In a crisp, decisive voice, Druella answered the eldest Black daughter: "No."

Because she absolutely, positively, hated not having her way, Bellatrix took matters into her own capable hands. She marched to her father's study, nostrils flared and knocked loudly. He beckoned her to enter and she feigned an innocent, child-like demeanor to arouse his sympathy.

It didn't work.

"She doesn't care about my happiness at all!"

Cygnus—who, after fourteen years, had been used to these outbursts—offered solace, albeit half-heartedly. "Competitively racing Granians? You'd have no marriage prospects after that."

Despite his effort, her mind was already set.

▼ s e v e n ▲ : the blame game.