HE will think over the events and decide ot wait for Pansy and Cassiopeia to return

Harry paced the length of the Room of Requirement, the fire's crackle doing little to drown out the storm in his head. Narcissa's face loomed in his mind—pale, composed, those icy blue eyes that hid a serpent's cunning. The word "betrayal" had ignited something primal, a surge of fury that made his scar throb like a warning. But as he replayed Cassiopeia's words, a nagging doubt crept in, pulling at the edges of his anger.

Wait. Had she really betrayed him directly? He stopped mid-stride, leaning against the mantel, forcing himself to think it through. No shortcuts, no letting emotion dictate—that's how mistakes happened, how power like his could spiral into chaos.

He closed his eyes, dredging up the details from that fateful night at the Department of Mysteries. It wasn't Narcissa who sold out Sirius outright; it was Kreacher, that wretched, muttering house-elf, twisted by years of Black family indoctrination and Sirius's own harsh treatment.

The elf had betrayed his master, spilling secrets to Narcissa because she was a Black by birth and showed him a sliver of kindness—attention the starved creature lapped up after Sirius dismissed him like vermin. Narcissa had taken that info and passed it to Voldemort, sure, but the root betrayal? That was Kreacher's, enabled by Sirius's neglect. Harry couldn't ignore that; it didn't erase Narcissa's role, but it painted the full, messy picture.

The realization hit like a cooling charm, dousing the heat in his veins just enough to let him breathe. He took a deep breath, unclenching his fists, the white knuckles slowly regaining colour. Get a grip, Potter, he thought, echoing the no-nonsense voice he'd cultivated through years of dodging ****.

Rage won't bring Sirius back, and pinning it all on one person ignores the chain that led there. But Narcissa's no innocent—she conspired with Voldemort, fed him the bait to lure me in Sirius died as a result of her actions.

She was part of the web, her hands dirty with the plot that cost him his godfather. Rationality demanded he see the layers: Kreacher's treachery as the spark, Narcissa's scheming as the fuel, Voldemort's trap as the blaze. Emotion still screamed for vengeance, but he wouldn't let it blind him into something reckless.

He sank onto a cushion, staring into the flames, letting logic rebuild his resolve. Narcissa was Cassiopeia's mother—that alone stayed his hand from anything too final, too irreversible. He'd spared Bellatrix once, twisting her into something better for love's sake, inverting her darkness into fierce protection without erasing the past.

He sank onto a cushion, staring into the flames, letting logic rebuild his resolve. Narcissa was Cassiopeia's mother—that alone stayed his hand from anything too final, too irreversible. He'd spared Bellatrix once, twisting her into something better for love's sake, inverting her darkness into fierce protection without erasing the past. Bellatrix, Narcissa's own sister, now his godmother and caretaker, her morality flipped like a coin. If he could redeem one Black sister for the sake of his bond with Cassiopeia (and yeah, the twisted history that bound them), he could find a way to handle this one without outright destruction. But handling her meant neutralizing the threat, not excusing it. No free pass for conspiring against him.

What if he gave Narcissa the same treatment as Bellatrix—making her his devoted follower, loyal to him instead of Voldemort? It would explain and strengthen why he and Cassiopeia were so close, weaving their lives tighter. And it might even make Sirius alive again, altering the past so he never fell through that veil.

That was something Harry hadn't dared test with his power yet—changing events to let people live, preventing deaths, or outright resurrecting them. The temptation pulled at him, the weight of what it could mean for everyone he'd lost, but he shoved it down for now, focusing back on Narcissa.

Annother idea crystallized, sharp and fitting. He could speak her loyalties into chains—**** her to turn on Voldemort's inner circle, spilling secrets that dismantled their plots from within, all while protecting her family as a cover.

Make her an unwitting saboteur, her every scheme redirected to undermine the Dark Lord.

Or more direct: command her to confess her conspiracies to the Ministry anonymously, letting justice grind her down without his fingerprints everywhere. But that risked exposing Cassiopeia to fallout.

Pansy did ask him to not decide until they got, back.

And well, while Harry was angry, he found that making the two of them his girlfriends meant he held a rather good measure of affection for the two.

Harry nodded to himself, the plan settling like a shield charm. It wasn't mercy—it was strategy, using his power to twist the knife without becoming the monster. He'd run it by Cass and Pansy first, though; no deciding alone, as Pansy had warned.

Harry nodded to himself, the plan settling like a shield charm. It wasn't mercy—it was strategy, using his power to twist the knife without becoming the monster. He'd run it by Cass and Pansy first, though; no deciding alone, as Pansy had warned. But dinner hour was approaching, and the thought of the Great Hall's noise grated against his lingering tension. Why face the crowd when he could bend reality to his whim?

With a steady breath, he murmured, "A grand table appears here in the Room of Requirement, laden with a feast fit for three—roast beef, buttery potatoes, fresh salads, pumpkin juice, and treacle tart—summoning Pansy and Cassiopeia to join me once their house meeting is over."

The air shimmered, the room expanding slightly as a polished oak table materialized by the hearth, chairs sliding into place, platters steaming with savory aromas.

Now all he had to do was wait.