The next morning, Alvin woke in the Gryffindor dormitory to sunlight spilling across the stone walls. Around him, his roommates were still snoring—Dean Thomas's arm dangling off his bed, Seamus Finnigan mumbling in his sleep. Alvin, however, was wide awake. His mind thrummed with restless energy, eager to begin.
By the time the others stumbled down for breakfast, Alvin had already memorized the layout of the common room, noted the arrangement of portraits on the stairs, and catalogued half a dozen charms he wanted to test in class.
The Great Hall greeted them with the smell of bacon and toast. Platters refilled themselves as soon as they were emptied, and the enchanted ceiling mirrored a bright September sky. Alvin sat with the Gryffindors, sneaking glances at the magic all around him. The floating candles seemed to hum with quiet power, and owls swooped in and out through high windows, delivering letters and parcels.
For the first time, he truly felt he belonged to a world bigger than himself.
And yet, beneath the wonder, he missed Susan. She had promised to write when her own Hogwarts letter arrived next year, but it wasn't the same as having family close by.
---
Their first lesson was Charms with Professor Flitwick. The tiny professor hopped onto his pile of books and squeaked, "Today, we'll begin with the Levitation Charm! A simple spell, but the foundation for so much more."
Alvin gripped his wand, eager. "Wingardium Leviosa," he said clearly, and before anyone else's feather had so much as twitched, Alvin's floated gracefully into the air.
Gasps rose around him. Ron Weasley gawked from two seats away. Hermione Granger scowled, muttering, "That's not fair—he barely tried!"
Flitwick's eyes widened behind his spectacles. "Excellent, Mr. Black! Very advanced control for your first attempt."
Alvin flushed, proud but embarrassed by the attention. By the end of class, while most students were still trying to get their feathers off the desk, Alvin had experimented with patterns—making his feather spin, dip, and dance like a tiny bird.
Word spread quickly: Alvin Black had a gift.
---
But not all the whispers were kind.
In the corridors, he caught snippets:
"Black, did she say?"
"Like that Black family?"
"I thought most of them were mad… or dead."
The name carried weight, like a shadow stretching out behind him. Alvin began to notice the stares—some curious, some hostile.
That evening, as he left the library alone, he found himself face-to-face with three older Slytherins. The leader, a tall boy with sharp features, smirked as he blocked Alvin's path.
"So it's true," he drawled. "A Black walks these halls again."
Alvin stiffened. "What's it to you?"
The boy stepped closer, his friends flanking him. "Everything. The Black family name once commanded respect. Then your lot betrayed it. Your branch is nothing now—traitors to the bloodline."
Alvin froze. His heart hammered. Is that why Mother never talks about Father?
"I don't even know what you're talking about," Alvin said, though the words came out sharper than he intended.
The Slytherin sneered. "Oh, come now. Everyone knows. The House of Black is in ruins. And you, little Black, are the last pathetic ember."
The words struck like a curse. Alvin felt heat rising in his chest. "Shut your mouth."
"Or what?" The boy shoved him lightly against the wall. "Going to hex me? Show us how talented you really are?"
Alvin's hand twitched toward his wand. His mind ran twice as fast as theirs—he could do it, he knew he could—but something held him back.
The boy leaned in, voice low. "Careful, Black. You can't outrun your blood. Sooner or later, you'll end up just like the rest of your cursed family."
Alvin's fury boiled over. His wand was half out of his pocket when a silken voice cut through the corridor.
"What," said Professor Snape, his black robes sweeping as he approached, "is the meaning of this?"
All three Slytherins straightened instantly. Alvin tried to do the same, but Snape's cold eyes pinned him in place.
"First-years," Snape said slowly, his lip curling. "Barely here a week and already dueling in corridors?"
"He started it, Professor," the Slytherin leader said quickly. "He drew his wand first."
Alvin's mouth opened to protest, but Snape raised a hand. "Enough. Ten points from Gryffindor. And ten from Slytherin. If you children wish to hex each other, do it on your own time, not mine."
The injustice burned, but Alvin bit his tongue. Snape's expression lingered on him a moment longer, something unreadable in his gaze.
Finally, the professor swept past, his robes whispering like shadows.
The Slytherins smirked and slunk away. "Welcome to Hogwarts, Black," one of them muttered.
Alvin stood rigid, every muscle tense, until they were gone.
---
That night, long after his roommates had fallen asleep, Alvin sat by the dormitory window, staring out at the starlit grounds. His thoughts churned.
Why had his mother kept the truth hidden?
What had the Slytherins meant by betrayal?
And why did the name "Black" feel like both a curse and a key to something greater?
Somewhere deep inside, Alvin felt it: his dreams, the wolf, the shadows—all of it was connected.
And he would find the truth.