It was the height of summer in the middle of July. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the gallery room in Blackwood Castle, where the entire family had gathered around two bassinets set side by side, one wrapped in warm blue and the other draped in soft pink.
Five small faces peered down at the two infants sleeping peacefully inside.
"They are so tiny," Rigel said, leaning over the edge with wide, curious eyes.
"So pretty," Corvus agreed softly, tilting his head.
"But wrinkly," Lyra pointed out, squinting down at the newborns.
"She is not wrinkly!" Draco pouted instantly, crossing his arms and glaring at her with all the fierce dignity a six-year-old could muster. "My sister is beautiful! And don't touch!"
He lightly slapped Lyra's reaching finger away from the blanket.
"You haven't even washed your hands!" Draco added, his nose turning up in classic Malfoy fashion. "She is a lady, not one of your muddy garden worms!"
Lyra simply pulled a ridiculous face back at him, completely unimpressed.
Beside them, Luna tilted her head with a dreamy smile, watching the soft dust motes dancing in the sunlight above the bassinets.
"The Gulping Plimpies must have visited during their nap," she remarked softly, pointing a small finger into the air. "They leave behind invisible bubbles of soft laughter. It means both babies will have very sweet dreams and grow up remarkably clever."
The children all paused to blink at Luna, but Draco quickly returned his full attention to his newborn sister, his heart swelling with immense pride. Born in June, the same month as his own birthday, she was, he secretly felt, the greatest gift he could ever have received.
Dora grinned down into the blue bassinet, her eyes sparkling with pride as her hair shifted to a vibrant, cheerful blonde. "Well, my brother is clearly the cooler one anyway. Look at him! He's going to be a total terror when he grows up. I'm going to teach him how to ride a broom before he can even walk."
"You will do no such thing, Nymphadora," Andromeda warned, though her lips twitched with amused, fond affection as she adjusted her robes.
After a restful month in traditional confinement to protect the health of both mothers and newborns, the Malfoys and the Tonkses were finally ready to present the two newest members of the bloodline to the extended family.
Arcturus and Melania sat in high-backed armchairs near the fireplace, watching the youth with satisfied, sharp eyes. Nearby, Cygnus and Druella stood in quiet pride alongside Pollux and Irma, while Lucretia and Ignatius Prewett quietly chatted with Marius and Ophelia. Even Cassiopeia had deigned to attend, her cold, discerning gaze softened just a fraction by the peaceful presence of two fresh additions.
Sirius stood near the edge of the gathering with Esme, who held little Alphard comfortably on her hip. Having turned three back in May, the toddler squirmed gently in her arms, craning his neck with wide, bright eyes to peek over his siblings' shoulders at the tiny bundles. Beside them, Pandora and Xenophilius were practically brimming with warmth, watching their young Luna and the rest of the children marvel at the babies with affectionate, luminous smiles.
Andromeda and Ted stood beside the blue-draped bassinet, while Lucius stood by Narcissa's side at the pink one, immaculate as always, though his chest puffed out slightly every time someone admired his newborn daughter.
"So," Sirius chimed in, leaning against the side of an armchair with an amused glint in his eye. "Are the names finally set in stone? Or are you two going to make us wait another month?"
In high pureblood tradition, and particularly within the ancient houses, a newborn's true name was strictly withheld from the public eye for the first thirty days of life. During the month of confinement, the infant was protected behind heavy wards while their delicate magical core stabilized, preventing bad luck, naming jinxes, or malicious intent from taking root before the child was fully anchored to the world.
Now that the thirty days had passed, the traditional window of secrecy was officially over.
"Our choice was finalized weeks ago, Sirius," Narcissa replied with calm, regal dignity, taking her husband's offered arm. "We simply observed the proper custom."
"Right, of course," Sirius chuckled, stepping closer and craning his neck over the pink bassinet. "So, what is the official title of the Malfoy heiress?"
Lucius cleared his throat, adjusting his cuffs with an air of absolute grandeur. "Octavia Cassiopeia Malfoy."
Sirius froze for a half-second, blinking rapidly before a slow, wicked grin spread across his face. "Octavia?" he repeated, loud enough to draw an amused glance from Uncle Marius across the room. "Are you serious, Cissy? The poor girl isn't even five weeks old, and she already sounds like a three-volume tax law scroll."
"It is a name of ancient Roman nobility and classical prestige," Lucius sniffed, lifting his chin in offense.
"It literally means eighth," Sirius countered smoothly, resting a hand on his chest in exaggerated disbelief. "Did Lucius forget how to count, or are you planning on having six more children just to finish the set? Don't worry, little Tavi, Uncle Sirius won't let them make you too stuffy."
"Do not call her Tavi!" Narcissa and Lucius snapped in flawless unison.
Laughter rippled softly through the gallery. Even Arcturus let out a low, gravelly hum of amusement from his armchair, leaning heavily on his silver cane as his sharp eyes turned toward the blue bassinet.
"And what of the Black-Tonks line?" Arcturus's deep voice cut through the room, commanding quiet respect. "Has the boy been given a name worthy of carrying forward?"
Andromeda smiled warmly, looking from Arcturus down to the sleeping babe nestled in the blue. She reached out, gently squeezing Ted's hand.
"Edward Sirius Black-Tonks," Andromeda announced proudly, her eyes shifting to her cousin with deep, abiding affection. "We're calling him Eddy."
Sirius's teasing smile vanished instantly. He blinked, caught completely off guard, a rare look of raw vulnerability touching his features as he looked between Andromeda and little Eddy.
"Edward... Sirius?" Sirius murmured, rubbing the back of his neck as a genuine, humbled smile broke across his face. "Now that... is a brilliant name."
"Of course you think that," Lucius drawled from across the room, rolling his eyes with dry amusement. "Your ego hardly needed the encouragement, Sirius."
Sirius was about to shoot back a sarcastic retort when a soft tug at his robes pulled his attention downward. Lyra came bouncing right up to his side, her gray eyes wide and bright.
"Hey, little spitfire," Sirius chuckled, leaning down to scoop her up against his side. "Having fun?"
"Yes," Lyra declared with absolute conviction. "Babies are small."
"Yes, they are," Sirius agreed with a warm smile.
"And wrinkly," she added, pointing an accusing finger back toward the bassinets.
"All babies are," Sirius pointed out, a mischievous glint entering his eyes as he booped her nose. "You were wrinkly too when you were born."
Lyra wrinkled her nose in pure disgust, giving him a deeply offended glare. "I don't think so. I was never wrinkly."
Sirius let out a bark of laughter, hugging her close.
Then Rigel tugged at his father's sleeve. "Papa."
"Yes, pup?"
"Where did babies come from?"
The room dropped into an absolute, suffocating silence so fast you could hear a pin drop on the thick carpet.
Conversation stalled instantly. Lucretia froze mid-sip with her teacup halfway to her lips, Andromeda bit the inside of her cheek to keep from bursting out laughing, and Lucius looked at Sirius with an expression of profound, merciless satisfaction. Even Arcturus slowly leaned both hands on his silver cane, his sharp eyes glinting with immense, quiet entertainment.
Sirius's face drained of every single drop of color. He stood frozen, staring down into Rigel's wide, innocently curious eyes. It was too early. Way, way too early.
"Papa?" Rigel repeated, tilting his head when his father didn't immediately answer.
Sirius cleared his throat, his vocal cords abruptly failing him. "I—well, you see, pup..."
He shot a desperate, silent plea for help toward Esme. Esme merely offered him a radiant, utterly unhelpful smile, adjusting Alphard on her hip and taking a very deliberate step backward to leave him to his fate.
"Go on, Sirius," Lucius drawled smoothly, a razor-sharp smirk curling the edge of his mouth as he crossed his arms. "Do explain it to the boy. We are all on the edge of our seats."
"Shut up, Lucius," Sirius hissed under his breath, sweating through his robes. He looked back down at Rigel, scrambling through every piece of wizarding folklore, St. Mungo's medical jargon, and pureblood misdirection he could summon.
"Well, Rigel," Sirius began, trying and failing to sound authoritative as his voice cracked slightly. "When... when a wizarding family reaches a certain point of great harmony, magic... magic works in very powerful ways."
"Does the magic bring them in a sack?" Corvus chimed in, stepping up beside his brother, genuinely fascinated.
"Or do they grow out of cabbage patches like in the Muggle picture books?" Dora teased from the back, leaning over the sofa with her pink hair practically glowing with glee.
"They don't come from cabbages!" Draco scoffed, puffing his chest out proudly. "Mother told me that when a Lord and Lady love each other very much, a rare golden starlight falls into the mother's heart, and the magic weaves the baby inside a golden cocoon!"
Sirius let out a long, ragged exhale of pure relief, practically sagging where he stood. He pointed frantically at Draco. "Yes! Exactly! Starlight! Golden cocoons! What Draco said! It's an ancient, mysterious magic, Rigel, and, and we only talk about it when you're older. Much, much older."
"So, Octavia was in a starlight cocoon?" Rigel asked, looking over at his baby cousin in mild awe.
"Yes, absolutely, a very expensive starlight cocoon," Sirius nodded rapidly, wiping a faint bead of nervous sweat from his forehead. "Now, who wants to go out to the gardens and hunt for... invisible Plimpies with Luna?"
"Me!" Lyra shouted instantly.
As the kids scattered toward the gallery doors with Dora leading the charge, Sirius let out a breathless sigh and slumped against the back of an armchair.
Across the room, Marius chuckled warmly, raising his glass toward his nephew. "Handled like a true Auror, Sirius. Faced down Dark wizards but brought to his knees by a five-year-old."
"I'd rather fight three Nundus," Sirius muttered, making the whole room break into fond, ringing laughter.
*****
Later that evening, inside Arcturus's private office.
"There is an invitation," Arcturus said without preamble.
"A what?" Sirius asked, looking up from the desk.
"An invitation," Arcturus replied plainly.
"An invitation? For me?"
"Not exactly for you," Arcturus said, sliding an ornate piece of parchment across the dark mahogany wood. "It is addressed to the House of Black, but I have a strong inkling it is mostly meant for you, as we have never received such an invitation before."
Sirius picked up the letter, his eyes immediately landing on the crisp, gilded crest pressed into the wax seal. The coat of arms of the House of Potter.
"It seems they are inviting us to celebrate the Boy Who Lived's sixth birthday at the end of July," Arcturus explained, resting his hands heavily over the silver handle of his cane. "They have dispatched invitations across the Ministry and the wider community, of course. Though they have noticeably bypassed most of the dark and neutral nobility, prioritizing the light faction instead. I believe even the Lovegoods received one. We are the rare exception coming from the dark faction."
Sirius frowned slightly, flipping the heavy parchment over in his hands. "A public gala for a sixth birthday? Isn't that rather premature?"
"Extremely," Arcturus hummed, his gray eyes narrowing in quiet disapproval.
In pureblood culture and ancient magical tradition, public debuts and grand celebrations were strictly withheld until a child reached their seventh year.
Magically, seven was the arithmantic core of stability, the precise age when a child's accidental magic settled, revealing whether their magical core was truly anchored and capable of structured growth. Culturally, turning seven marked a child's transition from infancy into young heirship; it was the age when formal tutelage began, etiquette was enforced, and a child was first introduced to high society as a true representative of their house.
Even among common folk and non-nobles, seven was historically viewed as the most monumental year to celebrate. In centuries past, before modern St. Mungo's healing potions and specialized charms, infant mortality was a grim reality even in wizarding households. Reaching seven meant a child had survived the perilous early years, proving their magic was robust and anchored enough to protect them from ambient curses and severe childhood illnesses.
To throw such a lavish, public celebration this early was not merely crass. Traditionalists saw it as tempting fate and inviting ill will upon the child's delicate magic.
Arcturus studied his grandson with a measured gaze. "You have been out of touch for too long, I see. If you were paying closer attention, you would have known that the Potters have been celebrating that boy's birthday publicly since he was three."
"Three?!" Sirius repeated, blinking in genuine astonishment. "Have they lost their minds? Parading a three-year-old child in front of press cameras and crowds?"
"Of course," Arcturus said smoothly, leaning back against his velvet chair and steepling his long fingers. "I believe the Ministry has a significant hand in it. They use the boy's birthday as a public stage, a convenient distraction to rally public morale, raise funds under the banner of charity, and remind the populace who supposedly saved them. Dumbledore and Fudge have turned the poor child into a living mascot."
Sirius scoffed, tossing the gilded parchment back onto the mahogany desk. "It's barbaric. A three-year-old doesn't care about Ministry galas or photo ops. He should be playing with toy brooms, not being paraded around like a prize kneazle."
"Which brings us back to the invitation," Arcturus said, a faint, cold smile touching his lips. "The House of Black outranks the Potters, the Ministry, and everyone else on that guest list. In pureblood etiquette, it is only an insult if someone of lower status ignores an invitation from a superior house without a proper excuse. For us? Declining carries no penalty. It merely reminds them of where they stand. We don't even have to send a letter that we will come or not."
Sirius crossed his arms, his gray eyes darkening as he stared down at the gilded parchment. A sharp, bitter tightness gripped his chest.
On the surface, he was scowling at the Potters' political vanity, but beneath it, his mind raced back, back to another lifetime, to two little boys who had been known as Harry and Nathan.
Those two boys had never known a birthday party. They had never blown out candles on a tiered cake, never worn fresh birthday clothes, and certainly had never had a grand hall filled with people cheering for their health and happiness. Subjected to the cold, cruel neglect of the Dursleys, Sirius doubted the twins had even known what date they were born on, let alone what it felt like to be celebrated.
The stark, nauseating contrast between the Potters throwing a national spectacle for their remaining son while the other two they abandoned were locked in a dark cupboard under the stairs made a wave of hot, dangerous fury surge through Sirius's veins. His hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, his jaw working as he fought to suppress the absolute outrage threatening to boil over.
Rigel and Corvus are safe now, he reminded himself fiercely, taking a slow, steadying breath to keep his magic from flaring and rattling the glass cabinets in the office. They are Blacks. They have a real family, a real home, and all the love in the world.
"Sirius?" Arcturus's voice cut through the heavy silence, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observed the dark shift in his grandson's posture. "You look as though you'd like to burn down Potter Manor yourself."
Sirius forced his fists to loosen, shaking his head and plastering a cool, dismissive smirk back onto his face.
"Just disgusted by the sheer hypocrisy of it all, Grandfather," Sirius replied smoothly, his tone icy and even. "Parading a child around for political leverage while pretending it's for the greater good."
Arcturus gave a slow, approving nod, satisfied with the explanation. "Power and politics often make fools of men, Sirius. Let them play their games in the light. Our focus remains on securing the future of this house, and protecting our own."
"On that, we agree completely," Sirius murmured softly, glancing out the dark office window toward the lush gardens, where the children's laughter mingled with the easy chatter of the rest of the family, drifting up from the lantern-lit lawn as everyone lingered in the warm summer night. "Though I do feel sorry for the Potter boy."
*****
Anne Sallow?
Regulus stared down at Sirius's short note, his brows furrowing as his eyes shifted to the small box sitting on his desk.
He picked up the box, turning the smooth wood over in his hands. It was an odd piece, with fine spiraling etchings clearly crafted with goblin silver. But what had Sirius meant by an "odd glow"? Regulus looked at it from every angle, yet he saw nothing out of the ordinary. There is no ambient magical aura, no lingering light.
Frustrated, Regulus focused his magic, letting his senses expand. He leaned closer, tilting the silver under the candlelight, and his eyes widened.
Etched into the surface, seamlessly woven into the dark, root-like filigree, was a subtle, intricate crest shaped like a whispering, ethereal flame. It wasn't glowing, but the way the goblin silver caught the light gave the faint illusion of a living spark dancing across the metal.
The pattern was unmistakable, and Regulus's breath caught in his throat.
I've seen this before.
In the months since his secret return to Grimmauld Place, Regulus had spent countless hours clearing out the suffocating dust and forgotten dark artifacts with Kreacher's help, all while conducting his secret research. In the attic, he had only reached the near end so far. But he remembered a glimpse of something in the far eaves. A flicker of that same root-and-flame design on a trunk he hadn't had time to examine.
Without another second's thought, Regulus turned and rushed out of his room, his boots taking the stairs two at a time as he climbed to the attic.
The air up here was thick with the scent of aged mahogany, stagnant dust, and centuries of decaying magic, undisturbed in this far corner. Regulus pulled out his wand, whispering a soft "Lumos" as he pushed past stacked trunks, draped mirrors, and ancient furniture.
He dug through piles of brass instruments and moldering family relics until his eyes landed on a heavy, iron-bound travelling trunk tucked away in the shadows of the eaves.
Regulus knelt beside it and wiped away a thick layer of dust with his sleeve.
There it was. The exact same intricate, root-like design swirled across the lock, centered around the stylized flame emblem. And etched into the silver plate beneath the latch, previously buried under years of grime, was a name in elegant cursive.
"Ominis Gaunt," Regulus read aloud.
He stared at the name, a chill running down his spine. He recognized the family name, of course. The Gaunts were once an illustrious, dangerously powerful pureblood house in centuries past, but their lineage had crumbled into ruin. A tragic product of fanatical blood purity and dark, unstable magic that eventually bred them into poverty and obscurity. They were widely known for being direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin and for their terrifying gift of Parseltongue.
But why was a Gaunt trunk sitting in the Black family attic?
"Ah... Ominis. It has been a very long time since I last heard that name."
The sudden, dry voice echoing through the quiet attic made Regulus jump. He whipped around, wand raised, his heart hammering against his ribs, only to freeze in utter horror at the frame on the wall behind him. The cloth Kreacher had draped over it had slipped loose, pooling at the base of the canvas.
Phineas Nigellus Black glared down from his portrait, his dark robes immaculately painted, his sneering face assessing Regulus with cold, discerning eyes.
"I see you are alive and well, Regulus," Phineas drawled, raising a dark eyebrow as a sharp smirk touched his lips. "Where have you been hiding all this time?"
Shit, Regulus thought, his pulse skyrocketing into absolute panic.
"I... Grandfather Phineas..." Regulus began, his voice tight as his mind scrambled for an excuse, an explanation, anything.
"Hmm." Phineas abruptly tilted his head, his painted eyes shifting toward the edge of his frame as if hearing a distant call. "It seems I have been summoned back to another post. We shall continue this little conversation later."
"No, wait!" Regulus called urgently, taking a step forward. "Wait!"
It was too late. Phineas gave a dismissive flick of his silk sleeve, turned on his heel, and walked right out of the portrait canvas, leaving behind an empty, blank background of dark drapes.
"Shit. Shit!" Regulus slammed his fist onto the wooden lid of the chest, a wave of cold dread washing over him.
Phineas Nigellus Black was a former Hogwarts Headmaster. One of his portraits hung directly in the Headmaster's Office at Hogwarts, where the current Headmaster was none other than Albus Dumbledore. And portrait heads were notorious for reporting back, gossiping, and acting as spies for the current administration.
If Phineas decided to casually mention to the headmaster that the supposedly deceased younger Black son was currently lurking alive in the attic of Grimmauld Place, everything Regulus, Sirius, and Arcturus were building would come crashing down.
*****
In the Headmaster's Office at Hogwarts, the air was thick with the gentle whirring of silver instruments and the faint, sweet scent of lemon drops.
Albus Dumbledore sat behind his sweeping half-moon desk, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. He glanced up at the highest row of portraits, his blue eyes twinkling behind his crescent spectacles as they settled on a particular painted frame.
"Any more news, Phineas?" Dumbledore asked mildly.
Phineas Nigellus Black sneered down from his canvas, smoothing the lapels of his black robes with slow, deliberate arrogance.
"I have told you repeatedly to stop meddling in my family's affairs, Albus," Phineas snapped, his voice sharp with aristocratic disdain. "You have sent me to the Black estates multiple times than I care to count, and my answer has never changed. I am bound to give you counsel on how to run this school, but anything regarding the House of Black is entirely out of the question."
"Still... you must have heard something," Dumbledore coaxed gently, leaning back. "The political shifts within the Wizengamot are subtle, yet unmistakable."
Phineas let out a dry, barking laugh. "Why? Because all of your delicate little letters have gone unanswered? The Macmillans may handle the Blacks' legal affairs, but even they know better than to provoke Arcturus, especially now that he has stepped back into the light. And as for that werewolf boy of yours... he hasn't responded to a single one of your missives either, has he? What a dreadful shame."
Dumbledore's twinkle dimmed just a fraction, his tone dropping to a quiet, authoritative rumble. "Phineas."
"Do not Phineas me!" the former headmaster scoffed, folding his arms. "Leave me be. I have better things to do than act as your personal hound."
With a dramatic swish of his cloak, Phineas turned his back on the headmaster and stepped out of his frame, leaving Dumbledore alone in the quiet office with his deepening suspicions.