November 3, 1957Number 12, Grimmauld Place, London
The air in the chamber smelled of ozone, crushed velvet, and the copper tang of ancient wards.
Beyond the heavy velvet drapes, the London sky wept in a mundane grey torrent, lashing furiously against the ancient wards of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. But the elemental fury of the storm was a pittance compared to the crushing, atmospheric density within the chamber. The House of Black did not merely birth children; they consecrated vessels. Every son was a fresh link in an unbroken chain of blood-iron, a dynasty that had already grown old and terrible before the first stone of the Pyramids was ever laid.
Walburga Black lay against the mountain of pillows, her skin the colour of parchment, sweat matting her dark hair against her temples. She was exhausted, her body trembling with the aftershocks of labor, yet her eyes burned with a terrifying, feverish intensity. Her arms were locked around the bundle in her lap, her knuckles white.
She was not merely holding a son. She was holding her vindication.
"Heir," she whispered, the word rasping from her dry throat. It wasn't a question. It was a decree.
Orion stood by the bedpost, his hand resting on the dark wood, his expression unreadable to the untrained eye. But beneath the stoic mask of the pureblood lord, there was a profound relief that bordered on religious experience. The line continued. The blood was secure.
"Let me see him."
The voice was like grinding stones. Arcturus Black, the Patriarch, the Lord of House Black, stepped out of the shadows. He did not walk; he loomed. He carried the weight of the family name like a physical mantle, his presence pressing down on the lesser magic in the room.
Walburga hesitated for a fraction of a second—a mother's primal instinct warring with a daughter-in-law's duty, before tilting the bundle toward the Patriarch.
Arcturus looked down. The infant was silent, eyes squeezed shut, fists clenched.
"Bring the needle," Arcturus commanded.
A house-elf, trembling with reverence, held up a silver basin and a needle of obsidian. This was the Rite of Recognition. A single drop of blood to wake the Tapestry, to determine if Magic had blessed the Blood.
Arcturus pricked the infant's heel. The baby did not cry; he merely shifted, a tiny frown marring his brow. The drop of blood fell into the basin, and the room seemed to hold its breath.
On the far wall, the Family Tapestry—that great, weaving beast of history—groaned. The sound was audible, the stretching of magical threads. Golden light erupted from the fabric, ignoring the laws of physics, snakes of light slithering up the blackened tree, bypassing the dead and the disowned, seeking the new branch.
A name began to burn itself into the velvet, stitching itself into reality with agonizing slowness.
V E G A
"Vega," Arcturus pronounced, the sound rolling through the room like thunder. "The brightest star in the Lyra constellation. The falling eagle."
The magic in the room surged, responding to the naming. And then, the impossible happened.
The infant opened his eyes. They were not the murky blue of a newborn, but a piercing, lucid grey - the trademark of the Blacks.
But as the heavy gaze of the Patriarch met the gaze of the child, the wisps of hair upon the boy's head began to ripple.
A gasp tore through the gathered attendants and cousins standing in the periphery.
The jet-black hair faded. It bleached into a startling, snowy white, mirroring the lightning outside. Then, as the child yawned, the white darkened, shifting into a deep, regal purple, before settling back into the raven black of his father.
Silence. Absolute, suffocating silence.
In the wizarding world, such things were rare. To the uninitiated, this may have been mistaken for instability, a chaotic mutation to be purged. But the House of Black remembered. This was no flaw. It was the Old Blood singing. It was the pinnacle of their lineage, a sovereign gift that had lain dormant in the veins of their ancestors for over five centuries. The Tapestry had not seen a true Metamorphmagus since the War of the Roses; it was the ultimate, irrefutable seal that the child was not just of the Body, but of the very Soul of the House.
"By Morgana," a cousin whispered in the back, the fear audible. "A Metamorphmagus. A true shifter."
Arcturus Black did not flinch. He did not recoil. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face, cracking the stoic mask he had worn for decades. He looked at the child not as a baby, but as a King looks at a sword pulled from a stone.
He saw the future. He saw the Dominion.
He reached down, his callous finger tracing the soft cheek of the boy who shifted his features to match the touch.
"The blood is strong," Arcturus boomed. "Magic has blessed us. He is not merely an heir, Walburga. He is the apex."
Walburga looked down at the child, the exhaustion fleeing her, replaced by a cold, triumphant fire. She pulled the blanket tighter, shielding the miracle from the greedy eyes of the room.
"Yes," she hissed softly into the silence.
Arcturus leaned in, his shadow falling over the crib, sealing the boy's fate with a promise that sounded like a threat.
"Yes, Vega Black," the Patriarch murmured, the madness of the Black line dancing in his eyes. "The world will be yours."