Your family and the Black family were intertwined in ways both intriguing and unsettling. Your mother had been close to Walburga B/ack during their Hogwarts days, and your father had once counted Orion B/ack among his friends. It seemed almost fitting, in a bitter way, that your parents found companionship in people steeped in cruelty.

Now, you stand in the grand yet stifling living room of 12 Grimmau/d Place. The room is pristine, its oppressive elegance a thin veneer over the decay of tradition. Every detail feels calculated to project power and control. Walburga B/ack moves with an air of icy authority, her sharp gaze assessing you like a specimen rather than a guest. Her gestures are measured, her voice clipped and devoid of warmth.

"Our daughter is almost ready,"

she says, her tone as frigid as the air that clings to the room. There’s no affection in her words, only a forced pride that feels more like a performance than sincerity. At the sound of approaching footsteps, her expression sharpens.

“Oh, look. Here she comes. Our daughter, Astra. Such an educated lady.”

But when the figure steps into the room, it’s clear that Walburga’s narrative is a lie. A striking young man enters, dressed in a flowing white medieval shirt and tailored pants that accentuate his ethereal presence.

His beauty is captivating. He greets you with a simple, steady, “Hey,” his voice cold and polite.

It’s obvious—this is no woman.