"If you want to know the truth of a wizard, look at his wand hand when he thinks he's losing." — Dragon Club Motto
November 17, 1969
Winter tightened its grip on the Scottish Highlands, turning the Black Lake into a slab of churning, steel-grey ice and frosting the dormitory windows with intricate, fern-like patterns of rime. The castle responded by turning up the heat; the fires in the common rooms roared continuously, and the smell of woodsmoke and damp wool became the permanent perfume of the student body.
For Vega, the weeks following the Dueling Club had been a lesson in celebrity management. The whispers hadn't stopped, but they had changed texture. They were no longer the frantic, incredulous gossip of children; they were the measured, assessing murmurs of players watching a new piece land on the board.
He was sitting in the Great Hall for breakfast, dissecting a sausage while Barty Crouch Jr. read the Daily Prophet aloud with increasing levels of despair.
"Another raid in Nottingham," Barty whispered, his eyes scanning the grim headlines. "Dark Mark sighted. My father is quoted saying, 'The Ministry will not bow to terror.' He sounds tired."
"Terror is exhausting work, Barty," Vega said, reaching for the marmalade. "Both for the ones causing it and the ones fighting it."
"You're terribly calm about the world ending," Cyrus Greengrass noted, pouring tea. "My father is warding the manor. He says the wards haven't been fully raised since Grindelwald."
"Panic is inefficient," Vega shrugged. He felt the Hum in his blood—a warm, steady current that kept the winter chill at bay. "And besides, we're in the safest place in Scotland. Unless the stairs get us."
A shadow fell across the table.
It was a seventh-year Ravenclaw, a girl Vega recognized vaguely as the Head Girl. She didn't speak immediately. She placed a small, golden object on the table next to Vega's plate.
It was a mechanical moth. Its wings were filigree gold, spinning with a soft, clockwork whir.
"The Sphinx does not ask for answers," the girl said, her voice cool and melodic. "It asks for the right question."
She turned and walked away before Vega could respond.
"What is that?" Rhea asked, leaning in, her eyes wide.
Vega picked up the moth. It was warm. As his skin touched the metal, the wings flared, and a series of glowing runes projected onto the tablecloth.
Tonight. The Astronomy Tower. Midnight. Bring your mind.
"The Sphinx Club," Cyrus breathed, looking at the moth with naked envy. "They don't recruit first years. Ever. You have to be invited by a unanimous vote of the senior members."
"What do they do?" Barty asked, eyeing the moth warily.
"They solve the castle," Vega said, watching the runes fade. He felt a spike of intellectual hunger. "Arcturus told me about them. They don't study for exams. They hunt for the lost rooms, the old magic, the secrets Ravenclaw hid in the architecture."
By lunch, the pattern had established itself.
Vega was in the greenhouses, helping Professor Sprout prune a box of Venomous Tentacula that were feeling particularly bitey. The air was thick, humid, and smelled of wet earth and fertilizer—a heavy, green scent that made his head swim pleasantly.
"Careful with the vines, Mr. Black," Sprout warned, wrestling a tendril. "They go for the wrists."
"They're just hungry, Professor," Vega said, stroking the spiny leaf with a thumb. He pushed a little of his own chaotic magic into the plant—not a spell, just a feeling of calm. The plant shivered and went limp, purring like a cat.
"Remarkable," Sprout muttered. "You have a green thumb, boy. Or a green soul."
As they packed up, a Hufflepuff sixth-year named Gabriel Truman bumped into him near the compost bins.
"Sorry," Truman grunted. He was covered in mud and smelled like sage.
He pressed something into Vega's hand.
It wasn't a golden moth. It was a rough, textured packet made of dried leaves, bound with a piece of living vine.
"The Hippogriff likes those who aren't afraid of the dirt," Truman murmured, wiping his hands on his robes. "Sunset. The edge of the Forbidden Forest. Don't be late."
He lumbered off.
Vega looked at the packet. The vine uncurled slowly, revealing a single, perfect moon-flower seed that glowed in the gloom of the greenhouse.
The Hippogriff Club, Vega thought, pocketing the seed. Nature. Beasts. The magic that grows rather than burns.
"Another one?" Cyrus asked, appearing at his elbow. "Leave some glory for the rest of us, Vega. It's becoming gluttonous."
"I didn't ask for it," Vega said, though the thrill in his chest said otherwise. "They're just... arriving."
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The final piece of the triad fell into place just before dinner.
Vega was walking through the dungeon corridor, the torches flickering in the draft. He was alone, having sent the others ahead to secure good seats near the fire.
"Black."
He knew the voice. It was heavy, textured with the rough edge of adolescence.
Evan Rosier stepped out of an alcove.
He didn't look angry anymore. The humiliation of the Cheering Charm had faded, replaced by the grim respect of a predator who had found another wolf in his territory.
"Rosier," Vega acknowledged, stopping. "Is your breathing back to normal?"
"Funny," Rosier grunted, though a smirk tugged at his lip. "You have a nasty sense of humor. I respect that."
He flipped something through the air.
Vega caught it.
It was a playing card—the Ace of Spades. But it was charred black, the edges still smoking faintly. In the center, a dragon curled around a pair of crossed wands, embossed in red ink that looked suspiciously like blood.
"Crossed Wands," Rosier said, leaning against the damp stone wall. "The Dragon Club. We don't care about riddles, and we don't care about plants. We care about who is still standing when the smoke clears."
He looked Vega up and down.
"You embarrassed a third-year. That got you noticed. But doing it once is luck. Doing it twice is skill."
"And if I join?" Vega asked, flipping the card over his knuckles.
"Then you stop fighting children," Rosier said, his eyes hard. "And you start fighting us. Tonight. The Clock Tower courtyard. No teachers. No points. Just the duel."
He pushed off the wall.
"Don't bring the Cheering Charm, Black. We won't be laughing."
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Slytherin Common roomVega sat in the common room that evening, the three tokens laid out on the table before him.
The Golden Moth. Sphinx. The mind, the history, the puzzle.
The Moon Seed. Hippogriff. The earth, the potion, the life.
The Burnt Card. Dragon. The fire, the wand, the fight.
"You can't do all three," Barty said, looking at the collection with wide eyes. "It's impossible. The meetings overlap. The workload..."
"Time is flexible if you know how to bend it, Barty," Vega murmured.
"They're scouting you," Rhea said, touching the golden moth reverently. "This is huge, Vega. Most students beg to get into one by their fourth year. You have the keys to the kingdom in your first term."
"It's not just about prestige," Ellaria Shafiq said softly from her chair. "It's about access. The Sphinx Club knows the secret passages. The Hippogriff Club has access to the restricted greenhouses. And the Dragon Club..."
"The Dragon Club runs the underground dueling circuit," Cyrus finished. "It's where the real magic happens. The stuff they don't teach in Defense Against the Dark Arts."
Vega picked up the burnt card. It felt hot against his skin.
He thought of the Hum in his blood. It was chaotic. It was fluid. It didn't want to be just one thing. It wanted to be the scholar, the gardener, and the soldier.
"Why choose?" Vega whispered.
"Because you have to sleep?" Cyrus suggested dryly.
Vega smiled. It was the smile of a Black who had just decided to eat the whole cake.
"Sleep is for people who don't have Time-Turners," Vega said, though he didn't have one yet. "Or for people who accept limits."
He swept the three tokens into his pocket.
"I'm going to the Clock Tower first," he decided, feeling the adrenaline spike. "The Dragon Club wants a fight. It would be rude to keep them waiting."
"And the others?" Rhea asked.
"The Sphinx can wait until midnight," Vega said, checking his watch. "Riddles keep. And the Hippogriff..." He patted the pocket with the seed. "Nature is patient."
He stood up, adjusting his robes.
"I'm going to see just how deep the rabbit hole goes," Vega declared. "If I'm not back by curfew, tell Slughorn I was abducted by admirers."
"He'd believe it," Cyrus muttered.
Vega walked out of the common room, the serpent gate grinding shut behind him. The castle felt different tonight. It wasn't just a school anymore. It was a labyrinth of secret societies and hidden power, and Vega Black intended to hold the map to all of it.
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The Clock Tower Courtyard was usually a place of transit, a drafty shortcut between the library and the hospital wing. But at night, stripped of the bustling students and bathed in the rhythmic, mesmerizing shadow of the massive pendulum swinging overhead, it felt like an arena.
The wind howled through the open arches, carrying snow that melted the instant it hit the flagstones, but the cold was a secondary concern. The real chill came from the silence of the twenty students standing in a loose circle near the fountain.
Vega stepped out of the shadows. He adjusted his scarf, feeling the Hum in his blood shift from a purr to a growl. It knew where he was.
Evan Rosier was leaning against the base of the pendulum mechanism, tossing his wand from hand to hand. Beside him stood Lucinda Talkalot and a few other upper-year Slytherins, but the circle wasn't partisan. There were Gryffindors with scarred knuckles, Ravenclaws with calculating eyes, and even a couple of Hufflepuffs who looked like they enjoyed hitting things more than badger-like loyalty usually permitted.
"He actually came," Lucinda murmured, her breath pluming in the air.
Rosier pushed off the mechanism. He looked Vega up and down, noting the casual stance, the lack of fear.
"I told you," Rosier said to the group. "He's got the teeth."
He stepped into the center of the circle.
"Welcome to the Pit," Rosier announced, his voice low but carrying over the thrum-whoosh of the pendulum. "We don't do points here. We don't do detention. We settle the things that words can't fix."
He pointed his wand at Vega.
"You beat me. Everyone saw it. You used a charm to mess with my biology. Smart. But in the Pit, we don't stop because someone is laughing. We stop when someone can't stand up."
"Understood," Vega said, undoing the clasp of his heavy winter cloak and letting it drop to the wet stones. The cold bit at him, sharpening his focus.
"Fresh meat implies a trial," a voice rumbled from the Gryffindor side of the circle.
A boy stepped forward. He was a fifth-year, built like a brick outhouse, with a mop of red hair and a face that looked like it had been broken and put back together at least once.
Sextus Avery.
"I'll test him," Sextus said, cracking his knuckles. He drew a wand that looked like a jagged piece of driftwood. "If he's as good as you say, Rosier, he won't mind a little heat."
Rosier looked at Vega, eyebrows raised. "Prewett is heavy artillery, Black. You sure?"
Vega looked at the Gryffindor. Sextus was two feet taller and likely threw curses that could crack stone.
"I don't mind heat," Vega said, stepping into the circle and drawing his wand. The Quetzalcoatl feather trilled, eager for the fight. "It keeps the cold out."
There was no countdown.
Sextus moved with surprising speed for his size. He didn't bother with a disarming charm. He slashed his wand downward in a brutal, chopping motion.
"Confringo!"
The Blasting Curse hit the flagstones exactly where Vega had been standing a fraction of a second before.
BOOM.
Stone shrapnel sprayed the air.
Vega was already moving. He didn't roll this time; the ground was wet and slippery. He slid, using the slick stone to skate to the right, his boots carving a path through the slush.
"Rictusempra!" Vega fired back, aiming for the neck.
Sextus swatted the silver bolt aside with a lazy flick of a Shield Charm, not even breaking his stride.
"Cute," Gideon grunted. "Depulso!"
The Banishing Charm caught Vega mid-slide. It wasn't a direct hit, but the shockwave lifted him off his feet and threw him backward. He slammed into the stone rim of the fountain, the impact knocking the wind out of him.
Water splashed over his robes, freezing cold.
"Get up!" Sextus roared, advancing like a tank. "Expulso!"
Another explosion tore up the ground to Vega's left.
Vega scrambled over the fountain rim, splashing into the shallow water to put the stone structure between him and the Gryffindor.
He's too strong, Vega analyzed, wiping icy water from his eyes. If I try to match power, he'll grind me into paste. I need to change the environment.
He looked at the water around his boots.
Sextus rounded the fountain, wand raised for a finisher.
"Glacius!"
Vega didn't aim at Sextus. He slammed his wand tip into the fountain water.
The freeze was instantaneous. The water flash-froze into a jagged sheet of ice, trapping Vega's boots but also creating a slick, deadly surface around the rim.
Sextus stepped onto the wet stone, ready to fire.
Vega twisted his wrist.
"Oppugno!"
The ice didn't just sit there. It shattered.
Hundreds of razor-sharp shards of ice erupted from the fountain, driven by Vega's will. They swarmed at Sextus like a cloud of angry hornets.
Sextus flinched, raising a shield to protect his face. The ice shards hammered against the blue barrier, creating a blinding white mist of frost and impact.
Vision obscured, Vega thought. Now.
He ripped his boots free from the remaining ice with a grunt of effort and vaulted over the fountain rim, using the mist as cover.
He was in the air. Sextus was still shielding against the ice barrage.
Vega pointed his wand at the massive, swinging pendulum above them.
"Descendo!"
He didn't pull the pendulum down—that was impossible. He pulled a loose gargoyle head from the archway above the pendulum.
The heavy stone head broke free. It fell, bounced off the swinging metal arm of the clock mechanism, and ricocheted down into the courtyard with a terrifying crash, landing exactly three feet behind Sextus.
The vibration knocked the Gryffindor off balance. His shield flickered.
Vega landed in a crouch.
"Ventus!"
He used the aperture technique Flitwick had taught him—the needle-thread of air.
The compressed blast of wind hit Sextus in the back of the knee. His leg buckled. He dropped to one knee, his wand arm flailing.
Vega didn't stop. He stepped in close, inside Sextus's guard.
"Flipendo Duo!"
He cast it point-blank at Sextus's chest.
The double-knockback hex hit hard. Sextus flew backward, skidding across the wet flagstones until he hit the wall of the tower with a heavy thud.
Sextus groaned, his wand rolling from his fingers.
Silence in the courtyard.
Vega stood panting, his robes soaked, shivering as the adrenaline began to fade. A shallow cut on his cheek—shrapnel from the first explosion—was bleeding freely, the warm blood a stark contrast to the freezing air.
Rosier stepped forward, looking at the crater in the floor, the shattered fountain, and the groaning Gryffindor.
"You dropped a gargoyle," Rosier said, sounding impressed.
"I missed," Vega gasped, clutching his bruised ribs. "I was aiming for his toes."
Sextus Avery sat up, rubbing the back of his head. He looked at Vega, then at his wand lying five feet away. He let out a bark of laughter that sounded painful.
"You're a vicious little shite, aren't you?" Sextus grinned, wiping blood from his lip. "Slytherin House usually fights from a distance."
"I like to be thorough," Vega said, straightening up and holstering his wand.
Sextus stood up, wincing. He picked up his wand and walked over to Vega. He didn't hex him. He extended a massive, calloused hand.
"Good fight, Black. You've got guts. And a decent aim with falling masonry."
Vega took the hand. Sextus's grip was crushing.
"You hit like a troll, Prewett," Vega returned.
"Thanks."
Rosier clapped a hand on Vega's wet shoulder.
"You're in," Rosier declared. "Dragon Club. We meet every Tuesday and Thursday. And we were just the fodder to test you Black. "
Vega left the courtyard ten minutes later, having dried his robes with a quick charm, though the bruise on his ribs was throbbing with a dull, persistent ache.
He checked his watch. 11:45 PM.
The Sphinx, he remembered. Midnight.
He was battered, bleeding, and exhausted. His magical core felt stretched thin, and his body felt like it had gone ten rounds with a boxing willow.
Most people would go to bed.
Vega grinned, tasting the copper of his split lip.
He turned toward the spiral staircase that led to the Astronomy Tower. The night wasn't over. He had conquered the body; now he had fifteen minutes to get ready to conquer the mind.
As he climbed, the Hum in his blood settled into a satisfied rhythm.
Fire below, Vega thought, touching the cut on his cheek. Stars above.
He wouldn't have it any other way.
The climb to the Astronomy Tower was usually a test of endurance, a punishment of steep stone steps and biting drafts. But tonight, the castle felt different.
As Vega ascended the spiral staircase, leaving the violence of the Dragon Club behind him, the stone walls seemed to hum. It wasn't the mechanical grinding of the moving stairs or the heavy pressure of the wards; it was a softer sound, like a choir inhaling before a note.
He checked his watch. 11:58 PM.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the Golden Moth. The mechanical insect was vibrating, its filigree wings blurring with a soft, golden light that illuminated the dark stairwell.
It didn't lead him to the open ramparts where Professor Sinistra held her classes. Instead, ten feet below the summit, the moth flew out of his hand. It fluttered toward a blank stretch of stone wall between two torch brackets and landed on a specific, rough-hewn block.
Click.
The stone didn't slide open.
It unfolded.
Like a piece of complex origami, the solid granite wall bloomed outward, revealing a passage that shouldn't have fit within the castle's geometry.
Vega stepped through.
The Sphinx Club did not exist in a classroom. It existed in the negative space of Hogwarts—the pockets of reality tucked between the floorboards of the world.
He stood on a balcony of white marble floating in a vast, cylindrical library that stretched up and down into infinity. There was no ceiling, only a swirling nebula of purple and gold gas that cast a soft, dreamlike light. There was no floor, only a descent into a mist of whispering clouds.
Spiral staircases made of floating books connected hundreds of balconies. Shelves carved from crystal lined the walls, glass spheres containing memories, trapped echoes, and singing winds.
"Welcome," a voice drifted down.
Vega looked up.
Sitting on a floating Persian rug ten feet above him was the Head Girl, the Ravenclaw who had given him the moth. She was sipping tea from a cup that hovered beside her hand. Around her, a dozen other students—Ravenclaws, a few Slytherins, one dreamy-looking Hufflepuff—were lounging on similar floating furniture, reading books that turned their own pages or arguing quietly with portraits that had climbed out of their frames to join the debate.
"You found the door," she said, her voice melodic. "Most people just see a wall."
"The moth was persuasive," Vega replied, stepping to the edge of the balcony. He looked down into the abyss. A shoal of glowing, translucent fish swam through the air below him, weaving between the stacks of books. "And the architecture is... non-Euclidean."
"Rowena liked to keep her options open," the girl smiled, floating down to eye level. "I am Pandora. And this is the Sphinx. We do not duel here. We do not brew. We imagine."
She gestured to the room.
"Everything you see here was thought into existence by a student. The rug. The fish. The stairs. This is a space where the castle's reality is... porous. It listens to you."
Pandora drifted closer.
"To enter the Sphinx is not a test of skill, Vega Black. It is a test of contribution. You must offer the room something it does not already know. A secret. A theory. A piece of magic that is yours alone."
The other students stopped reading. They watched him from their floating perches, their eyes bright with curiosity.
Vega felt the weight of the demand. They didn't want a spell from a textbook. They wanted creativity.
He thought of the Hum in his blood. He thought of the Metamorphmagus ritual—the invitation of chaos. He thought of the stars Sinistra had shown him.
"A secret," Vega mused.
He held out his hand.
He didn't draw his wand. He focused on the Ring. He focused on the lesson from Slughorn about extraction, and the lesson from Flitwick about aperture.
He closed his eyes. He reached into the Hum, but instead of using it to change his face, he pushed it out. He grabbed the ambient sound of the room—the rustle of pages, the breathing of students, the hum of the nebula—and he pulled it into his palm.
Solidify, he commanded.
A ball of light formed in his hand. But it wasn't just light. It was a shifting, crystalline structure that pulsed with rhythm. It was the sound of the room, frozen into a jewel.
He opened his eyes and tossed the jewel into the air.
It hung there, spinning. And as it spun, it played the room back to them—not as sound, but as color. The whisper of the clouds became a soft blue ripple. The scratching of quills became spikes of gold. The beat of Pandora's heart became a rhythmic pulse of warm red light.
"Synesthesia," Pandora breathed, watching the music of her own existence float by. "You turned the acoustic into the visual without a transmutation circle. That would get you an Exceeds Expectations in your NEWTS"
"Magic is just a conversation," Vega said, echoing Flitwick but adding his own twist. "Sometimes you just need to translate the language."
The jewel drifted up, joining the shoal of fish, pulsing in time with their movements.
"Accepted," Pandora whispered.
The room seemed to sigh in agreement. A leather armchair floated over to Vega, bumping gently against his knees.
"Take a seat, Vega," Pandora smiled, drifting back up to her rug. "We were just debating whether time is a line or a loop. Robert thinks it's a spiral. I think it's a soup."
Vega sat down. The chair was incredibly comfortable, smelling of cinnamon and old parchment. He looked around the impossible library, at the fish swimming through the air and the nebula swirling above.
He was bruised from the Dragon Club. He was tired. But he felt his mind expanding, the walls of his perception being pushed back by the sheer, whimsical scale of the magic here.
Dragon for the body, Vega thought, watching a book flap its covers and fly past his head. Sphinx for the soul.
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He left the Sphinx an hour later, his head buzzing with theories about temporal mechanics and the magical properties of dreams.
The castle was silent now. The torches had burned low.
Vega walked back toward the dungeons, but he stopped at the Entrance Hall doors.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the rough packet he had received in the greenhouse. The moon-flower seed.
Sunset, the Hufflepuff had said.
He had missed it. He had chosen the fight and the puzzle over the earth.
Vega pushed open the heavy oak doors. The cold night air hit him, but he ignored it. He walked down the stone steps, his boots crunching on the frosted grass.
He went to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, near a circle of standing stones that marked the old Druid boundary.
It was dark. There was no one there.
"Nature is patient," Vega murmured to the wind.
He knelt in the frozen mud. He dug a small hole with his bare hands, feeling the bite of the earth. He placed the glowing seed inside and covered it.
He didn't cast a spell. He just placed his hand on the soil and pushed a little of his own warmth, a little of his own chaotic life force, into the ground.
"I'm late," Vega whispered to the dirt. "Sorry about that. But I'm here now."
Nothing happened for a moment.
Then, the ground trembled.
A tiny shoot erupted from the frost. It grew fast, spiraling upward, unfolding leaves that shimmered like silver velvet. In seconds, a single, magnificent flower bloomed—pale white, glowing with a soft, bioluminescent pulse that matched the beating of his heart.
A rustle from the trees.
A figure stepped out from the shadows of the forest. It wasn't the Hufflepuff boy.
It was a centaur.
He had a coat of deep chestnut and eyes that looked like they had seen much. He carried a bow, but it was slung over his shoulder.
"The seed accepts the apology," the centaur said. His voice was the sound of branches creaking in the wind.
Vega stood up, wiping the dirt from his hands. He bowed his head, knowing better than to look a centaur in the eye without invitation.
"I am Vega."
"We know," the centaur said. He stepped closer, the flower's light reflecting in his dark eyes. "You are the Star that Falls. You walk with the Dragon and the Sphinx. It is a heavy burden to carry three worlds."
"I have strong shoulders," Vega said quietly.
The centaur chuckled—a deep, earthy sound.
"Perhaps. Or perhaps you just do not know the weight yet."
He gestured to the flower.
"This is the Hippogriff's gate. It blooms only for those who understand that magic is not just power, but life. You have planted it. Now you must tend it."
The centaur turned back to the forest.
"Welcome to the Earth, Star-Child. Try not to burn it down."
He vanished into the trees as silently as smoke.
Vega stood alone in the moonlight, the glowing flower pulsing at his feet.
He had the card. He had the moth. He had the flower.
He touched the Ring on his finger.
Soldier. Scholar. Gardener.
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December 15, 1969, Hogwarts Library
The Hogwarts library was a cavern of silence, smelling of dust, old leather, and the faint, sweet scent of decaying parchment. It was late afternoon, the winter sun casting long, pale beams through the high windows, illuminating the motes of dust dancing in the air like microscopic galaxies.
Vega sat at a secluded table in the Restricted Section—a privilege granted by his Sphinx Club membership—surrounded by stacks of books on Kinetic Anchors and Theoretical Alchemy.
He was tired. It was a good tired, the kind that came from stretching the mind until it felt like an overused muscle, but it was exhaustion nonetheless. Between the Dueling Club, Slughorn's "impromptu" suppers, and the late-night riddles of the Sphinx, his schedule was less a timetable and more a test of endurance.
"Kinetic transfer requires a sympathetic medium," Vega muttered, tracing a diagram. "If the portrait is the anchor, then the paint must be the conduit. Gold leaf mixed with crushed opal..."
"You always did prefer books to people."
The voice cut through his concentration like a razor.
Vega didn't jump. He finished his note, marked his page with a strip of silk, and slowly looked up.
Bellatrix stood at the end of the aisle.
She looked... different.
Usually, Bellatrix was a storm of frantic energy—hair wild, robes disheveled, eyes darting around looking for a fight. Today, she was still. Her heavy black hair was tamed into a sleek braid that coiled down her back like a serpent. Her robes were pressed. Her face was pale, composed, and terrifyingly serene.
"People are noisy, Bella," Vega said, leaning back in his chair. "Books wait their turn to speak."
She walked toward him. She didn't stomp; she glided. There was a new weight to her, a gravity that hadn't been there at the start of the term.
"I'm leaving," she said.
Vega frowned. "Leaving the library?"
"Leaving school," she corrected. "For the weekend. A... family matter. Mother has approved it."
She stopped at his table, resting her hands on the wood. Her fingernails were painted black.
"But before I go," she whispered, her dark eyes locking onto his, "I wanted to give you something."
She reached into her robes and pulled out a small, silver object. She placed it on top of his open book.
It wasn't a cursed necklace or a dark artifact. It was a simple silver pin shaped like a skull, but instead of crossbones, a snake protruded from the mouth, curling upward.
Vega looked at it. He didn't touch it.
"Jewelry?" Vega asked, keeping his voice light. "A bit macabre for my taste, Bella. I prefer rings."
"It is not jewelry," Bellatrix hissed, the serenity cracking just enough to reveal the fanaticism burning underneath. "It is a promise."
She leaned in close, invading his personal space. She smelled of ozone and something metallic—blood? Or just iron?
"He is real, Vega. The Dark Lord. I met him."
Vega went very still.
So it begins, he thought. The recruitment.
"You met a ghost?" Vega asked, recalling Arcturus's letter.
"He is no ghost," Bellatrix breathed. Her eyes dilated, filled with a terrifying, religious awe. "He is... perfection. He speaks, and the magic in the room bows to him. He doesn't just want to change the laws; he wants to break the wheel."
She traced the silver pin with a fingertip.
"He knows about you, Vega. He knows about the duel with Rosier. He knows about the Metamorphmagus blood. He called you... a resource."
"A resource," Vega repeated, his voice cold. "Like a mine. Or a battery."
"Like a King," Bellatrix corrected. "He wants to restore us. The Blacks. The Lestranges. The Rosiers. He wants to wipe the mud from our world and build a paradise for the worthy."
She looked at him, pleading now. Not with sisterly affection, but with the desperation of a convert trying to save a soul.
"He is gathering the Knights. The inner circle. I am going to be marked, Vega. Soon. I will be one of his chosen."
Vega looked at his cousin.
He saw the brilliance in her. The raw power. The fierce loyalty that had nowhere to go, so it had attached itself to a monster because he was the only one strong enough to hold it.
It was tragic. And it was dangerous.
"Bella," Vega said softly.
He reached out and picked up the pin. It was cold. It felt heavy, loaded with a dark, sticky intent.
"Grandfather calls him a symptom," Vega said, watching her face. "He says that when a house rots, fungi bloom in the dark. He says this Lord is just a man capitalizing on our fear of irrelevance."
"Grandfather is old!" Bellatrix snapped, pulling back. "He sits in his study and counts gold while our world crumbles! He is a relic!"
"He is the Head of the House," Vega reminded her, his voice sharpening. "And we are Blacks. We do not serve, Bella. We rule."
He placed the pin back on the table. He slid it toward her.
"I am not a resource," Vega said, his grey eyes hard as flint. "And I do not join clubs where I am not the President."
Bellatrix stared at the rejected pin.
The serenity vanished completely. Her face twisted—hurt, anger, and madness warring for dominance.
"You are blind," she whispered. "You have the sight of a hawk, but you are blind to the storm."
She snatched the pin up, her fist clenching around it tight enough to draw blood.
"When the war comes, Vega—and it is coming—neutrality will be a death sentence. You will have to choose."
"I have chosen," Vega said calmly, picking up his quill. "I chose myself."
Bellatrix let out a short, sharp laugh. It sounded like glass breaking.
"Then you will die alone."
She turned on her heel, her black robes swirling around her like smoke, and marched out of the library.
Vega watched her go.
The silence of the stacks rushed back in, but the air felt colder. The Hum in his blood was agitated, sensing the shift in the wind.
He looked down at his book on Alchemy.
Transmutation, he read. The art of changing one substance into another.
He thought of Bellatrix. She was being transmuted. The brilliant, wild girl was being burned away, replaced by something harder, crueler, and infinitely more brittle.
He's not just recruiting, Vega realized, a chill running down his spine. He's harvesting.
He closed the book with a heavy thud.
The war wasn't coming. It was already here. And it had just walked out the door wearing his cousin's face.
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A hint of Hogwarts Legacy :D We're racing through the first term guys! Christmas is coming around soon!! And Bellatrix is leaving..... when will we see her again
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