"Power corrupts only when one mistakes it for purpose."— Master Thaen Kyriel, Letters to the Young Enchanters
December 20, 1969
The end of the term arrived wrapped in silence.
Snow had been falling on Hogwarts for three days straight, burying the grounds in a thick, pristine layer of white that muted the world. The Black Lake was frozen solid, a sheet of hammered steel under a grey sky, and the castle windows were frosted over with intricate, fern-like patterns that refused to melt even against the heat of the common room fires.
On the morning of departure, the Slytherin dungeon was a hive of controlled chaos. Trunks levitated through the air, dodging indignant owls, while students wrapped themselves in layers of wool and fur to brave the drafty corridors.
Vega stood by the submerged window, watching a giant squid tentacle slide lazily past the glass. It looked sluggish in the cold water, a massive shadow against the green gloom.
"You've packed the Arithmancy charts?" Cyrus Greengrass asked, snapping the locks on his dragon-hide trunk with more force than necessary. He looked miserable. "My father is hosting the Yule Ball this year. If I don't know the difference between a waltz and a pavane, he'll disown me. And if I don't have my grades to shield me, he'll do it publicly."
"You'll be fine, Cyrus," Vega said, turning from the window. He picked up his own trunk, shrinking it with a casual flick of his wand and slipping it into his pocket. "Just don't step on anyone's dress robes. And try not to insult the appetizers."
"Easy for you to say," Barty Crouch Jr. muttered, wrestling with a scarf that seemed determined to strangle him. "You're going home to a library. I'm going home to a Ministry inquest. My father's been working eighteen-hour days since the Nottingham raids."
Vega's expression tightened slightly. Nottingham. Another attack. No fatalities, but plenty of terror. The whispers in the common room had been ecstatic; the whispers in the Great Hall had been terrified.
"Keep your head down, Barty," Vega advised softly, patting his friend on the shoulder. "Read the book I gave you on shielding. It works better if you don't panic."
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The train ride south was a slow descent from magic into reality. As they left the wild, snow-swept Highlands and rattled through the industrial grimness of the Midlands, the conversation in the compartment dwindled. The carefree atmosphere of the dorms evaporated, replaced by the looming weight of family expectations.
By the time the Hogwarts Express pulled into King's Cross, the sun had set, leaving London a blur of wet pavement and yellow streetlights.
The platform was a sea of steam and parents. Vega stepped off the train, the noise hitting him like a physical wall—car horns, shouting porters, the smell of diesel and damp wool.
He spotted them instantly. The Blacks didn't wait in the crowd; they waited above it.
Arcturus wasn't there—the Patriarch did not do station pickups—but the family chauffeur, a grim-faced wizard named Goyle, was standing by a pillar. And standing next to him, looking like she had just stepped out of a winter fashion spread for the morally flexible, was Narcissa.
"Vega," Narcissa greeted him with a cool nod. She wore a heavy cloak of silver fur and looked entirely unbothered by the biting cold. "Welcome back. You look taller."
"Gravity is lighter in the north," Vega quipped, accepting the nod. He scanned the crowd. "Where is Bella?"
Narcissa's expression didn't flicker, but her eyes tightened at the corners.
"She took a portkey. With the Lestranges. Mother is... displeased."
Vega nodded grimly. It was a statement. Bellatrix wasn't just drifting away from the family; she was choosing a new one.
They walked to the car—a black Rolls Royce enchanted to ignore London traffic. The drive to Islington was silent, the city passing by in a blur of Christmas lights that looked garish compared to the floating candles of the Great Hall.
Number 12, Grimmauld Place, loomed out of the fog like a predator holding its breath. The house felt sentient. As Vega stepped through the front door, the smell of beeswax, old incense, and centuries of dark magic washed over him.
It smelled like home.
"VEGA!"
The dignity of the arrival was shattered as a black-haired missile launched itself from the top of the stairs. Sirius Black, now ten years old and buzzing with kinetic energy, collided with Vega on the landing.
"You're back!" Sirius shouted, grinning. "Did you curse anyone? Did you fight a troll? Show me the teeth thing!"
"Get off him, Sirius, you're wrinkling his robes," Regulus chided, appearing behind him. He looked relieved to see Vega, offering a shy smile. "Hello, Vega."
Vega ruffled Sirius's hair and nodded to Regulus. "No trolls, lots of curses, and I'm not doing the teeth thing in the hallway. Mother will have a stroke."
"Too late," a voice croaked from the shadows.
Walburga Black stood in the doorway of the drawing room. She looked thin, her face pinched, but her eyes burned with that familiar, manic intensity.
"You have returned," she said, looking him up and down as if checking for defects. "You smell of train smoke and commoners."
"Good to see you too, Mother," Vega said smoothly. "I bring gifts. And grades."
"Grades are expected," she sniffed, turning back to the room. "Go to your grandfather. He is waiting in the study. He has been pacing."
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Vega walked up the stairs, past the heads of the house elves, past the screaming portraits (currently asleep), to the heavy oak door on the second floor.
He knocked.
"Enter."
Arcturus Black sat behind his massive mahogany desk, the room lit only by the dying embers of the fire and a single lamp. He looked older than Vega remembered. The shadows under his eyes were deep, carved by sleepless nights and the weight of the family ledger.
A crystal decanter of amber liquid sat on the desk. Ogden's '48.
"Grandfather," Vega said, closing the door and sealing it with a practiced flick of his wand.
"Vega," Arcturus said. He didn't smile, but his shoulders relaxed, shedding an invisible weight. "Sit. Drink?"
"I'm twelve, Grandfather."
"You're a Black," Arcturus grunted, pouring a small measure into a glass. "It will put hair on your chest. Or at least numb the headache I'm sure you have."
Vega took the glass. He sat in the leather chair, feeling the familiar texture. The firewhisky burned pleasantly, settling in his stomach like a warm stone.
"You read my letters," Vega started, skipping the pleasantries.
"I did." Arcturus leaned back, swirling his drink. "You have been busy. Top of the class. Dueling clubs. Secret societies. You are weaving a very intricate web, Vega. Slughorn wrote to me, singing your praises. He thinks he discovered you."
"Let him think it," Vega said. "He pays better dividends that way."
"Smart," Arcturus nodded. He took a sip, his eyes darkening. "And Bellatrix?"
The name hung in the air, heavy and sharp.
"She's gone, Grandfather," Vega said quietly. "Not physically. She's still in the dorms. But her mind... she's found a cause. She tried to recruit me in the library."
Arcturus scoffed, a harsh sound. "Recruit you to what? This 'Knights' nonsense? A club for disaffected purebloods who want to feel important?"
"It's not a club," Vega said. He leaned forward, placing his glass on the desk with a sharp clink. "That's the mistake. That's why I'm worried."
"Explain."
"You look at this movement and you see politics," Vega said, his voice urgent. "You see Grindelwald. You see a man who wants to change the laws."
Vega paused, searching for the right words. He didn't have a name, he didn't have a face, he just had the memory of Bellatrix's terrifying serenity.
"But Grindelwald wanted to rule the world," Vega continued. "This man... whoever he is... he doesn't want subjects. He wants devotees. She gave me a pin—a silver skull. She called it a promise. It felt... religious."
Vega thought of the look in Bellatrix's eyes. The silver pin. The absolute, terrifying certainty.
"He's offering them meaning, Grandfather. He tells them that their cruelty is actually divinity. He tells them that they are gods in waiting. It's not a political party. It's a cult."
Arcturus went still. The fire popped in the grate.
"Religious," Arcturus repeated, tasting the word with distaste. "Fanaticism is messy, Vega. It burns hot and burns out fast. Grindelwald had an army. He had a country. This man has a few school children and a badge."
"He has the Rosiers," Vega countered. "He has the Lestranges. He has Bella. He's taking the youth, Grandfather. If we ignore him because he doesn't have a flag, we might wake up to find he owns the house."
"She said he would "mark" her. She called it a promise."
"A brand," Arcturus corrected, his face hardening into granite. "He marks them like cattle."
He stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the fog-choked street.
"If he marks a Black," Arcturus whispered, "he declares war on this House. We do not kneel, Vega. Not to Ministers, and certainly not to self-styled Lords with made-up names."
Arcturus then sighed, a long, weary sound. He stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the fog-choked street.
"I did as you asked," Arcturus said, his back to the room. "I reached out to my contacts in Paris. In Berlin. Even a few old friends in the Department of Mysteries."
Vega sat up straighter. "And?"
"Nothing," Arcturus said, turning around. "No family history. No political manifestos. No trail of gold."
He walked back to the desk and picked up a scrap of parchment.
"But I found a name. Or rather, a title that keeps appearing in the margins of the darker circles."
He slid the parchment across the desk.
Vega picked it up. There was only one word written on it in Arcturus's jagged hand.
Voldemort.
Vega stared at it. It meant nothing to him. No lineage he recognized. No history.
"Voldemort," Vega whispered. The name felt sharp on his tongue. French roots. Flight from death. Theft of death.
"It is a theatrical name," Arcturus said, pouring himself another drink. "A made-up title for a man who likely has no real name worth speaking. This is no Grindelwald, Vega. Grindelwald was a titan. This 'Voldemort' is a gnat."
"Shadows can still hold a knife," Vega murmured, handing the parchment back.
"Indeed," Arcturus agreed. "But we do not fear shadows, Vega. We live in them. I will keep digging. If this man wants to steal my granddaughter, he will find that the House of Black does not give up its own easily."
He raised his glass.
"But enough of ghosts. You are home. We depart for China in three days.. And your mother is threatening to invite the Bulstrodes if you do not make an appearance at the Malfoy gathering tomorrow."
Vega managed a weak smile, though the name Voldemort was still echoing in his mind like a bad omen.
"The Bulstrodes," Vega sighed, raising his own glass. "Truly, the darker threat."
"To the House," Arcturus toasted.
"To the House," Vega replied.
They drank. Outside, the winter wind howled against the windows, but in the study of Grimmauld Place, the air was still and heavy with the promise of a storm that was just beginning to break.
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Hope you guys are enjoying the last few chapter! Voldie has officially begun circling.