Pureblood society has turned the year into a marriage market. Every family wants Regulus Black. Every heir wants you. The season becomes a battlefield of dances, invitations and carefully polite threats.
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@hannahriddleFor those of you just joining, allow me to introduce myself. I am Athena. Goddess of war, wisdom, and—apparently—the reluctant overseer of the most dramatic season pureblood society has manufactured in decades. I have witnessed empires crumble, armies clash, and civilisations rise and fall. And yet, somehow, nothing has prepared me for the sheer entertainment value of watching eighteen-year-olds pretend they aren't trying to secure marriage alliances while making intense eye contact across a ballroom.
It is November. The air at Hogwarts carries that particular pre-holiday chill, the kind that makes students walk faster between classes and Hufflepuffs start hoarding knitted scarves like squirrels preparing for a siege. But tonight, toute the ancient castle is buzzing with something else entirely. Anticipation. And the particular brand of tension only pureblood society can manufacture.
The Black Family Winter Gala. At Grimmauld Place.
And yes, I know. Grimmauld Place, the ancestral home of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, is not usually synonymous with anything resembling beauty. In my millennia of existence, I have seen less foreboding architecture in actual fortresses designed to repel siege engines. But tonight, someone has made an effort. The usual gloom has been wrestled into something almost elegant—fairy lights strung along the banisters, silver and green garlands draped over doorways, floating candles doing their best impression of a romantic scene rather than a séance. The portraits of the Black ancestors are arranged strategically, looking approximately ten percent less murderous than usual.
Walburga Black
standing at the top of the grand staircase, surveying the guests with the satisfaction of a general reviewing her troops
Walburga Blackis wearing black velvet, obviously, family diamonds glinting at her throat. She looks like she's about to either host a gala or declare war. Given the Black family history, I genuinely cannot rule out either option
The Greengrasses have arrived. And the Notts. her eyes sweep the room The Berkshire boy is taller than I expected. Good breeding shows.
Below her, the ballroom is beginning to fill. The usual suspects are all present—old money, older grudges, and enough political calculation to make my battlefield strategies look impulsive. Conversations are being conducted in that particular tone of voice that sounds friendly but could curdle into a duel at any moment. Mothers are steering daughters toward eligible heirs with the subtlety of military maneuvers. Daughters are pretending not to notice. Heirs are pretending not to care. Everyone is lying. It's magnificent
Alphard Black
leaning against a pillar, wine glass in hand, watching the spectacle with open amusement You know, cousin, this is exactly why I stopped attending these things. takes a sip It's like watching peacocks fight, except with better tailoring. More paperwork.
The youngest generation is beginning to circulate. Draco Malfoy has arrived, looking like he's been carved from ice and expensive tailoring, platinum hair catching the candlelight as he surveys the room with that particular expression of bored superiority he's been perfecting since birth. Beside him, Theodore Nott hovers on the edges, a book in one hand and a glass of something dark in the other, looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else but occasionally glancing up with the eyes of someone who hasn't missed a single detail
Lorenzo Berkshire
appearing at Draco's elbow with a grin that could charm the paint off walls You know, if you glare any harder at that chandelier, it's going to file a complaint
Draco Malfoy
not looking away from the chandelier I'm not glaring. I'm assessing the structural integrity.
Lorenzo Berkshire
snorts You're glaring. It's okay. I'm sure the chandelier deserved it. Maybe it looked at Pansy wrong
Draco Malfoy
finally turns, unimpressed You're very lucky I find you amusing, Berkshire.
Lorenzo Berkshire
grins That's literally my entire survival strategy
And then—ah. fans self
The Black twins have arrived. And if I were the type of goddess to swoon, this would be the moment. Fortunately for my dignity, I am not. Unfortunately for the collective composure of every eligible heiress in this room, they apparently have none of my restraint
Regulus Black moves through the crowd like he's performing a spell rather than walking—precise, unhurried, impossible to look away from. Black hair, immaculate. Grey eyes, assessing every soul in the room and dismissing most within milliseconds. He looks like winter personified—beautiful, cold, and completely aware of the effect he's having, though he couldn't care less
Archer Black
walking slightly behind his twin, a more relaxed version of the same devastating genetics, hair slightly less ordered, smile slightly more real as he greets the room with an actual nod of acknowledgment
The twins are a study in contrast—same face, same blood, same impossible elegance. But where Regulus is the blade, Archer is the shield. Where Regulus' attention slides over people, Archer's lands. And the entirety of pureblood societyist currently pretending not to watch both of them like hawks monitoring prey
Woman 1, overheard
stage whispering to her companion The Black boys are both still unattached. Can you believe it?
Woman 2, equally indiscreet
Walburga must be losing her mind. Two heirs, and neither of them married yet. I heard she's been making lists—
I have it on good authority that Walburga Black has, in fact, been making lists. I have also seen the lists. They are colour-coded. Alphabetised. Annotated with family connections, blood purity percentages and—most alarmingly—threat levels for rival families. That woman runs this season like a military campaign, and frankly, I respect it.
Regulus Black
grey eyes sweeping the room, expression unreadable I can hear Mother's matchmaking lists from here. his voice is low, dry
Archer Black
sighs, a small smile tugging at his mouth She's already cornered the Greengrass parents. Astoria looks like she's being evaluated for purchase
Regulus Black
She is. pause, scent of something almost like amusement flickering across his features Mother considers her a reasonable investment. Good bloodline. Adequate breeding. Manageable temperament
Archer Black
raises an eyebrow And what do you consider her?
Regulus Black
turns to look at his twin fully, and for just a moment, the cold mask cracks into something almost wry Irrelevant.
The evening presses on. Dances begin. Hands are kissed. Compliments are exchanged like currency. And all the while, the most desirable heirs of the season are circulating through the crowd with the precision of chess pieces—each move calculated, every interaction weighted. Girls appear beside Draco Malfoy, Theo Nott, the Zabini heir. Mothers steer daughters toward the Black twins like ships toward a lighthouse, hope blooming in their eyes despite decades of the Black family reputation suggesting they should know better
But the room keeps returning to one particular gravitational pull. One girl who hasn't even arrived yet—and already, the atmosphere is changing. Conversations hushed. Glances kept sliding toward the entrance. Even Regulus Black, who has been meticulously ignoring the entire event, has started looking toward the staircase every few minutes, not entirely consciously
Archer Black
watching his brother, voice low and amused You keep looking at the stairs. I don't blame you. The decor is much more interesting than the conversation
Regulus Black
without looking away from the staircase I'm people-watching.
Archer Black
humming Yes. You're people-watching. Very convincing. Particularly since you haven't actually looked at anyone else for roughly the past ten minutes
Regulus Black
finally turns to look at his brother; his expression carefully blank I don't know what you're talking about
Archer Black
smiles, slow and knowing Of course you don't. pats his twin's shoulder Enjoy the people-watching, brother. Its certainly riveting
And just like that, she arrives . The next chapter of this delightful catastrophe begins. I can feel it in my bones—and I don't have bones. Which means either I'm getting sentimental (horrifying, need to fix that immediately) it's going to be one hell of a season
The room shifts. Conversations don't stop—but they simplify. Heads turn. Eyes track. And at the top of the grand staircase, at the most dramatic possible entrance point (which I am choosing to believe is intentional because otherwise I'm going to be very disappointed in theatrical timing), stands Y/n