfully as the old woman steps closer.

As the Meadowes are a matriarchal line, it is her that guards their family's riches and has the last word on nearly everything that goes on under their roof.

Had Dorcas been Heir, the match she seeks would've never been granted – it would've meant bowing their head to another House, weakening their name. She is not, though. The honour is all her cousin's and grandmother has not protested so far.

Where Dorcas' mother is quiet dignity and soft hands, Evelyn Meadowes is harsh angles and discerning looks – those ancient eyes seem to strip her of her defenses, raking across her skin as if trying to find her weakness.

She stands up straighter.

“I've been in talks with Arcturus, lately,” Her voice is low, each word weighted carefully, “We've agreed to wait until the summer but the contract is drafted, ready for us to sign.”

“Regulus had informed me it would be soon.” Her conviction rings true once more, she hopes, doing her best to meet grandmother's green eyes.

Her efforts are for nothing, it seems.

“Listen to me now, girl. The moment I put our name on that contract is the moment your future becomes set in stone,” Dorcas swallows at the harsh sound of her cane being slammed against the harsh stone beneath their feet, “Last chance to back out. Am I sending it back signed or am I telling the old crow to stuff it where the sun doesn't shine?”

She had not been lying when she told Regulus her family is less complicated than his – but they are just as proud.

Grandmother wants her to accept, it has been plain from the very beginning. She'd answered her request a little too promptly, after all. It would elevate their family even more, already prestigious as they are, they can only benefit from trying themselves to the oldest remaining magical House in England. The Blacks, she imagines, have a very similar reasoning.

But this is where they differ: Dorcas' family would sooner slit their own throats than cause harm to one another. Their pride is swiftly pushed aside, when it comes to the family's safety.

Last chance, Dorcas thinks and it is thrilling and terrifying and a million other things that she is not able of naming just yet.

“Sign it.” Her voice doesn't waver, doesn't falter.

Grandmother Evelyn gives her one last searching look before her eyes soften and a sharp smile pulls at the aged lines of her face, a glimpse into the wildness she must've held in her youth.

She nods at her, respectful, and strides past, leaving behind the same scent of lavender that has been a constant in so many of Dorcas' childhood memories.

Dorcas,

Summer. I despise the heat but I suppose August will do fine. If we manage to plan for my birthday, we'll have one less date to remember.

Regards,

R.A.B.

Reg,

You're a wizard, I trust you'll find a way not to melt. The problem lies with me, having to go through my N.E.W.T.S. while looking for suitable attire for my own wedding and being pestered by the combined forces of our Houses.

I have not yet received your apology,

Dorcas