The weeks that followed settled into a rhythm neither of us had known we needed.
Grimmauld Place—once a mausoleum of resentment and dust—began to feel… lived in.
Not warm. Not kind.But functional.
Blake and I spent the first few days simply recovering—physically and emotionally. The heirship rituals had taken more out of her than she admitted, and though Arcturus had assured me she would recover fully, I noticed the subtle signs: how she slept longer than usual, how her magic felt quieter, coiled inward like a muscle resting after strain.
I stayed close.
Not hovering—but present.
By the end of the first week, the structure began.
Every morning started early.
Kreacher woke us before sunrise with ruthless efficiency. Tea first. Then breakfast—simple but nourishing. He had opinions about what constituted "acceptable fuel for young heirs," and arguing with him was pointless.
After that, study.
Not spells.
Not yet.
Arcturus was adamant about that.
"Magic without context is a liability," he told us on the third morning, seated at the long dining table with a stack of parchment and a cup of black tea. "Before you learn how to fight, you must understand who you are fighting, why, and how they think."
So we learned names.
Families.
Histories.
Grudges.
Alliances that were spoken aloud—and those that existed only in glances exchanged at Wizengamot gatherings.
Blake took to it faster than I expected.
She listened carefully, asked precise questions, and wrote everything down in a neat, deliberate script that contrasted sharply with her usual cheerful chaos. There was something sobering about watching her shift so easily between those sides of herself.
Arcturus noticed too.
"The Blacks were always quick learners," he remarked once. "Unfortunately, they were quicker to judge."
Blake didn't bristle.
She simply nodded.
"I won't make that mistake," she said quietly.
Arcturus watched her for a long moment, then inclined his head slightly.
That was his version of approval.
The Education of Heirs
Our days divided naturally.
Mornings were for theory.
Afternoons for controlled practice.
Evenings for discussion.
Arcturus taught us the unspoken rules of the wizarding world—the ones no book recorded.
Which families valued blood purity above all else.Which valued power.Which valued survival.
"The Malfoys," he said one afternoon, "value proximity. They attach themselves to power like ivy to stone. They are not loyal—but they are consistent."
"And the Greengrasses?" I asked.
He paused.
"Pragmatists," he said. "They will watch you before deciding anything. Do not mistake that for weakness."
He spoke of the Bones family, fractured but principled. The Longbottoms—broken but dangerous when pushed. The Parkinsons, the Notts, the Selwyns.
Even families thought irrelevant were dissected.
"Never ignore a minor house," Arcturus warned. "History is full of men who underestimated those with nothing to lose."
Blake absorbed everything.
But I noticed something else.
Arcturus was changing.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
He began leaving Grimmauld Place more often—first for short meetings, then for longer ones. Kreacher confirmed what I already suspected.
"Master Arcturus is attending gatherings again," he said one evening, clearly conflicted. "Old friends. Old enemies."
The wizarding world had noticed.
And it was whispering.
It did not happen loudly.
There was no announcement.
No public declaration.
No whisper of a reclaimed heir passed through drawing rooms or Ministry corridors.
No one knew about Blake.
That was the point.
Arcturus Black did not re-enter society to present an heir.
He re-entered it to remind everyone of something far more important:
The House of Black was not dead.
It began subtly.
Arcturus attended gatherings he had ignored for years.
He spoke when he had once remained silent.
He voted—rarely, precisely—but when he did, the room listened.
No explanations were given.
No questions answered.
Old contacts received replies at last.
Old rivals found their letters acknowledged—but not indulged.
Old allies were reminded, quietly, that favors once extended had not been forgotten.
And those with ill intentions felt it first.
A pressure.
A hesitation.
The sudden sense that certain moves would now carry consequences.
Arcturus never mentioned Blake.
Never hinted.
Never alluded.
He let speculation run in the wrong direction.
Let them wonder if he planned to reclaim influence personally.
Let them suspect he was preparing contingencies.
Let them fear that the Blacks were aligning with someone—or something—behind closed doors.
Fear, after all, was far more useful than truth.
The Wizengamot noticed the shift almost immediately.
Attendance patterns changed.
Certain votes stalled.
Others passed without debate when Arcturus's gaze lingered on the chamber a second too long.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing provable.
Just enough to remind everyone that old power did not need to shout.
Whispers spread, carefully misdirected:
Arcturus Black is preparing something.The Blacks would not move without reason.Be careful.
That caution was exactly what he wanted.
Blake would walk into Hogwarts as an unknown.
Spellwork Begins
Spells came later.
Carefully.
Measured.
Under strict supervision.
Arcturus insisted on control above all else.
"No flashy magic," he said. "No excess. Power is meaningless if you cannot stop it."
Blake's magic surprised even him.
It responded to her will smoothly, cleanly—like water flowing through a channel she had carved long ago without realizing it.
I recognized the feeling.
We practiced shielding charms, focus exercises, wandless magic theory—not execution, but understanding.
Blake struggled initially with restraint.
Her instinct was to push.
To assert.
But she learned.
Fast.
By the end of the month, Arcturus nodded once after watching her maintain a sustained shield for several seconds without visible strain.
"Acceptable," he said.
That was high praise.
Evenings were quieter.
We sat by the fire, often without books, discussing why.
Why wars happened.
Why families fell.
Why good intentions were rarely enough.
Arcturus spoke more freely then.
About Regulus.
About mistakes.
About how fear dressed itself up as principle.
"You will be judged," he told Blake one night, "not for what you do—but for what people think you might do."
She nodded.
"I know."
He studied her.
"Do you?"
She met his gaze without flinching.
"Yes."
Something softened in him then.
Just a fraction.
By the final week, the air changed.
Not tension.
Anticipation.
Hogwarts loomed—not as a school, but as an arena.
Blake prepared carefully.
She practiced her etiquette. Refined her posture. Learned when to speak—and when silence was louder.
I watched her transform—not into something colder, but into something steadier.
She was still Blake.
Still laughed too loudly sometimes. Still smiled easily.
But there was steel beneath it now.
Arcturus observed it all with quiet satisfaction.
"You will not survive by being liked," he said on the last night before our departure. "You will survive by being understood."
Blake nodded.
"And you?" he turned to me.
I met his gaze.
"I'll make sure she never stands alone."
He held my eyes for a long moment.
Then nodded.
Outside, Grimmauld Place stood tall and watchful.
The wizarding world whispered.
Speculated.
Prepared.
And somewhere beyond the wards, Hogwarts waited.
Not knowing what was coming.
___________________
📢 Weekly Challenge Update
The challenge was not completed this week.
🔹 This week's release:
1 chapter only
🔹 Next Week's Goal:
Match this week's performance → Top 80
🔹 If we hit Top 80 next week:
3 chapters will be released the following week
🔹 P@treon Update:
P@treon will continue on the 3-chapters-per-week schedule
Power stones directly affect Webnovel releases.If you want more chapters, you know what to do 💎🔥
Support me on p@treon:
[email protected]/blaze98