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Chapter Text

Provence, France – Summer, 1982 – Age 4

The house was small and ancient, with stone walls that bloomed with ivy and lavender growing wild along the windowsills. Magic lived in its bones—not the kind that danced in sparks or erupted from wands, but the quiet kind, the kind that made roses bloom even in frost and turned warm milk sweet with a whispered charm. This was the only world Rigel Orion Black had ever known. There was never any conflict in his horizons; there was only peace and tranquility. He knew English like his mother, but only a little. He was still learning; he was only five after all. His chosen language was French; the children from over the hill only spoke that, and he only knew that. France was his home, and stealing his mother’s wand whenever possible was his favorite pastime. He sat on the sun-warmed steps outside, knees pulled to his chest, and watched bees hum between lavender stalks. Lavender was a scent he had come to resonate with home; there was nothing better than the gentle aroma of lavender; it mixed with the vanilla extract his mother made every morning for her coffee. The smell of citrus used to clean their cedarwood floors, not that it takes the smell from them, but amplifies it. Finally, there was the smell of the red roses his mother always received with a letter from someone that she would not tell him. He loved his home and the gentleness of the air around him that always clung to him whenever he went out. His mother would smile and claim him to be too gentle for his name and would protect him from the whole world. In his hand, he clutched a smooth blue stone that shimmered faintly when the sun caught it just right. His mother said it was moon-charmed, a token of protection. He’d never seen her charm it. But then, Kaida Black was not like the other witches in bedtime stories. She moved like moonlight—graceful, quiet, and always half in shadow. Her hair was long and black, streaked with silver, even though she was young. Her voice was soft, but it carried weight, like distant thunder over the mountains. He often giggled at her English accent when speaking French. That would earn him an attack of being tickled until he apologized. He was happy and in love with the world around him, and he cared about his mother’s happiness. Even if it seemed like she could never be happy.

“Rigel,” she called from the kitchen window. She was wearing a baggy grey shirt with cargo pants and big brown boots stained with dirt from the herbs she was planting in their garden. She had on bright yellow gloves, and her silky black hair was slicked back to a messy ponytail. She was young, barely 22 years old, but lived a troubled life filled with mistakes, and always claimed that Rigel was the best thing that had happened to her. “Time for tea.”

He scrambled up, dusty feet pattering over the flagstones. Inside, the house smelled of cinnamon and rosewater. His mother must have received a troubling letter, as she only made cinnamon tea with rosewater when she was stressed. Enchanted teacups stirred themselves on the counter. She took out the nice china, meaning that the letter was really bad news. A fat black cat—Morgana—purred lazily on the windowsill, her eyes fixed on Rigel as he passed, as if judging his every step. She was a spoiled cat; his mom had him since she was in school. Not that his mom finished her schooling, it was whispered that he arrived while she was 16. His mom was engaged to his papa or papa’s family member; he couldn’t remember what the whispers said. He knew his second name was his grandfather’s name, a way to bind him to his family, as his mom doesn’t know who his papa is. But that is a lie, the old ladies in the village said, his mama knew his papa. He knows this because she would cry in her room, asking for answers. She would look at him and whisper how much he looks like his papa, would cut his hair short, and mumble how much he looks like his uncle. His mama was from the same family as his papa, which confused him. His papa and mama were family; mama said that her ancestor had fallen for the ancient ancestor Lady Black, and she had to marry papa because grandpa wanted to. She had to keep their blood from going extinct, and Papa was a strange man who took her heart. Mama would say these things about Papa after cursing Papa’s existence and claiming he was the best thing that came from Papa. Rigel would nod and tuck his mama to bed, telling her he loved her as she asked him to find stars even throughout the day. Kaida knelt beside him, brushing a curl from his forehead. "Did you find any stars today?"

Rigel, knowing his mama was asking something he didn’t understand, just shook his head. "No. Just bees and a shiny rock."

She smiled faintly, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "That’s all right. Sometimes the stars hide until you’re ready." He liked it when she said things like that. Everything with his mother felt like a secret waiting to unfold. He liked mysteries. Mama often said he was too smart for his own good. She would giggle and tell him that he was special; no one could ever lie to him. He had a strong magical aura, and Mama liked his aura. He didn’t care; his mama was the best. Every other day, he would talk to her about what he had seen and beg her for a granian. He wanted to fly, he didn’t want a broom, he wanted a horse. But today, another question burned hotter in his chest; he was tired of being dodged, and he wanted to know.

“Mama,” he said, pausing for a moment to get her attention. She had gone off to tend to her tea. A British tradition that she took from her home. The only thing that made Rigel connect with his roots. They had tea like clockwork, and no one got in between their leisure time. Even when Mama was sorting out business documents, she made time to drink tea with Rigel. “Where's my papa?”

She didn’t answer at first; there was stillness. Her fingers slowly stilled on her cup, the spoon clinking softly inside. Her eyes, always distant, seemed to look further than before—past the walls, past the hills, into memories he wasn’t old enough to understand. Moments in time where he couldn’t reach her, between the love and pain she experienced before he was in her life. Mama lived a troubled life, a life that had her suddenly leave her home, her family, behind, and she only received letters from his grandfather. A grandfather he had never met but heard about. “He was a fire, Rigel,” she said at last. There was a sudden look, a look that he had never seen before. Her eyes got all shiny, but she didn’t smile; it was as if she was watching a dream. “Bright and wild. Too bright, perhaps, for this world.”

Rigel didn’t know what that meant. Someone couldn’t be bright, they weren’t hinkypunks. They were humans; no one could be bright. He could understand wild; the children he played with were often called ‘wild’ by the old ladies in town. He believed that his father was a good person, a wizard who loved his mother dearly. But he heard something in her voice—a crack, like glass under pressure. “Was he bad?”

Kaida turned to face him fully, crouching so they were eye to eye. Tea lay on their kitchen counter forgotten, for the first time in his life, tea time was interrupted by something more important than tradition. “No,” she said firmly. “They say he was. The world will tell you he was. But he wasn’t.”

He nodded, because she needed him to. And because, even though he’d never met his papa, he already felt the echo of that fire in himself—some ember tucked behind his ribs. There was always the urge to be bad, to be naughty; he loved playing pranks on the old ladies. He loved to laugh and run around their property; he loved freedom. Mama would smile and claim him to be his father’s son. He loved the open fields, the smell of France. That night, after supper and lullabies, Kaida took him to the rooftop. They sat on a worn-down wool blanket, her arm wrapped around his shoulders, as the sky bloomed with stars. There were thousands of stars, far too many for Rigel to count, and he was a smart boy. The air was chilly, and the smell of lavender clung in the air; these were his favorite nights.

“There,” she whispered, pointing at the clutter of stars. “That one. The bright one on Orion’s belt.”

“Rigel,” he murmured. His name.

“You are my brightest star,” she said, looking at the whole constellation. Her son's chains were written in the sky. He didn’t see them as chains; he saw it as a big family reunion. There were more people with his name out there; his family was looking after him. Even if he couldn’t make out the constellations, all he saw were little dots in the sky. His mother’s voice was as sweet as honey as she breathed out, “Even in darkness, you burn clear.”

He leaned against her and looked at the heavens. Somewhere, in the hush between heartbeats, magic stirred. And though he didn’t know it yet, the stars were already beginning to move.

Chapter Text

Provence, France – Autumn, 1984 – Age 7

The wind had changed. Long were the days that Rigel could just run around the fields and laugh. Gone were the days when he could prank the old ladies in town. His childhood was over before it had run its course. There was a new beginning for his small family, and there were whispers. There had always been whispers, but now he had a name. Sirius Orion Black had a chain as well. Orion, the name of his father and the name of his grandfather. He had a name. With that came questions, a new mystery, a new life. It swept in from the north now—colder, restless, smelling of smoke instead of wildflowers. Rigel could feel it even in his sleep, the way dreams turned strange and tight in his chest. Something was coming. Something out of his control, something that would ruin the state of his precious life. His mother had begun to speak to him in English, but he still answered in French. He wouldn’t let go of this moment, of this precious life. He was old enough to notice things now. Things like how the owls came more often, their parchment-bound letters tied in black ribbon, and a silver crest of three ravens, a wand lifted in the air with a clenched fist, and a skull on top neatly in the center. There were so many owls; there was one every week, while he was young. Now that he was 7 years old, there were two a day, and they were calling to him. The raven and serpent crest was demanding his attention. He was old enough to notice things, how Kaida stopped humming her lullabies and took to pacing in the garden at twilight. How her wand, once kept in a velvet-lined drawer as an easy pick for his chubby baby hands, now never left her sleeve. Rigel wasn’t supposed to read the letters. But he could hear the demands.

At night, when the walls were quiet and the moonlight silvered the floor, he would press his ear to the wooden door of her study. “…family council reconvening…he’s rotting in Azkaban…line of succession… legal guardianship…”

He didn’t understand all the words. But he understood the tone. It was the same tone Kaida used when she saw thunderclouds over the vineyard. Something was going to break. He needed to make sure his family was not the one to break. So he studied, his mother would smile, the same sad smile she would now always wear. He would be ready for what was to come; something was bringing her sorrow, and Rigel would ensure that there was no harm to her. He would protect her even if it meant that he would have to be someone else entirely. One morning, just days after his 7th birthday, she caught him staring at a letter left open on the table. She didn’t scold him—she just looked tired. She must have realized that she could no longer hide things from him. “Why do they keep writing?” he asked, with genuine curiosity. These letters were from Gringotts, urging their return to their motherland. Urging Rigel’s return to a land he had never known.

“Because blood is louder than silence,” she murmured. He took the letters from his hands and tossed them into the fire. The simple act of defiance that Rigel always loved to see in his mother. The letters would keep coming, and they would keep on ignoring them for their own benefit. Rigel said nothing. But he followed her that evening, when she went walking beyond the garden walls. They never walked this far together; often, his mother would urge him or command him to return home. She would walk alone in the dreaded forest just past their property line, a forest his mother would warn him to never go to. The trail led to an ancient clearing surrounded by whispering trees. In the center stood a circle of old stones, overgrown with ivy and age. He’d never been here before, even when he disobeyed and walked around the forest. Kaida stood still, facing north, her cloak billowing behind her. “It’s called the Watcher’s Circle,” she said, without turning. “French witches used to come here when they had choices to make.”

He stepped closer, his voice small. “Are you leaving?” The letters had become unbearable; all the letters had come with warnings. Perhaps his mother had become tired of them. Perhaps she had decided that he was no longer worth the trouble.

She looked down at him sharply, then knelt to his level. “No, my little star. But we may have to go. There are people in our world who value names more than hearts. They’ve decided your name is important now.”

“Because of father?” Rigel had not asked nor spoken about his father. It was as if he hadn’t existed, but his mother knew his curiosity. He knew that the boy wanted to know the name of his father. A pause. Then: “Yes. Because of your father.”

That night, Rigel snuck into the study. His fingers trembled as he pulled open the drawer of the old desk. The scent of roses was fresh in the air; his grandfather had sent his mother roses once again. Beneath rolls of parchment, pieces of business plans, and star charts, he found a worn clipping from the Daily Prophet.

“BLACK GUILTY – MASS MURDERER SENTENCED WITHOUT TRIAL”

There was a photograph. A man with wild eyes and tangled hair, laughing wordlessly behind iron bars. And yet… Rigel couldn’t look away. This man could be his father, or perhaps a family member. This man was Black. This was his legacy and what he would be fighting to reject. This man would be the reason why he would have to restore the family name to its former glory. The photo seemed to crackle in his hands. With a simple whisper, for once in his heavy French accent, Rigel declared the status of this man: “Murderer.”

Behind him, Kaida spoke from the doorway. “They made him into a monster because they were afraid of what he knew.” He turned, startled, but she only approached slowly, gently. There was something in her eye, the same emotion he saw when he was just 5 years old, the same misty eyes. She was dreaming while awake. This man had always made his mother dream of the future, of the past. He didn’t know, but knew it hurt her when he was mentioned. “You’re not him,” she said with absolute resolution. “You’re not them. You are my son. You are the boy who sings to the bees and listens to the stars. I know you don’t see constellations, but you talk to them as if they were with you. You don’t belong to their world of war and whispers. Their silver tongues will only break your soul.”

He clenched the clipping. Something was unsettling about this man. The man with no name but fame. The name had been crossed out, as if seeing it would cause so much more pain than their face. His mother must have loved this man, or must have hated him. It was hard to tell with her; she lived in the cloud of high society. It was all she ever knew and tried to teach Rigel. He lived in the ground of the common folk; he loved getting his hands dirty. Would volunteer to tend the granian, and Muggle horses of the wealthy wizards just over the hills. At a young age, he could tame even the wildest of horses; his mother would purse her lips whenever she came to fetch him for dinner. With a shaky voice, he couldn’t help but ask: “But if I’m not like him…why do I feel like I could be?”

She knelt and took his hands. She seemed far older than she actually was. He often felt far older than he truly was. The letters would keep coming, and he would have to join the stifling world of high society. He would have to enter the land he had never been on and call it home.

“Because fire runs in your blood,” she said. She had always been so serious. There was never a moment when she would speak informally to him. She, even as his mother, would talk to him with such high regard that it made him wonder how far he was in the family heredity. If he was so far up, then who was his father? His mother brought his attention back to her words. Urging him to understand the power that he holds in his hands. “But it is your choice what you burn.”

Chapter Text

Grimmauld Place, England – November 25, 1986 – Age 9

Orion Black was dying. The proud Lord of the Black family—once feared, once bowed to—now lay shrouded in thin linens, his frame more bone than flesh, his eyes sunken and gleaming with distant fire. Rigel stood at his side, still too young, still clinging to the edge of boyhood, yet already burdened by things no nine-year-old should understand.

“Come closer,” Orion rasped. “Let me look at the future of our house.” Rigel stepped forward. For a long moment, Orion only stared at him. His lips twitched, as if he might smile, but it never came. This was the only time he had ever seen his grandfather, the one who gave him his name to have as a middle name. He had wondered if perhaps this man was his father; it would make sense why his mother cried at the sight of him and asked the old man not to leave them.  “You...look like your father did when he was young,” he whispered, then shook his head weakly. “But there’s something steadier in you. Something...not broken.”

Rigel swallowed hard. “Why am I here?”

Orion lifted a trembling hand from under the covers. Clutched within his fingers was an ancient ring—blackened silver, carved with the Black crest and crowned with a single obsidian stone. “I failed this family, Rigel,” Orion said, breath ragged. “Let her rot in old blood. Let pride blind me... And I watched my sons turn to ruin.”

“You have another,” Rigel whispered. “Regulus—”

Orion turned his head, eyes clouded. “He’s gone. And Sirius—” His voice cracked. “He chose…outsiders over his family. Rebellion over duty.” He coughed violently, then gripped Rigel’s wrist with surprising strength. “You are my heir.”

The boy’s breath hitched. “But—why? I’m—”

“You are the last with the name and the blood...with the mind to guide it true. The others... wasted it. Or ran from it.” He pressed the ring into Rigel’s palm. “This is the Lord's Ring of the House of Black. It answers only to those chosen by blood and will.” Rigel stared at it—cold, heavy, final. “You will restore Blackmoor Keep,” Orion whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “You’ll raise it again, make it a name of power—but not cruelty. Of strength... but not madness.”

The old man’s voice became almost a breath: “Guide the family, Rigel. Guide them somewhere I never could.”

“Wait,” Rigel said, suddenly panicking. “Why me? Why now? I don’t even know what I’m doing—”

But Orion didn’t answer. His grip slackened. His chest no longer rose. The room fell silent. Rigel stood alone, the ring in his hand, the title on his shoulders, and the weight of generations pressing down on his small frame. From this moment on, he was no longer just Rigel. He was Lord Black—of Blackmoor Keep, of legacy, of silence, of dragons long forgotten, and a name that must rise again. 

The wards around it were old, humming with ancient magic that prickled against Rigel’s skin as they passed through. The carriage stopped before the iron gates. They needed an enchanted carriage to travel from his grandfather’s house to his castle. They haven't needed to travel to the castle since the 17th century; only the carriage knew the way, so his mother quickly decided to purchase Muggle luxury cars as soon as they arrived at the castle in the countryside. Rigel fiddled with his new ring. It symbolized the start of his reign, the start of the new Head of the Black Family, Rigel Orion Black. Kaida stepped out first, her traveling cloak snapping in the wind; she looked like she had always belonged in this vast land. Rigel followed, clutching a satchel to his chest. He didn’t belong; he was hunched over his boots, crunched over fallen leaves, and though it wasn’t cold, he shivered. “This is home now?” he asked quietly. The floo network didn’t even work here.

His mother hesitated, for just a moment, before she opened the doors, and a cloud of dust blew over them. “It was once the hunting lodge of the late Lord Black,” she said, avoiding the question. Avoid speaking French. She spoke to him in English; since they set foot on English soil, she had not spoken to him in French. It seemed like that chapter of their life was over, not that he wanted it to be over. “Few know it exists. Even fewer are welcome here.”

Rigel looked up at the dark towers and whispered, “I don’t think it wants to be a home.”

Kaida gave a wan smile. “That will remain to be seen.”

The inside was worse than he expected. The entry hall was vast and echoing, with portraits that watched too closely and staircases that seemed to go on for miles. House-elves appeared and vanished in a whisper of breath, their eyes wide and frightened. Dust blanketed the furniture, and the only light came from flickering torches enchanted centuries ago. He explored in silence. His mother was already commanding the house elves, and the castle was quickly being cleaned of any dust and dark artifacts his mother did not wish for him to touch. His new room was enormous—twice the size of their cottage in Provence—but hollow. There were only a few pieces that overwhelmed his old room but seemed insignificant in his new room. The bed was twice the size of his old one; this one was black with a silver lining, his family’s colors. The backboard was large and overwhelming for someone who had lived in the countryside his whole life. There were empty bookshelves, which could have been filled with his old books, but those were left behind due to being too childish for someone of his status. His closet was bare, but his mother had already declared that a seamstress would arrive tomorrow and he would have a new wardrobe fitting his new status. A large window with a seat for him to sit and stare out at his family's grounds. The windows gave him no privacy, something he would have to get used to, knowing that he was the youngest lord in all of the UK. A cold fireplace yawned in the other side of the room with a black rug and black couches; this whole room seemed like it was someone else's. This was no longer him; Rigel did not appear to have lived here. Only Lord Black lived in these walls; the castle was imposing, and the grounds were large and filled with vines. In the mirror above the washbasin, he didn’t recognize himself. 

That night, he couldn’t sleep; there was so much he needed to do. He had to ensure that the grounds were clean. He needed to ensure that they made stables, much to his mother's disappointed stares. He wanted granian and muggle horses. He needed them if he was going to survive in these wretched walls. The castle made strange sounds: creaks that felt like footsteps, whispers through the stone, the wind groaning low like the building itself was trying to speak. He had spilled his blood, he had claimed this sentinel castle as his own, and the castle and the elves now had a master. They had all rejoiced and quickly moved; all of this was possible in a day. He arrived at the castle early, barely 4 in the morning, and now, at midnight, he had accomplished so much. He wanted to go home. He sat by the window, staring out across the moonlit grounds, when he heard the door open behind him. Kaida entered, wrapped in a shawl. She didn’t say anything at first, just came to sit beside him. This was the first time in the whole day she had come to him instead of him commanding an elve to get her. Only a few hours, and she became a stranger that Rigel did not know what to do with her. She believed that he didn’t exactly need her, but he would not be able to attend his schooling without her, and he never wanted to be apart from her. “I’m sorry,” she said after a while. “It’s not the life I would have chosen for you.”

“Why did we come?” he asked, staring out the window. The elves had finished their duties, all excited to have something to do after so many years of wasting away.  

She looked down at her lap. His mother had now seemed to always run out of words to say. “Because the Black name is bleeding,” she said. “Your grandfather, Orion, is dead. Re…the spare, too. He is in Azkaban. There’s no one left.”

“Except me,” he finished her sentence with a whisper. He was the true Black Heir, the only heir the Wizarding world would accept. Only the ancestral magic would accept him as their Head of the family without killing them. 

She nodded. “You are the Heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.”

“What does that mean?” He turned to look at her sharply. The name and status were thrown in his face all day. He was thrown into this without knowing what his name means, what he will have to overcome, what he will have to do. He knows he is now a very wealthy boy and has more vaults in the bank than he had years ago. He was in charge of the expenses of a list of numbers he knew nothing of. He wasn’t prepared to be the lord that the Black Family needed, but he was the one they got. The only people in his family were married; no longer did they have the last name, but still, he could feel their life force. He could hear the humming of their magic vibrating in his fingertips. He was the last free male heir of the Black Family line. That alone was something worth speaking about; the English reporters would have a field day. The Lord of the Black Family spoke with a heavy accent. He was French; he didn’t belong to their perfect ideals.

“It means you’ll be tested,” she said, drawing him back to the reality of his situation. He would no longer be Rigel. “By the world. By magic. By your own blood. But it also means you have a chance to change it.” She pressed something into his hand. It was a ring—black stone set in silver, engraved with three tiny ravens, a wand lifted in the air with a clenched fist, and a skull on top. The Black family crest. The crest that seemed to always be calling him, even in France. That crest called to him, and now he was forced to answer.

Rigel stared at it. “Do I have to wear it?”

Kaida’s smile was soft but sad. “I’m afraid so, this is your family. Your legacy starts with this ring, and it will end with this ring.”

That was the last time his mother came to his room. The room he came to know from the elves was the master’s room. The room was quiet, too quiet. The fire had dwindled to glowing embers, the walls flickered with soft candlelight, and yet Rigel Black lay wide-eyed on the great four-poster bed, blankets tucked around him like a cocoon he could not rest in. His mother had only just left, the echo of her footsteps still lingering in the hallway outside. Her presence had comforted him, but it hadn't chased away the feeling in his chest—something vast and old, like a storm forming inside him.

Chapter Text

Diagon Alley – Summer, 1987 – Age 9

They noticed him the moment he stepped out of the Floo. It had been just a few months since Rigel had started to live on the small island, away from his true home. He had taken so many lessons. Now, in just a few days, he will make his grand debut to the Lords and Ladies of the Wizarding World. Rigel did not know if he was ready, but knew he had to be; he wouldn’t let his family fall. Longing for the days he was running through the lavender fields, he now stood in the middle of a political war. Kaida dusted the soot from his shoulders as Rigel straightened, blinking in the bright summer light of Flourish & Blotts’ glittering windows and the cobbled street beyond. The whole street was filled with chatter and laughter, as if the war Rigel was going to enter was not happening. Children darted past with cauldrons and owl cages. Shopkeepers shouted spells across crowded doorways. The scent of fresh ink and sweet toffee mingled with warm wind and old magic. He focused on his mother’s scent. The lingering effects of her special fragrance were the hints of lavender, citrus, cedarwood, and roses. The whole street was the definition of chaos, but the moment the boy with the black curls and the quiet silver eyes stepped onto the alley, the noise dimmed—just slightly. Just enough. People whispered.

“Is that—?”

“Thought he was in France—”

“Spitting image of—”

Rigel heard none of it clearly, but he felt every word like wind brushing across the back of his neck. France was never like this; he could walk the streets and no one would think of looking at him. Rigel could laugh and scream to the heavens, and there would be no whispers of his family name. His world had begun to change, and he despised every second of it; he wanted to go home. A home where he didn’t have an accent when speaking, where he could be himself. He walked beside his mother, chin high. Over the past months, he had been taught to hold his name like a shield, not a weight. Rigel Orion Black. The name rolled ahead of him like a ripple in a still pond. There was power in his name, there was a long history within those three words, and he was something of a mystery. No one knew who he was, how he was raised, no one knew him at all, but they all pretended to.

They stopped first at Madam Malkin’s for new robes. These will be his casual clothes, as no one in their right mind would be fitted for ceremonial robes out in the open. While Rigel was being measured, he caught sight of two identical redheads in the corner, holding up a pair of charmed, color-changing hats and arguing over which shade of green was more “vomit-y.” They were laughing too loudly, too wildly, and Rigel felt a flicker of something strange—envy, perhaps. Or longing. They were able to be normal nine-year-olds, while he had to enter a war fought with fake politeness and measure each word. Each action is carefully. They didn’t notice him. He liked it that way. Not everyone was whispering about him, letting him relax as he ordered his casual robes. Across the alley, near Florean Fortescue’s, he saw them—Leta Lestrange, walking elegantly, pale and perfectly composed, with her dark hair coiled like a crown. Beside her were Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, all cold smiles and impeccable posture. Draco trailed behind, dragging his feet, already bored. Leta’s eyes briefly met Rigel’s across the street. She said nothing. But she knew him. And he knew her. She dipped her chin in a slow, almost imperceptible nod. A queen acknowledging a prince. Or perhaps an exile recognizing another. Kaida noticed too. Her grip on his shoulder tightened as they passed.

In his studies, he learned of the wizarding families of the United Kingdom. There were many of them, but they were all dwindling. Leta Lestrange was the daughter of Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange. Her parents are in Azkaban, and Lucius and Narcissa became the guardians possessing the Lestrange seat. The Lestrange vaults are all locked down, with only the education vault available for Leta. She is at the mercy of the Malfoys, but seeing her thriving, there was no issue. Then there was their son and heir, Draco Malfoy. He was spoiled and arrogant. There was no personality other than those two descriptions, Rigel could tell from just looking at the young boy. He learned of the Malfoys due to Narcissa, who was a Black by blood. He will be meeting with her and Leta as they are members of the branch family, and will be speaking with the disgraced Andromeda soon. He needed to hear all sides before he made up his mind on keeping Andromeda disowned or allowing her back in his family again. There was so much to do; he needed to do all this before Hogwarts. At least that is what he told himself. Their final stop was Ollivanders. He should have gotten a wand next year, when he turns 11, but that wasn’t the case. At least not for him. He was now a Lord, and that took priority over Hogwarts rules. Much to the protest of its Headmaster. The bell above the door gave a chime that sounded more like a breath being held than a welcome. The shop was full of dust and silence and the weight of centuries. Rigel immediately hated this place. Mr. Ollivander stepped forward like he had been expecting them for weeks.

“Ah… Mr. Black,” he said softly, pale eyes glinting. There was something unusual about him, as if he were the only person who knew who he was. Rigel wanted to build a perfect image for the Black Family, and this man seemed to want to tear it down. He had tutors, all French for his better understanding, and they all engraved in his mind that he was a young lord. Everyone in the Ministry would want his blood. He needed to be cold and ruthless; Rigel was tired of being cold and ruthless; he wanted to be someone real. Lord Ollivander snapped him out of his thoughts as he hummed. “I was wondering when you would come.”

Rigel glanced up at his mother, who gave the barest nod. She did not follow him in, nor did she talk with the wandmaker. Rigel was to do this alone. He must do everything alone; he was a Lord. His mother was acting Lady of the House until his marriage, but she was not his equal. No one would ever come close to being his equal, and Rigel had to accept that, sooner or later, he would have to accept that he is untouchable. Only the bravest of Lords would stand against the House of Black. He had a family history behind him; the only thing he had to do was keep those rumors and respect going. He might be a child, but he would not waver. Ollivander moved like a man who had heard too many secrets. He pulled boxes from shelves without speaking, placed them in Rigel’s hands with murmured spells. This was not a normal first wand; this was a Lord's wand. He hated it; he wanted to be just like the rest of the children his age, but being in that castle, walking these streets, he could see it. He was not normal, and he could never be normal.

“Rowan and phoenix feather… twelve and a quarter inches… no, not that one—” The first wand sparked faintly, then fizzled. The second cracked the glass on the counter. The third one hissed and coiled like a snake, nearly leaping from Rigel’s hand. He believed that maybe he just wasn’t ready; he wasn’t ready to take on this power, the name, the status; he was just a boy. But the fourth—It was strange. Old.

A box not dusty, but wrapped in silver silk. The wand inside was pale wood, twisted slightly like it had grown that way by will, not by accident. The handle was dark—a different wood entirely—and set into the base was something carved and translucent: a single shard of unicorn antler, tinged silver-blue. “Acacia and Thestral hair,” Ollivander whispered, his voice reverent. There was something about the wand that made him second-guess himself. Rigel did not want to be disrespectful. “Thirteen inches. Unyielding. Exceptionally rare. And…” For once, since he had arrived, the wandmaker hesitated. “…one of the few wands I have never dared sell. It chooses only those who have seen the truth and walked away from it.”

Rigel took it. He had no other choice but to take it. The wand was calling to him; there was something in the air that made him want to take this. The room stilled. A pulse of magic rushed from his palm to his spine, as if the wand had recognized him—claimed him—before he could do the same. Ollivander’s smile was thin and knowing. “You will be a difficult boy to lie to, Mr. Black.”

Rigel blinked. “Why?”

“Because that wand belongs to the kind of wizard who tears down doors, not knocks on them.” With that, Rigel paid for the custom-made wand and a wrist holder so he could keep the wand on him. He didn’t know any spells. Not yet. But it would be wise for him to get in the habit of carrying his wand wherever he went. Outside, Kaida waited with a traveling cloak and unreadable eyes.

She did not ask which wand had chosen him. It wasn’t her place to question the Head of the Family. She only said, “The papers will be busy tomorrow.” Rigel looked down at the polished box in his arms.

“Good,” he murmured. “Let them talk.” For the first time, it didn’t feel like the name was following him. It felt like it was becoming him. The following days were spent with him out of the study in one of the ballrooms. He was the Lord of the castle. The stables were built, and he bought 3 granian and 4 muggle horses. He took care of them personally, hiring squibs to care for them, bringing good publicity to the Black name for once. There was much he had to do, and in just a few years, he would be at Hogwarts. He had to learn to be the Lord of the Castle, with his mother helping by managing the numbers and caring for the castle as he studied and built up his personal library, along with the family’s library. There were ancient books from the 1800s, but they needed to update their records. Rigel might not be the Lord the Black Family wants, but he is the one that they need. Rigel was learning how to duel; his magic core had barely even started to be formed for usage, but the tutors all claimed that he needed to know how to protect his family. He learned fencing, in case his wand was separated from him, he needed to ensure he could defend his home. Rigel asked: Why. Sword fighting was no longer popular; there were other ways. There were guns, but the tutors all claimed he was too young to hold a Muggle weapon. Rigel spent his leisure time down at his newly formed stables. He possessed 4 Muggle horses; they weren’t ready to crossbreed, but he took care of them. The first was Zeus, who was like the king with his buckskin coat and black hair, unbothered by all, and would keep the others in line. He loved sugar cubes and would just stare at Rigel whenever he tried to make him slow down. Zeus hated the reins, and Rigel would always mount him without a saddle. Giving Mr. Jerry Jensen, the quib he hired to care for the four horses, a heart attack. Then there was his dun coat. Hera was not one to gallop; Hera would take leisure walks along the property and was an amazing listener. The third was the most rebellious. Hestia was a bay coat horse that did her own thing. He would mount her and promptly fall off. She had a terrible temper and hated being told what to do. Then there was Poseidon, who was the most behaved and loved Hera. His chestnut coat and her dun coat would make an interesting pair. Then there were the three granian. They were a pack of rejects at the auction; if you bought one, you would have to take his two mates. First was Athena, smart and beautiful. She knew where the border of their property was and wouldn’t dare to cross it; then it was Persephone, his fastest horse. No matter if it was in the air or on land, no one could compete with Persephone. Finally, his favorite and the reason the three were rejected, Athena and Persephone were like any other granian, they were pure white. Almost majestic to look at, but their mate, Hades, was pure black. He had soulless black eyes, was headstrong, and knew he wasn’t ready. Hades never allowed Rigel to ride him and would snap his teeth at him whenever he tried. He knew that Rigel was just a boy.

Ministry of Magic – Late Summer, 1987 – Age 9

A boy who was riding the elevator by himself, his mother had already gotten off. Joined with the other ladies. He was going to the meeting of the Head of the Wizard Families. As the elevator made a quiet chirp, the doors opened, and he was greeted by thousands of reporters all asking one thing: where has he been? The whole room was transformed into a ceremonial chamber. A black stone dais gleams under enchanted lanterns. Velvet banners bearing the Black family crest—three ravens, a wand, and a skull with the words “Toujours Pur,” at the bottom—hang on high marble pillars. Three semicircles of gilded chairs house the Light, Dark, and Neutral factions of the wizarding aristocracy. Rigel Orion Black. Nine years old, almost 10. Clad in ceremonial robes made of a pure black fabric, dark lined with silver, the Black signet ring enchanted to fit his small finger. He walks with silent steps and an unreadable expression. His chin is high. His eyes do not flinch as the reporters all take his picture. Rigel’s seat, once tied with the Dark fraction, had been moved; now firmly on the neutral fraction, he made his way towards it as he waited with the rest of the Lords and Ladies for the Minister of Magic. Everyone was buzzing. This young, small boy was the new Lord Black? He will be easy picking. A ripple moves through the gathered assembly as the Minister of Magic rises—a silver-haired wizard named Albert Rottgen, flanked by Head Auror Alastor Moody, who eyes Rigel with a low growl in his throat.

“We are gathered today to witness the recognition of Rigel Sirius Black, sole heir of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, as its rightful Lord under wizarding law and tradition, so mote it be.” Minister Rottgen, raising his wand for silence, stands for all to see. Rigel feels the stares, but he doesn’t waver as much as he wants to cry and run to his mother; he doesn’t falter. Earning his new faction's silent respect as he was ushered to the front. A formal scroll was presented, which was filled with ancient runes and deep ancestral magic. Rigel wanted to submerge himself in the familiarity. The scroll felt like his grandfather, the magic of his final moments, a grandfather he never knew, but was given everything he had. Rigel stepped forward, placing his palm on the scroll. It glows deep silver—magic old and binding. His family's ancestral magic was accepting him, welcoming him. His voice, though youthful, rang clear across the room. The words of acknowledgement were deeply engraved in him for this moment. He could not mess it up.

“I, Rigel Orion Black, of unbroken bloodline, claim my right as Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. I stand where my ancestors stood, I answer for their legacy—and I shape what follows, so mote it be.” He sealed his fate as Lord Black. “So mote it be,” was heard throughout the room. Followed by a low murmur, some lords like Lucius Malfoy and Pollux Rosier tilt their heads, studying the boy like an interesting chess piece. Others, like Augusta Longbottom and Headmaster Dumbledore, watch the boy with a guarded interest. This was a boy who seemed to want to shake things up, a true neutral. Perhaps he was young, still able to be shaped into the dark or light fraction. Or perhaps he will be a thorn in their side; the political mind games have started, and the boy would need allies. Both factions watched the new young lord. He stood alone on the dais, sovereign and still. They were ready for his speech, however long or however short it might be. Both dark and light fractions wanted a glimpse of his childhood.

“A heavy mantle for such young shoulders,” Headmaster Dumbledore whispered to Lord Arthur Weasley behind him. Lord Weasley, never one to care for these meetings and only attended when necessary, smiled weakly at the headmaster. The leader of the Light fraction.

“Born for it, I’ll tell you.” Augusta Longbottom chimed on the left side of Dumbledore. Staring at the young lord who was finishing signing his name on the ancient scroll. From the Dark seats, Lord Travers let out a soft chuckle, “Let’s hope the boy’s teeth are as sharp as his predecessor's tongue.”

“He’ll need more than sharp teeth. The Dark Lord is no doubt watching all this with interest. Soon, he will return and will require all the lords he can.” Lord Malfoy whispered back to his section. They were all aligned with the Dark Arts, but not all of them were aligned with the Dark Lord, the past leader of their faction.

“The boy has courage, reminds me of Sirius while in school. Let’s hope he has Regulus' senses.” Lord Rosier commented, the Blacks were inbred, so much so that they had secret potions to ensure that only the best were made. The young lord looked like a mix of the two brothers; he had the confidence of Sirius, but his structure appeared to be like Regulus. Only time would tell, Rigel is going to be the son of Sirius Black or Regulus Black.

“You don’t have to like me. I will not demand the support you gave the previous Lord Black, but remember this: the House of Black does not kneel.” Rigel turns to face the assembled lords and ladies. He doesn’t bow. He nods. The gesture is calculated—not subservient, not rude, just enough. Both factions are immediately up in arms; the boy will not kneel. Perhaps this was the chance for a new leader. The Dark Lord demands that his followers kneel, and Dumbledore has a way with words that makes his followers unconsciously kneel before him. The Neutral fraction stood straighter; perhaps this was the start of their rise. Perhaps this small boy was the answer they needed. “Those who carry my name and kneel before a different lord will be cast out. Let this be a warning, the ones that once or still carry the Black name shall be judged, I shall cleanse my family and bring in a new beginning.”

A beat of silence, the cameras, reporters all held their breath. There was a possibility that not only Bellatrix Lestrange but also Sirius Black could be disowned and stripped from the Black Family registry. But there was also the possibility of Narcissa Malfoy being stripped of her family name and Andromeda Tonks being reinstated into the Black Family. There were so many possibilities, the boy could make dangerous enemies if he decided to pursue this path. Lucius was up in arms. Narcissa would be devastated if his actions became the reason she had no link to her family. The air crackles, and magic laughed at their faces. And then—unexpectedly—Lord Horace Slughorn claps. A few from the Neutral fraction follow. Lady Augusta Longbottom and Lord Arthur Weasley are two of the Light faction that follow, with only Lord Crouch and Lord Rosier in the dark faction following shortly after. Rigel descends the dais, and the walkway back to his seat parts like water. Nine years old, almost ten, has created a wave of whispers and theories of what is to come. He will become a wizard they would fear or admire, Rigel will ensure it.

Chapter Text

The Velvet Parlour – Ministry of Magic, East Wing – Summer, 1987 – Age 9

The Wizagamont was a nightmare. Rigel had stayed silent. After all, he was just a boy and a new lord. He needed to see each side carefully, to ensure that he took his family in the right direction. The meeting had finally concluded. Now was the time for them to mingle with each other and get other perspectives on the laws. Rigel was a boy in their eyes, a Lord, but still a boy. He made his way out of the chambers into a side chamber reserved for private diplomacy. Quiet, richly appointed, with dark green velvet wallpaper and floating candles dimmed to a golden hush. Rigel had never felt so alone as he did at this moment. He wondered if his mother was also feeling this; she was with the other ladies, the position his wife would one day take. She was entertaining them; her role and the role of his future wife were to humanize him. Rigel will one day be like the Lords in the Wizagamont, cold and untouchable to the public. His future wife will be the approachable one, the one the branch members will first go to request an audience with him. His mother is not doing that at the moment, creating an image for him. Making him seem older than he actually is. Rigel sat on the couch, looking off in the distance, wondering if this was worth his childhood. He wanted to go back to the lavender fields, wanted to laugh and play jokes on the old ladies in town. Lord Lucius Malfoy stepped inside, making Rigel’s head snap towards the intruder. With a nod, Lord Lucius sat across from him, summoning a glass of what appeared to be firewhiskey. Rigel, not being old enough to drink, was served water, not that he minded, but it did make him appear young. Something that Rigel loathes to appear in front of a smirking Lord. “Lord Black, you made quite the impression. Beautiful creature you have there, I hope this extends to all Blacks.”

“Impressions are easy, Lord Malfoy. Legacies take more care; they do extend to the Blacks, but I fear I only know of my mother and Sirius as Blacks. Unless there is a separation I wasn’t aware of?” Rigel calmly stated as they each took a sip of their respective drinks. Rigel wondered why he was here. What did Malfoy want? Lucius chuckled softly, folding one leg neatly over the other.

“Forgive me, of course. Only those who bear the name should have magnificent creatures.” Luscius's smirk fell, and only a forceful smile could curl his sneer. “You wear the title well, Lord Black. Better than some grown men I’ve seen.” Lucius commented, nodding to a far-off row of family crests. Rigel followed his gaze, landing on the two family crests—Goyle and Crabbe—two lords who were loud and had to be reprimanded more than once.

“I hope you don’t assume that it’s a costume,” Rigel pressed with narrow eyes. There was a flicker in Lucius’ eyes—approval. Not that Rigel wanted it, but achieved it. Or calculation.

“There is something to be said for early grooming. You and my young ward, Leta Lestrange, are…unusual cases. Power passed into small hands.” Lucius commented, Of course, Rigel suspected this. He wanted to be his mentor; Lord Malfoy wanted to be someone Rigel relied on. Someone that Rigel wouldn’t accept. He doomed his family by bending his knee to another lord. Rigel would be sure to get the reports he needed to judge them all fairly. His family would grow once again. The Blacks were the closest thing to royalty in the wizarding world. They have the money, influence, and connections outside the country. Not that Rigel had them, but he had the legacy behind him. He now possessed the blood oaths and the unbreakable vows made to the family.

“Lady Lestrange's hands remain empty, I believe. Lord Lestrange was arrested without naming her heir.” Rigel hummed, making Lucius' eyes dart away from his young face. Rigel was terrified; he hated speaking with Lords far older and more experienced than him. He had to battle with tutors, but learning was different than doing it. He wanted to control the flow of the conversation but did not know how to. He wanted to go home.

“And so, until the Lestrange heir comes of age and the Wizengamot recognizes her claim, the responsibility of her House falls to my family—as guardians and blood kin,” Lucius smirked at the young boy. It was far too soon for him to try to get the upper hand in the conversation. The boy had so much to learn, and Lucius believed that it would be in the best interest of his wife that he teach the boy. He didn’t need to lose the Black Family; he finally possessed the Lestrange name.

“But not as Lords,” Rigel reminded him as he took a sip of his water. Lucius paused mid-sip of his whiskey. The moment is subtle—but charged.

“Sharp boy. But guardianship grants voice and influence. Not every power wears a ring.” Lucius cautioned the boy who wants to make enemies instead of allies. He is young and inexperienced. Sooner or later, he will make too many enemies and not enough allies.

“Indeed…and influence borrowed must someday be returned.” Rigel nodded at Lucius, who let out a soft chuckle. Lucius meets his gaze, unblinking. It’s an old dance—control without war, intimidation without insult.

“My young ward will need allies when her time comes. The House of Black is known for its... reach.” Lucius decided just then that the boy was young. He had no idea what he was saying; he would align himself with the Dark faction and kneel before the Dark Lord. It was in his nature. Lord Orion Black was an old man; he didn’t know how times were changing. He rejected Regulus as his heir due to wearing the dark mark proudly, and rejected Sirius as heir for blindly following the late Lord Potter. Everyone believes this boy to be the son of one of them, but perhaps he was the son of Orion. The youngest brother of Sirius and Regulus Black. No one has the records, and his mother, Kaida Black, was not going to inform them of who the father was.

“And the House of Malfoy is known for ensuring the girl’s interests align with yours.” A beat passes, Rigel’s words hang in the air. The Malfoys and the Lestranges are distant relatives of the Black’s. Rigel’s family is what built the two houses; they were poor and moved to a different country. The Malfoys and Lestrange were French, the same as the Blacks. The only difference was that the Malfoys were a disgraced nobility family and were bankrupt once arriving in the UK. The Lestrange were wealthy farmers, wealthy but still just farmers. They came, and with the help of the Blacks, they were able to be the wealthy purebloods they are today. The Blacks created the dynasties, and the Malfoys seemed to have forgotten that. Rigel learned of this, had many documents regarding the rise of each family, along with the fall of each family, such as the Weasleys. Lucius rose to his feet. He would not sit here to be mocked by a child who knew nothing about his family. His influence. He will make the boy pay. Better to teach them young than to have them believe that they can do what they like. “My wife and I will be watching the future with interest. For your sake…and for Leta’s.”

“So will I.” Rigel nodded, and Lucius marched out of the room in a fit. The door closed with a hush. Just as it closed, a slow clap was heard. Rigel turned to look and spotted Lady Augusta Longbottom, her hat adorned with phoenix feathers and her cane holding her up, and she walked towards him and sat down in the same place Lucius Malfoy once was.

“You were taught well. Never let a Malfoy leave without remembering whose blood made them respectable.” She huffed, and Rigel wondered when she would arrive. “Lord Black, welcome to the political war. I would have words, if you’re willing.”

“Of course, Lady Longbottom.” Rigel nodded, shifting in his seat, wondering when the endless attacks would finally conclude. He just wanted to go home. Augusta looks at Rigel, eyes shrewd beneath the brim of her hat.

“You surprised them there, boy. They expected a puppet. You stood like an heir.” He might not have said anything, but his presence never wavered. He was attentive and asked the Lords around him about the topics. Both main factions were staring at the young Lord, hoping for him to act like a child or be easily manipulated, but that wasn’t the case. Rigel stared any lord down until they looked away. Rigel did not back down when Dumbledore stared at him. The old wizard had to back down before anyone other than Lady Longbottom noticed.

“I’m not a puppet. I was born a Black.” Rigel protested, wanting to be done with this power struggle. He couldn’t just leave to find his mother; he had to leave after all the Lords. He didn’t want anyone to see him and think he was running to his mother. There’s a flash of approval in her eyes. Hard-earned respect, not easily given.

“So you were. You remind me—oddly—of my grandson. He’s soft now, too gentle for this world… but I think there’s steel in him. It just hasn’t set.” Lady Longbottom got to the point she wanted to talk about. Neville Longbottom was a soft boy, someone that, until last week, they all believed to be a squib, and squibs aren’t allowed to be the family head.

“He’s young,” Rigel reasoned with her, but the older woman snorted.

“So are you, yet here you are, and there I am—holding a House with hands grown still and hearts long bruised.” The pause is heavy. Augusta looks out toward the darkening sky for a moment, then speaks more quietly. “I am Head of the Longbottom family only because I must be. My son and his wife—they breathe, they live, and yet they do not speak. They do not lead. But as long as they draw breath, the ring cannot pass to Neville. Not by law, not by magic.”

Rigel’s eyes flicker with understanding. “Even if he’s ready, he can’t take it.”

“Precisely. He can’t claim what’s not relinquished or lost. We live in the space between hope and duty.” Lady Longbottom was bitter; the Lestrange owes her. They took her son–her late husband's heir–away from her. They needed to pay; she needed their resources. Blacks are in touch with the dark arts more than any other house; they will know of a cure. They had to.

“A cruel place to stand. One that the House of Black would look into.” Rigel wouldn’t apologize. It wasn’t his place; he had not been the head of the family when Bellatrix tortured the late Lord and Lady Longbottom. He had not known he was the future lord, and he did not know Bellatrix's marriage contract.

“And terribly lonely.” A breeze rustles the leaves, which was more than Lady Longbottom should ask for. More than it is required, but there was something in the young lord's eyes that made her want to help. She straightens her spine again, face composed. “I don’t know what sort of man Neville will become. But I have hope. And I know this much—he will need help when his time comes. Real help. From someone who knows what it means to carry a House before the world expects you to.” She leans forward and places a gloved hand briefly on Rigel’s knee—not in control, but in blessing. “If you are that someone, I will remember. And until then... the Longbottom seat will support you in the halls that matter.”

“A rare gift, Lady Longbottom. And not one I will take lightly. When the time comes... I’ll be there for Neville. I won’t let him carry it alone.” Augusta exhales slowly. There’s the ghost of a smile on her face. The boy will not take charity that she could see in his eyes. If she had told him that he was going to support him because he was young and reminded her of Neville. Then, he would have taken offense and rejected her proposal. Now, it appears that she is only helping him because she wants her grandson to be looked after. She is doing him a favor and asking for one in return. The boy will see that and will not notice her other motives; he is too young to be fighting with adults. His mother must have been Black along with his father; that is the only explanation.

“Good. Because I doubt he’ll ask for help. But he’ll need it all the same.” She stands nodding to him and walks out, the dusk swallowing her shadow among the hedges. Rigel watches her go in silence. He doesn’t know that this was the start of mending bridges; the Longbottoms and Lestrange will one day be at peace.

Stables at Blackmoor Keep, England–  Autumn, 1987 – Age 10

A crisp summer afternoon blankets the ancient Black family estate. The weather had been in peak condition for an afternoon stroll. There were many factors to account for after last week’s Wizgamont, but the relationship between the Black’s and the Longbottoms flourished into perfect harmony. In the drawing room, tea is served in delicate china—lavender shortbread, lemon cream, and soft honeycomb. Augusta Longbottom, upright and elegant in a dusky green robe, sits across from Kaida Black, both women regal in very different ways. Lady Longbottom had always been one to command respect and shriek at her grandson at any given moment. Lady Black was different. In her youth, she was rebellious, jumping at the father of her child more times than she could claim it was an accident. Giggling whenever she was caught and being taken into broom closets. She held herself to a high standard, only being with that one person her whole life, and vanishing because of her carelessness. Now, she was firm and ensured that everyone viewed her child as a young Lord, not as a boy playing dress up. Meanwhile, outside in the stable courtyard, Rigel—nine, composed, just shy of charming—leads Neville Longbottom, eight, shy and slouching a little, through the garden path down to the newly constructed stables.

“You’re quiet,” Rigel stated, glancing sideways to the stumbling boy. Rigel was wearing khaki slacks, with dark brown boots, a white tunic, and brown suspenders. His black hair was combed on the left side, and his silver eyes flicked with silent amusement.

“Gran says I should listen before I speak,” Neville mumbled, almost too low for Rigel to hear, but the older boy caught it.

“That’s good advice. But not if you let everyone else speak for you.” Rigel nodded at the young boy. For once, he felt like he was older, which he was. Having to turn 10 just this year really shifted his perspective. Next year, he will be 11, and the following year, on September 1st, 1989, he will begin his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Neville doesn’t reply. He shuffles his feet a little as they reach the tall wooden gates of the stables. Rigel gestures, and the enchanted bolts unfasten with a low clunk. “Come on. She’s in here.”

Inside the stable, a soft golden light filters down through charmed skylights, and the familiar smell of smoke enters Neville. In the central stall stands a silver-coated granian, her wings tucked neatly, her eyes intelligent and calm. She turns her head as they enter, nickering low and curious. Neville’s mouth opens slightly in awe. “Is she real?”

“Of course. Her name’s Athena. I bought her with the Black vault’s blessing... and my mother's reluctant approval.” Neville steps closer, hesitant. The pegasus leans her head down, snuffling at his sleeve. He giggles, startled. “She only bows to people she likes.”

Neville glances back at him, surprised. Then laughs, just a little. Athena’s silver wings shifted gently in the light, her hooves clinking against the soft stone floor. Neville knelt beside her, but his eyes kept drifting to Rigel, who stood just outside the stall, one hand on the door latch, calm as a statue carved by an old magic. Rigel smelled like the stables—but not in a bad way. He smelled of sun-warmed hay and soft leather, of something sharp and green like fresh-cut grass after a storm. There was smoke too, faint and warm, like the lanterns they lit at dusk in his grandmother’s garden or like the lanterns in this very room. The smell clung to him, wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak. But it wasn’t just the scent—it was what came with it. A stillness. A steadiness. The kind of quiet that made even magical creatures lower their heads in trust. Neville didn’t know the word for it, not yet, but he thought: this is what power smells like when it doesn’t need to raise its voice. When it simply is. Neville couldn’t help but breathe out, “Cool.” 

They stand in comfortable silence for a few moments, the pegasus snorting softly as Neville tentatively strokes her mane. Meanwhile, there was a different atmosphere inside the drawing room. Kaida pours more tea into Augusta's cup. The room is thick with quiet tension, but not hostility. The two women, so different in how they lead, share something few others understand: rule in the shadow of ruin. “He needed something alive to protect. Something pure, Merlin knows that he would’ve taken those animals with him if given the choice.”
“Your son? Lord Black seemed too…aloof. I never expected him to take Neville under his wing like he has.” Augusta remarked as they looked off into the distance. Rigel and Neville have gone to meet with the Muggle horses. Rigel was tying up the saddle for Neville, much to the helper’s fretting. 

“I would like to take this moment to apologize for what my cousin did to your family. It was unforgivable. I plead that you do not take it out on the next generation. Young Lestrange had no power over her parents, and as the new Lord Black, my son had no jurisdiction over Bellatrix.” Kaida was the first to bring to attention the actions Bellatrix Lestrange had done to the Longbottoms. Torturing for information no one knew. Kaida heard of the girl-who-lived, heard of Lily’s passing. Not that she was strong enough to reach out…to Lily’s girl…to her James’ girl. Not hers. He was never hers. The Potters and Blacks were connected with Regulus, Sirius, Lily, and James. It was hard to know when one began and when one ended. 

“We both know what it means to rebuild. With children. And shame. And names that still carry weight in every corridor of power.” Lady Longbottom nodded to the young woman. No doubt she knew who the father was; Rigel was a pure Black heir. The rumors of James being close to her were just that, rumors. Kaida only had eyes for Black and a certain red-haired girl who was loved by more than one Slytherin. Kaida raises her teacup in silent salute. Augusta returns the gesture. The two have to live on for their respective loved ones.

Chapter Text

Blackmoor Keep – December, 1988 – Age 11

The fire crackled warmly in the hearth of the grand but intimate drawing room, the golden flames casting dancing shadows across the dark wood panels and silver-trimmed furniture. The towering windows framed the snowy landscape outside, but the cold was kept well at bay inside. Rigel Black stood near the mantel, his posture relaxed but composed, a silent strength in the way he held himself. Three years ago, Rigel had become the new Lord of the House of Black. He had finished his studies in record time and was moving on to make the best possible moves for his family. His family, all of them, had died or married off to a different house. He no longer has the branch family to rely on; all he has is his mother. There was the topic of Sirius Black, but Rigel wouldn’t fight for his release from a trial. Not yet. He was far too young to ask that of the Ministry. He would start his investigation in due time, perhaps in his third or fourth year, and he would begin his investigation and urge for a trial. He needs to fix his dwindling numbers, and he has just the family to do so. He wore deep navy robes with the Black family crest embroidered subtly on his collar—neither too formal nor too casual. Kaida was not present, at his request. This was his conversation to lead. The door creaked open as Andromeda Tonks, her husband Edward, and their daughter Nymphadora stepped inside, guided by a house-elf who bowed and vanished at once.

Andromeda carried herself with quiet dignity, her chin held high, though there was something guarded in her eyes. Her beauty hadn’t faded—it had merely matured, refined by hardship and distance. Rigel had stopped the family tree from expanding in the drawing room; he did not need to see his name or see his mother’s name every time he came into the drawing room. He left the original at N. 12 Grimmauld Place intact, with that wretched woman. Walburga Black made a scene when he was declared Lord of the House of Black and demanded the ring, but his mother stopped him from seeing her. Kreacher was to stay there and ensure that the house remained cleaned after all the house elf did not meet his vision of where he was taking the House of Black. The elf was also devoted to the ideals that the Lady Walburga had, which Rigel did not need someone like that in his house. Ted walked beside his wife, steady, protective. He was out of place in such surroundings, but unafraid. And then there was little Nymphadora, in her early teens, hair a soft lilac from nerves, her wide eyes darting curiously across the grand space.

“Mrs. Tonks. Mr. Tonks. Miss Tonks. Thank you for accepting my invitation.” Rigel greeted them all. The Tonks just stared at the boy in front of them. Rigel had stood there as though the room was built for him, his posture effortless yet impeccable, with every step measured like a conductor approaching his orchestra. His gaze swept across the gathering — not searching, but assessing — as though weighing each soul and finding them wanting. Dressed in tailored robes that whispered wealth and old magic, he wore his lineage like armor, and silence followed in his wake like a well-trained hound. There was no need for him to speak of his name — it announced itself in the way others leaned in, or straightened their spines as Rigel made his way to the seats in front of the fireplace.

“We were surprised to receive it,” Andromeda replied with a small nod. The boy was acting far older than one would expect. He must have just received his Hogwarts letter, and Andromeda had expected her daughter to meet him in passing at Hogwarts. Being in the old castle once again was a surprise for her. One that she will not take lightly.

“Please. Sit. This is not a trial, not a performance. It’s simply a conversation—one long overdue.” Rigel gestured to the seats, looking at the family. Nymphadora kept looking around the room. Ted was the same as his daughter, both had never been in such an environment before, while Andromeda didn’t want to keep looking around. Everything was too painful for her. They sat, though Andromeda hesitated a moment before settling on the edge of an armchair. Ted placed a comforting hand on hers. Rigel studied them all carefully—especially Andromeda. After a quiet pause, Rigel began to speak again. “You were struck from the Black family tree before I was born. But your name still echoes through these halls—in whispers, in shadows. It’s time I heard the truth from your lips, not from a burned tapestry."

Andromeda took a slow breath, her gaze steady. “My father arranged a marriage between me and Lord Carrow when I was seventeen. I was to become his wife in name and contract. I’d known him my entire life—grew up with the knowledge that it would happen. But I never loved him. I never respected him either.” She glanced at Ted, who gave a soft nod. Rigel stared at the couple. They loved each other, but would that love remain if he gave her back her family? “I met Ted during my last year at Hogwarts. He was kind and real, and made me feel like more than a pawn. I ran away from the wedding. Disgraced the family, humiliated the Carrows, and for that—”

“The previous Lady Black disowned you. Lady Lestrange called it betrayal; everyone must have agreed. Lady Malfoy…remained silent. And yet you stayed gone. You built a life.” Rigel interrupted, putting the pieces together. Bellatrix was the one who believed strongly in the so-called dark lord, and Narcissa stayed silent all these years.

“Because there was no returning, Rigel. The punishment was meant to be permanent. A warning to the rest of us.” Andromeda protested, making Rigel breathe in. His name. She had used his name and not his title. She was thinking of him as a boy, not as the Head of the house. He couldn’t have that; he needed to be in control.

“A warning for choosing differently. Yes.” Rigel commented as if he agreed with the decision. Andromeda shifted in her seat, hoping that the boy would listen and let her daughter at least have her family. Rigel turned slightly toward the window, the firelight glinting in his silver eyes. “I am not the same boy they hoped for. I don’t hold my tongue when it comes to the faults of our legacy. And yet, I wear the ring. The magic of the House accepts me. Which means I have the right to ask something of you.” He faced them once more, voice calm but commanding. “I want to speak with each of you in private. You, Lady Andromeda, first. Then your husband. Then your daughter.”

Andromeda arched her brow, surprised but curious. “May I ask why?”

“Because what you’ve done… what you sacrificed… may no longer need to remain in exile. But if I am to even consider restoring your name to our house, I need to know who you truly are now—not the girl who ran, or the scandal they remember. The woman who raised her head and built her own world." Rigel replied coolly but not unkind. There was going to be an order in his house. He will be the one to restore the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, and what he needed was to obtain all the facts. He will start with Andromeda. Then, Narcissa sees if she is truly happy with her match or recalls her back to the house. He can’t do anything for her son, Draco was the heir and only son of Lucius Malfoy, but he could shield Narcissa. At least he could only shield her while he was young. Once older, his influence can change, and he would be able to shield Narcissa and Draco. After Narcissa, he would look into Sirius Black, obtain testimonials, a trial, and the man’s memories. Finally, Bellatrix would be the one to face judgment. She kneeled before another; that is an act of treason. She was a Black, they don't kneel and he might have no other choice but to banish her from their home.

“You’ll have to forgive me, but I don’t entirely trust what you intend.” Ten shifted beside his wife. He didn’t know if this was such a good idea. He didn’t want to get her hopes up only for the young boy to break her heart.

“Good. I would be disappointed if you did.” Rigel nodded with a small but respectful smile. This was the type of character Rigel needed in his family.

“Why me?” Nymphadora, or rather Tonks, as she liked to be called, asked quietly. She wasn’t the exact image of what the House of Black would want. She was loud, clumsy, and always said the wrong thing. She was also a metamorphmagus, something that her dad had to get used to, and her mother praised. Rigel’s gaze softened when it turned to her.

“Because you are the next generation, Miss Tonks. And whether you realize it or not, you carry a legacy in your blood. I’d like to know what kind of woman you’re becoming.” Rigel spoke as if he were far older than the 15-year-old. Or perhaps she was 14 years old. He couldn’t tell; everyone looked older than him, and from his records, she was a fourth-year student at Hogwarts. She couldn’t be more than 15 years old. Andromeda looked at her daughter, then at her husband, and finally at Rigel.

“Very well. I’ll speak with you first. But I don't regret my choice, Rigel. Not then. Not now.” Andromeda straightened her back, and Rigel nodded.

“Nor should you.” He gestured to the side room, a private study lit with warm light beyond tall French doors. It wasn’t his personal study, but it was a private place with silencing charms. No one would be able to hear them, but he could be able to hear them all while he is inside. “Shall we?”

Andromeda rose, smoothing the fabric of her deep plum robes, and walked past him into the study with her head held high. Rigel followed, the doors shutting quietly behind them. The doors to the study clicked softly shut behind them. The room was elegant, less grand than the drawing room but no less imposing, with high bookcases, a dark desk, and a faint scent of ink and old par.chmentnt. Rigel, only having to turn 11 years old, went behind the desk like a young prince already born to rule. He gestured for Andromeda to sit, he did not do so until she was seated, and he finally did, it was with an authority far beyond his years. Andromeda took her place opposite him with slow grace, folding her hands neatly in her lap. There was silence for a breath too long.

“Before we begin, Mrs. Tonks… I may be eleven, but I am the Head of the House of Black. That fact is recognized by magic and law alike. I expect to be treated accordingly.”

Andromeda blinked, a flash of surprise crossing her features—then she smiled, not mockingly, but with something bordering on respect. She inclined her head deeply. “You are right, Lord Black. I meant no disrespect. My apologies.”

Rigel nodded once in acknowledgment, eyes sharp, unreadable. “Then let us speak plainly. Begin with what matters—why you turned from the path the family laid before you. And do not spare the ugly truth.”

Andromeda let out a slow breath, steadying herself. This was a hard topic for her and she did not speak to anyone about it. Not even her husband heard the story from her perspective. To have someone judge her decisions and late judge her child, it was hard to imagine but she wanted to give her daughter the connection she had. Andromeda brace herself for the upcoming war. “I was raised to believe in blood, legacy, control. I memorized the family tree before I was six. I watched my older cousins marry for power, not love. I was expected to do the same. But from a young age… I questioned things.” She looked up at Rigel, who said nothing—he was listening, and that was worse than interrupting. “I knew muggles. I spoke with muggle-borns at school. Studied beside them. Dueled them. They bled the same. Fought the same. Laughed the same. I never understood the disgust my family had for them. Or half-bloods. Or… anyone they deemed lesser.”

“And yet you said nothing.” Rigel hummed, he needed to see who she was. If he was to judge her then he needs to see who she was when placed in a tough position.

“I was afraid. We all were. Especially once the war began to stir.” Andromeda confessed, the pain of her memories slipping through her words. “But then… I met Ted. I knew what marrying him would mean. I still chose him. Not in defiance, but because for once—I wanted my life to be mine.”

“And the day of your wedding to Lord Carrow, you vanished. No word. No letter. You humiliated the family in front of three sacred houses.” Rigel accused her and she could see it. She had hurt the family name for something as silly as love but she believed that it wasn’t silly. She wanted to leave and this was the only way they would let go of her.

“I did. I won’t apologize for escaping. But I am sorry for the chaos it left behind. It wasn’t just about Ted. I was escaping a prison.” She leaned forward a little, her voice steadier now. She was afraid for her husband, due to how the wizarding world operates Rigel could kill Ted and claim both her and her daughter as family. Ted could vanish and no one would dare to question that young boy. “May I ask… what do you intend to say to Ted?”

“I want to see if he carries shame. Or if he wears your name with pride. I want to understand the kind of man who was worth shattering tradition for. And I want to see if he believes you deserve your name back… or if he thinks it’s better left burned.” Rigel confessed to her, not wanting to insinuate the worst. Andromeda blinked, unsure if she was impressed or chilled by the precision of it.

“You really are different from the previous Lord Black’s. It’s not a bad thing, it’s something we needed.” Andromeda responded back to him with a small smile.

“I’ve been told that.” Rigel shrugged, then nodded once he extended his hand out towards the door. “That will be all, Lady Andromeda. Please send in your husband.”
Andromeda stood, giving him a graceful bow of her head. Her voice was quieter this time, a little more unsure. “Thank you for speaking with me, Lord Black.”

“Thank you for answering.” Rigel said softly. She exited the room, the firelight flickering across the gold trim of her cloak as she opened the door and vanished into the corridor. Rigel sat in silence for a moment, hands folded neatly atop the desk. The castle was waiting for his instructions, recollecting himself he stood from his desk calling out to the sentinel castle. “Send in Mr. Tonks, please.”

The door shut behind Edward Tonks with a muted thud, leaving only him and the young Lord of the Black family alone in the richly lit study. Rigel stood by the hearth, hands behind his back, posture rigid, his silhouette tall and deliberate despite his small frame. He did not offer his guest a seat right away. Edward Tonks was not someone who was raised in pureblood customs. Rigel had to remember who he was before he arrived at the castle. Edward Tonks was him, before the title, before the wealth. He needed to teach him and introduce himself the way he would have loved his grandfather to introduce himself before giving him the name Black. “I am Rigel Orion Black. You will address me as Lord Black at all times while we speak.”

Ted blinked once—he had met commanding wizards in the field, but the quiet certainty in a child’s voice struck something stranger. Still, he nodded, stepping forward slowly. “As you wish, Lord Black.”

Rigel studied him, eyes sharp—judging him not by age or experience but by bearing. He was certainly like him. Rigel had the speech pattern down due to his mother, Ted seemed to be only copying him. Finally gesturing to a chair he gave a single nod. “Sit.” Ted obeyed, folding into the seat like a man more comfortable on a battlefield than in velvet chairs. His robe was plain, patched slightly at the cuff, and there was dirt under his nails. He looked nothing like a member of a Most Noble House. Rigel took his seat once more behind the grand desk. “Tell me who you are, Mr. Tonks. Without the filter of your wife’s devotion.”

Ted smiled faintly, there was something about the boy that made him stand out. It was rare to see a child so old. Beyond their years, but at the same time so young that it was painful to see him act all grown up. “My name is Edward Tonks. Hufflepuff. Muggle-born. Raised by two parents who were terrified when I got my Hogwarts letter and cried when I left for my first year. I earned every N.E.W.T. I took and joined the Auror Office on pure merit. I’ve never had wealth or influence—just hard work, books, and stubbornness.” He held Rigel’s gaze evenly. The boy said nothing at all but no doubt was he documenting all of this. “I fell in love with Andromeda Black. Knew exactly what that meant. She ran from a future she couldn’t survive…and ran straight into mine. I didn’t force her. I didn’t trick her. I didn’t save her. She chose me. And every day since, I’ve done my best to be worthy of that.”

There was no defiance in his tone—only a weary kind of truth, polished by years of defending his right to exist. Something that Rigel himself never had to face, with a humm Rigel commented. “Her magic still aches for her family. She’s said so herself.”

Ted nodded, “she misses the connection to who she was, yes. But she has never once regretted who she became. Her name, her bloodline, her legacy—those things were branded into her. But love… that was something she carved for herself.”

Rigel didn’t respond at once, only steepling his fingers. “She has asked for restoration. You have pleaded for her. But I am not the only one with a story to hear. I am in contact with Narcissa Malfoy… and Lord Carrow. He, too, lost something when she vanished.”

Ted’s jaw flexed at the name. “He lost a marriage contract and a political alliance. He did not lose Andromeda.”

“And yet he was humiliated in front of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. That matters. Especially in the old families. Especially when I must choose whether to turn a scandal into a legacy… or bury it deeper.” Rigel said evenly, there were many old emotions tied to this. Rigel should have gone with Sirius as his first big move as Head. But to do so he would require the ministry and the Potter girl. The girl was called The-Girl-Who-Lived, for surviving the killing curse. He believed it to be quite the feat but will not bend down and claim she is powerful. That seemed to be luck, the Potter girl had not shown her face so he did not care about her fame. This although difficult would be the best case scenario.

Ted took a slow breath. “Then bury me if you must. But don’t bury her. She was a Black before she was a rebel. She has done nothing but try to live, quietly, kindly, and with honor. You’re the Head of this family, Lord Black. I beg of you to just get rid of me if you must. Don’t get rid of her or my daughter.”

The words hung heavy in the room. Rigel's jaw tightened—whether from the pressure or the truth, it was hard to say. “I’ve heard what I needed. You may go, Mr. Tonks.” Ted stood, gave the briefest bow, and turned to leave. But at the door, Rigel’s voice stopped him. “She is lucky… that you have her back.”

Ted didn’t turn, but there was a smile in his voice as he replied: “I’m luckier.” He left the room, the door closing softly behind him. Rigel remained seated, staring into the fireplace, the flames dancing across the crest of the Black family engraved above the mantle.

Chapter Text

Blackmoor Keep – December, 1988 – Age 11

The study was quiet, bathed in late afternoon light. A fire crackled softly in the hearth, and sunlight spilled through the high windows, casting soft gold across the polished floors and tall-backed chairs. Nymphadora Tonks flopped into one of those chairs without asking, legs sprawled in every direction, hair shifting chaotically between bubblegum pink and sunflower yellow. She popped a sweet into her mouth and smirked at the small, composed boy seated across from her. “So, Lord Black, huh? Should I curtsy or something?”

Rigel raised a brow, utterly unamused. “You may remain seated, as long as you remember who you're speaking to.”

“Right, right. Big Head of the Family and all that. You're younger than me, you know.” It seemed like this was a game to her. Rigel just raised an eyebrow as he remained seated in front of the girl. She was older but lacked the proper upbringing. She was what he would have become if his grandfather had not departed so early in his life.

“And yet here you are, summoned to speak with me. That should tell you something about titles and age.” Nymphadora’s grin faltered for just a moment, and she shifted in her seat, suddenly unsure if he was being funny or perfectly serious. Instead of asking her questions, her forwardness gave him the perfect picture of who she was. She leaned forward, elbows on knees.

“Look, I don’t really get what the big deal is. Family magic this, legacy that. I’ve never felt it. Mum doesn’t talk about it, and Dad’s a Muggle-born, so—whatever. I’m still me, and I turned out fine.” With a shrug, the girl was open for him to dissect.

Rigel didn’t respond immediately. He folded his hands neatly in his lap, spine straight, and his silver eyes darkened as he studied her like a puzzle. “You’ve never felt it because it was never allowed to find you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nymphadora had believed magic to be a tool. It wasn’t alive; it was just something they, as wizards, could use. That was how her father explained it, and how Hogwarts inferred it. No one has ever talked about magic being something alive.

“Family magic is more than blood. It is the bond between generations, the memory of who we were, the oath of who we’ll become. It knows when one of us is hurt… or gone. It knows when a birth happens. It holds us together in more ways than you’ve ever been allowed to know.” She blinked at him. For a second, the sarcasm drained from her face. That was the first time she heard this. Was being a pureblood so different? She was a halfblood; she didn’t know things were so different from what Hogwarts teaches. “Your mother was cut off. Severed from the Black line. Not just from inheritance—but from us. You and your father… You are untouched by it. That absence isn’t normal—it’s a scar.”

Nymphadora’s brows knit together. She sat back slowly, chewing over the words. “So you're saying… It's like a magic version of those big family trees that light up when someone’s born or dies?”

“In a sense. But far older. And more dangerously, if misused. It can feed you. Shelter you. Warn you. Or… ignore you, as it has for your entire life.” He let that settle, watching her as understanding flickered in her eyes.

“...Mum cries sometimes. On birthdays. I thought she was just sad about being disowned.” Tonks said quietly, now getting the basic grasp of what exactly makes a wizarding family different from a Muggle family.

“She is. But she’s also grieving the silence of her ancestors. The ones who should have been whispering at her cradle. Guiding her wand. Strengthening her roots.” Rigel had felt them, seeing the stars with his mother all those years ago; he felt them watching over him. He knew that they were always with him; now it was different. The magic coursing through his veins warns him whether he is doing the right thing or not. He was different. Ever since he held his wand for his first mock duel, he felt different. He was different from other kids his age; they didn’t know many spells. He was ahead on the readings; his first five years will be a breeze. He had to be perfect; the Black Family name was counting on him.

Tonks looked away, guilt creeping into her expression. “…So why even bother with us now? You’re the Head. You could leave us where the family left us.” Rigel stood slowly, approaching the tall window, looking out over the castle grounds — and the distant silhouette of the stables where the horses grazed under enchantment.

“Because being Head doesn’t mean cutting away the broken branches. It means healing them. It means knowing where the magic was lost…and choosing if it is worth reclaiming.” He turned to face her. “I don’t need you to bow. But you will speak with respect. Not because I demand it… But because this family deserves it. Even the parts it abandoned.”

Nymphadora stood too, slowly this time, no longer defiant but pensive. She didn’t bow. But she nodded—short and serious. “Alright, Lord Black. I get it. Kinda.”

A small smile touched Rigel’s lips. “That’s a start.”

The fire crackled in the hearth of Rigel’s great hall, its high arches and family banners casting long shadows across the dark stone floors. Ted and Andromeda Tonks stood near the tall window, their daughter returning from her private meeting with the young Lord of the House. Nymphadora crossed the threshold, quiet for once. Her hair is a soft violet, no longer wild or shifting. She went straight to her parents. Andromeda touched her daughter’s face with gentle concern. “Dora…?”

“I didn’t make a fool of myself, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Tonks didn’t say anything about her mom using her first name, even if it was a nickname. She was thinking over her conversation with the 11-year-old boy. He was younger than her, but the differences between them were something she had never expected. No doubt will he be a Slytherin, or maybe a Ravenclaw, with how many books are around the castle. The Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors will not know what to do with him. Ted raised a brow in surprise, and Andromeda exhaled slowly, some unseen tension leaving her shoulders. Before another word could be spoken, the sound of heels clicking on polished stone echoed down the corridor, light and familiar. A woman in deep green robes swept into the hall, her hands full of gift-wrapped parcels and silk ribbon. Lady Kaida Black, the Acting Lady of the House of Black. She halted mid-step when she spotted the three of them, blinking—then smiling broadly. “Andy?”

Andromeda turned sharply, blinking back disbelief. “Kai?”
Kaida set her parcels down, striding forward, arms outstretched. The two women met in a fierce embrace, both laughing through the edges of tears. “You’ve hardly aged, you wretched woman.”

“You disappeared!” Andromeda scolded the younger woman as she laughed quietly, holding her long-lost sister.

“I didn’t disappear. My parents died. And… your parents took me in like one of their own. You ran away, and I—” She stopped herself. Her smile dimmed, warm with old grief pulling away from her elder sister. “And then I came back—with Rigel. The family needed someone. I suppose we both vanished and returned, didn’t we?”

Andromeda nodded, her throat tight. Both women stepped away from each other. Ted gently put an arm around her waist as if grounding her. Nymphadora glanced between them, silent but watching. The doors to the hall creaked open again, and this time, Rigel entered — coat slung over one arm, gloves in hand. He glanced at the group before striding toward them with perfect calm. “I trust the conversation went well.”

“Yes, Lord Black. Thank you for hearing us.” Rigel gave a slight nod. Then turned to them all with the calm poise of someone older than his eleven years.

“I will be in touch. A decision has not yet been made — I intend to speak with Lady Malfoy and Lord Carrow to complete the matter. Narcissa will arrive shortly.” A faint shadow passed over Andromeda’s face at the name. “You’re welcome to stay. Or not. The choice is yours. Regardless, you’ll receive word from me in the coming weeks.”

Kaida stepped beside him, brushing some dust from his sleeve fondly. “I’ll greet Narcissa and tell her you’re waiting in your study, darling.”

Rigel nodded once. Since arriving in this place, Rigel had not heard his mother speak so many words before. He had missed her voice; it was as if she had disappeared from him. All he had was tutors and a mountain of paperwork to fill out. “Thank you, Mother.”

He gave the Tonks family one last glance—and, briefly, a softer one at Nymphadora— before turning on his heel and disappearing into the depths of the manor. Ted sighed quietly. “Is it just me, or did we just get judged by a child like we were up for sentencing at the Ministry?”

“He’s scarier than half the professors at Hogwarts,” Nymphadora muttered as she thought of a certain transfiguration professor.

Andromeda watched the place where he had vanished with a strange mix of hope and dread. Very quietly, before they left, she whispered, “he may be a child… but he’s a Black. And somehow… a better one than most of us ever managed to be.”

Chapter Text

Blackmoor Keep – December, 1988 – Age 11

The Tonks family had only stayed for a few minutes, Ted and Tonks both agreed to go home and let Andromeda stay to talk with Kaida. They needed to catch up, and Andromeda wished to see her sister at least once. Kaida waved goodbye to Ted and her niece, leading her sister off to get a glass of wine before dealing with Malfoy. The grand doors to the castle creaked open once more, this time revealing a woman wrapped in winter elegance—Narcissa Malfoy, clad in a fur-trimmed navy cloak with icy silver embroidery down the hem, her posture rigid with the kind of grace that could cut glass. Her blonde hair was pinned flawlessly, and the cold didn’t touch her complexion.

A house-elf bowed low, announcing her arrival. “Lady Malfoy… has arrived to speak with Lord Black.”

Narcissa stepped into the warm entrance hall, eyes immediately noting Kaida, who stood with a goblet of mulled wine and a cool expression. The two women studied each other in silence for a breath longer than was polite. Andromeda stayed behind the door, not wanting to be seen by Narcissa just yet. Kaida smirked at the blonde. “ Narcissa. Always so punctual.”

“Kaida. Alive and well, I see.” Narcissa said evenly. The castle had no floo network; it was supposed to be cut off from the wizarding world, and the enchantments around made it impossible to detect in the Muggle world. It was the perfect hiding spot, the perfect home for a weak Lord.

“I am. Still wearing your disdain like a brooch, I see.” The tension cracked faintly like ice underfoot, but it never broke. Narcissa’s tone did not change.

“I’m here to see Lord Black.” Narcissa had no time to speak with the woman who had a child out of wedlock and was rewarded for it. Her son should have been Lord Black and Lord Malfoy. He was supposed to be the only applicant. How Lord Orion managed to take that from her was unforgivable.

“He’s expecting you. He’s in his study.” Kaida waved her hand, and a House elf appeared, waiting to escort her to the master’s study. “Do remember, he’s the Head of the family. Not a boy playing dress-up.”

“He’s eleven.” Narcissa protested with narrow eyes. Andromeda took a step out, and Narcissa’s eyes flashed with something. Schooling her expression, she stared at Kaida.

“And a Black. So you’ll treat him accordingly.” Narcissa said nothing, simply brushing the frost from her cloak and walking forward with that stately stride only a woman raised for courts and war councils could maintain. The house-elf guided her to the double doors of the study, which opened without ceremony. Rigel stood behind a tall desk, a family tapestry rolled out before him—names in gold and silver threads stretching back generations. A flickering enchanted fireplace crackled behind him, casting flickers of green-blue light across his serious face. He did not look up when Narcissa entered. Calmly, he stated, “Lady Malfoy. You may sit.”

Narcissa arched an elegant brow but obeyed, taking the chair across from him. This was not who she was expecting. He had an accent. French. So he wasn’t hidden away in this castle; he must have been hidden away in France. If she had known, she would have done anything to stop him from becoming the Head. This boy needed love; he had people around him treating him as if he were older, with just the right words, he would drop the act and be a child. “So formal, cousin. I half expected you to offer tea.”

“I don’t serve tea to witnesses in a family dispute.” He looked up finally, meeting her gaze with a steel far too old for his age. He was dressed in a dark green waistcoat with, silver serpent clasp at his collar. Everything about him spoke of the old nobility — and something new, unpredictable. He had changed from his meeting with the Tonks. He had needed to show his position for them by wearing the family crest, but with Narcissa, he needed to show himself as the Head. He needed to ensure that she knew who ruled the family. “I have heard Andromeda’s version of events. I understand she disgraced the family by abandoning her arranged match to Lord Carrow and marrying a Muggle-born. I also understand you supported her banishment.”

“I did what was expected of me, Rigel. Her actions reflected on all of us.” Narcissa was weary. There was something about this child that made her question how this conversation was going to go. She was sure that the boy did not know how this meeting was supposed to go; he was supposed to give everything to Narcissa so she could report to her husband, but the boy was just asking her questions.

“From my understanding, she raised you. She was your sister.” Rigel commented, wanting to catch her reaction to the truth.

“She still is,” Narcissa stressed, not liking how accusatory the boy was being to someone older than her.

“Then why have you never written to her?” That hit. A flicker of guilt passed over Narcissa’s face before the mask returned.

“Because I couldn’t afford to. My marriage to Lucius secured the Malfoy fortunes. That alliance would have withered with a single letter. I did not have the luxury of sentiment.” The boy was acting like the Head of the House. He was doing a lot better than what her Draco could have done. Draco was spoiled and delicate. Narcissa knew that this position would have ruined her delicate son. She began to feel grateful; she was glad her son would never become Lord Black. She sees now how wrong it was for her to wish this life on her child. Draco is too delicate to be what the Black family needs.

“And now?” Rigel raised an eyebrow, staring at the blonde woman sitting in his study. She was beautiful but nasty. She had an attitude that made Rigel’s skin crawl. He hated her, but needed her. Besides, his mother would beg him to reinstate her if he disowned her. He can’t exactly disown any Blacks. There are not a lot of them left; he needs all the people he can get, and Bellatrix is most likely about to be disowned by him for kneeling for another lord.

“Now I don’t answer to your grandfather. Or your uncles. Or my husband.” She met his eyes, tone clear. Rigel was a child, and Narcissa was an older woman who viewed him more like a child than the Head of the Family. They need to find a common ground, or they will always be fighting.“If you reinstate her, I will not object. But you must know there are consequences. Politics. Magical. And emotional.”

Rigel stepped out from behind the desk, hands clasped behind his back. “I’m aware. And yet, the family is dying by slow rot if we let old grudges hold more power than the magic that binds us.” He looked at her with something strange in his gaze—disappointment and hope. “If we’re to save it, we must acknowledge where we failed. You must know, Narcissa, as a Black, your safety will come first. If you are in any trouble, come back and I shall protect you.” Narcissa didn’t speak. She didn’t dare to breathe. Rigel nodded at the woman, “I’ll make my decision soon. You may leave if you wish. Or stay and have tea with your sisters.”

“…I’ll stay.” Rigel turned away as she left, his young face expressionless — but behind his back, his fingers had curled tightly into a fist.

The room was soft with winter light, the heavy curtains drawn back just enough to let the grey-blue sky filter in. A silver tea service sat untouched between the two sisters, steam curling above delicate china. Andromeda was sitting between the two girls. She was always in between. Narcissa was raised as the youngest until Kaida was taken in, bringing some sort of jealousy. Not that Kaida cared; she was always a wild child. Kaida lounged on a velvet settee in deep green robes with black lace at the cuffs, her long dark hair swept over one shoulder, a glass of wine balanced between her fingers. Narcissa, seated opposite, wore the quiet elegance of someone trained not to fidget even when the walls felt too close. She held her teacup like it might protect her. For a while, they said nothing. Then—softly, like dust being stirred— “You look exactly like her.” Narcissa pointed out, looking at Andromeda for the first time. The older woman smiled, “And you sound like her.”

There was a pause. Kaida took a sip of her wine, eyes flicking over Narcissa with something like amusement. “I suppose that’s what happens, Andy, when you raise your little sister, only for her to turn around and marry the Malfoy heir.”

“I had no choice.” Narcissa glared at the younger woman. Andromeda sighed, not wanting to get into an argument. They were all finally together; they just needed Bellatrix, but that would be impossible.

“I didn’t say you did. But you were the good daughter, Cissy. I was scandalous. I suppose I get that from her.” Kaida smirked, nodding to Andromeda, who just gave out a long sigh. She wasn’t going to stop them. Not this time, they were all grown women.

“You vanished.” Narcissa judged the only woman who was considered a pureblooded Black. If she even was Black? She just appeared one day, and Lord Orion forced her to look at Regulus. She never did. Her eyes stayed on that reckless boy. She would have been happy with Regulus if only she had looked at him.

“I was 16 and pregnant.” Kaida shrugged, taking another sip of her wine. Narcissa went still, the words settling between them like ash. Narcissa had problems getting pregnant; it wasn’t until three years after Kaida vanished that she was blessed with her little dragon. “The rumors said…Regulus.”

“The rumors said Sirius, too.” Andromeda protested, knowing full well that Kaida never touched Regulus. She wouldn’t even if he was the last man on earth; the woman was obsessed with danger.

“That’s… disgraceful.” Narcissa hissed, outraged that they would talk behind a Black. It was obviously her fiancéé's child, not…Sirius.

“And delicious, wasn’t it? No one knew. Not even me. Not really. That’s the beauty of it.” Kaida shrugged, loving the scandalous look on Narcissa’s face and the rolling eyes of Andromeda. She knew, they all knew who was the father of her child and they all knew that he would have hated Rigel.

“You don’t know who the father is?” Narcissa hissed quietly looking around hoping that Rigel wasn’t around to hear this.

“Let’s just say… there were nights I thought I did. And then nights I wasn’t so sure.” Kaida smirks at the look of Narcissa’s face. Andromeda rolls her eyes and continues to chug her wine glass smiling at the House elf that refills her cup. There were at first three of them, then four, then back to three. Kaida's background was sort of a mystery for all of them. One day she had entered the home of the late Lord Black and declared her name to be Kaida Black. The man quickly cared for her and had their parents raise her. Sirius was in his 2nd year at Hogwarts with Kaida and Regulus was a first year. Kaida quickly wrapped her arms around Sirius and demanded his hand in marriage. Lord Orion and Lady Walburga objected and betrothed her to the star struck Regulus Black. Kaida didn’t let that stop her and continued to be a menace at Hogwarts. Following Sirius and stopping him from being a player as she was always there for him. That is until Sirius turned 17 and Kaida was 16. She up and vanished without a trace and they only know that Sirius had broken her heart and he regretted it once he realized what he had lost. Andromeda ran away worried about her but wanting to move on and create her own happiness. Bellatrix married Lestrange and Narcissa went off to marry Malfoy. “Black magic runs strong. Regulus was engaged to me. Sirius…was in love with me. Much to his horror, he hated his own family.”

“And you with him?” Narcissa ignored the comment about Sirius. Everyone did.

Kaida’s smile faltered just a fraction, slipping into something softer. “Always. Since I was old enough to read the stars.”

“Then why Regulus?” Andromeda frowned. It made sense to betroth her to Sirius, he was the eldest and with her it would tie him to the family. So why tie her to Regulus?

“Because Sirius refused everything that would have let us be together. The name. The duty. The expectations.” Kaida had fights with the gryffindor. He wanted to leave it all behind but she wouldn’t. She wasn’t going to leave the wealth, power, connections behind and live like a peasant. She had class, those years in France changed her perspective in the world, she will not be going back. “Regulus, for all his quietness, understood the importance of legacy. And for a while, I thought I could love that.”

“Do you still miss them?” Andromeda knew that Kaida might have not loved Regulus like he loved her. She did however love him as family, Sirius was her soul. No one knew of them, Sirius’ friends would have hated Kaida. She was everything that they hated, and the woman loved getting under people’s skin. She was so different, there were so many sides of Kaida and no one knew which one was the real side of her.

“I don’t know. Sometimes I miss who we were. Who we thought we’d be.” They sit quietly for a time, the wine between them warming up, the castle breathing gently in the background.

“And Rigel? Does he know?” Andromeda whispered, the boy had so much on his plate. He was only 11 years old and had to make so many choices, she hoped he would not break.

“He knows enough.” Kaida confessed not wanting Rigel to add a convicted felon as his baggage. The Black name was dragged through the mud, he needed to succeed where the past failed. He must have known, they all must have known who was the father, the timeline, Rigel was a smart boy. He will figure it out eventually, or if he has already he will find the truth.

“You won’t tell him?” Narcissa frowned at the lack of care her cousin turned sister had. The boy deserved to know his father, he deserved to hear it from his mother. Even if he knew who it was, it was still a matter of Kaida explaining her reasons. Making him understand why she did everything she could to protect him.

“I’d rather he decide what kind of man he wants to be… not who made him.” Kaida shrugged, thinking of Sirius and Regulus. She destroyed their relationship to a point of no return. She wasn’t proud of it, she had told Regulus that she did not feel the same way he did. She told him she loved Sirius; it was always going to be Sirius. The Slytherin did not listen and blamed Sirius of seducing her, and her for falling for his playboy ways. Sirius was there when she confessed to Regulus, he protected her but at the end it was jealousy. “To sisters. And the beautiful, terrible things we do in the name of family.”

“To secrets. And those who survive them.” They drink. And for the first time in decades, the three sisters sit without daggers drawn — just shadows and memories between them.

Chapter Text

Blackmoor Keep – December, 1988 – Age 11

The study smelled faintly of parchment, clove, and the chilled wind from the North Tower. Rigel stood before the window, hands clasped behind his back, posture still but commanding in the long black robes of his station. The door opened without a knock. There was only one person who would barge in unannounced to a Lord’s study. Lord Carrow entered like a man who believed the room already belonged to him. Thick with old wealth and brash confidence, he carried himself like nobility — which, in fairness, he was. But Rigel didn’t so much as turn.

“You’ve certainly grown, Lord Black. Last I saw you, you were no taller than the family cat. Two years since I saw you holding your mother’s skirt as Orion presented you with his ring.” The man muttered, staring at the boy. He was tall for his age; he certainly did not get that structure from Sirius nor the lazy Regulus. Orion was a tall man; he was the same height as Fleamount Potter, reaching 6 feet easily. Walburga was shorter than Orion, but easily the tallest woman he had ever seen while young. Sirius and Regulus did not reach their height; they were tall, but James Potter and that other boy were easily taller. Rigel would soon grow to be as tall as Orion; it seemed like the grandchild would inherit the structure of Orion Black.

“And now, the cat defers to me.” Carrow chuckled, as if they were sharing an inside joke. Rigel finally turned, face impassive, eyes sharp.

“Let’s not waste time. I’ve heard the whispers. You’re considering reinstating Andromeda.” Lord Carrow plopped himself down on the loveseat near the fireplace. Rigel remained standing.

“I am listening to her side of the story. And others.” He corrected, not wanting to bring anyone false hopes about his decision. It was more than other heads of the family had done, but it could still be unfavorable for the Tonks. Lord Carrow was older and more experienced; he was a rat that looked for the scraps people would give him. But that did not mean he didn’t know how to create dangerous rumors.

“Oh, please. She was a flighty thing. A pawn. I cared nothing for her. I wanted the connection to the Black family—something you now control.” Lord Carrow smirked at the boy, knowing full well that other lords do not like him. They all hated him, but he had his lips on someone’s ear at all times. He was the lord they all came to for information, for a price.

“And yet, she humiliated you.” Rigel narrowed his eyes. He saw in the ledgers that Lord Carrow asked for damages, and his grandfather paid for his silence. Lord Carrow stood, walking towards Rigel’s desk.

“Perhaps. But time smooths all things. If you decide to let her return to the family ledger, I won’t raise a complaint. Not if…” He stepped forward, sliding a small velvet-bound portfolio onto the desk. Rigel had not realized the man was carrying something. “…you invest in my new holdings in the Highlands. There’s a trade route—untapped, magical, discreet. With the right coin, it could be quite lucrative. You’ll have a seat at the table. Power. Access.”

Rigel opened the folder, glanced at the neat rows of numbers, projected enchantments, and trade estimates. The business seemed real, but he would have his newly hired lawyers, The Bones, take a look at the paperwork. They needed to find everything they could from this so-called business. Especially if it comes from Carrow. Then closed it. “I will consider it.”
“Excellent. I’ll have my solicitor draw something informal—” Lord Carrow wanted to move forward to talk about money. The Carrows had lost it all, bad investments, and everything was gone during the 1930s. They were all now at the mercy of the other houses.

“If I decide she is to be reinstated, you will see an investment.” Rigel interrupted him with a raised hand. “If I do not… You will see no investment. And I expect you will accept either outcome in silence.”

Carrow's smile faltered. The boy was not as dumb as he would have believed. He really was looking into the whole affair. He wasn’t just doing it for his mother but for his family, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. “You speak like a seasoned lord. But you’re what—ten?”

“Eleven, yes. Old enough to sign my name in blood and hold the Black family magic in my hands. If I were you, Lord Carrow, I would not mistake age for authority.” A long pause. Carrow stared at him, assessing. Then, with a tight nod, he bowed — shallow, reluctant — and turned on his heel.

“I’ll await your owl.” Lord Carrow called out, never stopping from leaving the room. The man believed that come in and get everything he wanted, but it appears that the boy knew this dance.

“Do.” As the door closed, Rigel exhaled softly, then moved to the fire, the portfolio still untouched on the desk behind him. The world was watching. And Rigel Black would not be bought.
The fire crackled low in the hearth. It had been a long time since he left his study. Didn’t mention anything when his mother came in to inform him of Narcissa’s and Andromeda’s departure. Sensing his mood, Kaida sat in a deep velvet chair, hands wrapped around a glass of mulled wine. While Rigel stood by the mantel, arms folded, brows drawn tight in thought. “You don’t trust Lord Carrow.”

“No. He tried to buy my decision with gold. Not the truth.” Rigel confessed, staring down at the vast fields of his property. He hated the other house, Grimmauld Palace. The place where he caught the name of his father on the old tapestry. He still wished to go home, but maybe England was becoming his home.

“And yet you hesitate.” Kaida frowned, not knowing what more her son wanted. He had all he needed: the witnesses, the parties. He just needed to make a decision, and by Merlin, let go of his pride. He will need to let go of the pride he has in being the Head of the Family.

“Because Andromeda didn’t ask for forgiveness. She only asked for acknowledgement. For her daughter to know where she came from. For her husband to be heard.” Kaida nodded slowly, watching the boy who was far older than his years. This was not simple. I will be kind and let her back in. It was far more complex than that, and Kaida wondered if maybe Rigel bit more than he could chew.

“And you wonder if they’re worthy of the family magic,” Kaida muttered, wishing she could just scream and tell him that her favorite cousin, her sister, deserved this. But she was not going to influence her son and would not tell him what to do. She will not always be around, and he needs to start being independent.

“I wonder if it will survive if I guard it too closely,” Rigel confessed. There were not many of them; he needed to ensure their survival. He pushed off the mantle. “I need air.”

Rigel got a House Elf to take him somewhere far away from any Black Family property. He did not want to see or hear anything; he asked them to take him somewhere purely Muggle. Not a hint of the wizarding world. The streets were grey and damp, slick with the remains of a drizzle. Rigel wandered, cloaked in a glamour charm, stepping between mothers with strollers and men with briefcases, utterly apart from them. He stopped in a small park tucked between rows of buildings. Houses. They were smaller than his house, but he also lived in a castle, so he couldn’t complain. It was empty, save for a little girl in an oversized jumper swinging alone. She looked at him with curious green eyes. “You look sad.”

Rigel blinked. He should know her, but he doesn’t. He should know that thanks to his father, she has no parents and lives in a place where everyone hates her, but he doesn’t make the connection. For now, she is some curious Muggle kid. “I have a decision to make.”

She kicked her legs, the swing creaking softly. She was adorable, small, and thin. The girl must not have enough to eat at home. “What kind of decision?”

“Whether to let someone into my life. Someone who might deserve a second chance. Or who might ruin everything.” The girl tilted her head thoughtfully. It was a big decision; he couldn’t ask his mother. She will just tell him that he was the Head; he cannot have people always giving him the answers.

“I don’t have a family. Not really. If I had one, I’d keep it. Even if they made mistakes. Family’s important, right?” Rigel looked at her, truly looked — the wind brushing her dark hair into her face, the way her eyes glowed like emeralds, the stubborn little furrow between her brows. She had a scar on her forehead, and didn’t really go into detail, but it looked like a lightning bolt. How odd. Her features would someday shape into great beauty, given their aristocratic hints.

He could only smile at this poor child. She had no worries; she must have been from the orphanage. He should start a fundraiser for children like her. “You’re very wise.”

She grinned, swinging higher. Someone was finally talking to him, and for the first time, she could be making a friend. He didn’t seem like the type that would get bullied by her cousin; he was also older, so Dudley would not bully him. “My aunt says I talk too much.”

He gave a short laugh. So, not an orphan, she must be abused, or her aunt doesn’t have much money. He could see that the girl had no self-preservation instinct. Did no one ever teach her not to talk to strangers? He was older than her, felt far older than he was; she should be wary of him. He was also wearing his wizarding robes that looked like they were made during the Regency era. He was strange, but the girl kept talking to him. “Thank you. I needed this.”

He turned to leave. He spent too much time in this part of the Muggle world. People will start asking questions, and he didn’t want this girl to remember anything about him. The girl jumped from her swing, calling out to him. “You never asked my name!”

“I think I’ll find out someday.” Rigel shouted back and disappeared from her life. The wind had picked up by the time Rigel returned to the castle. He strode across the frostbitten courtyard and into the stables, where the warmth of hay and magic soothed his skin. The granine nickered softly as he approached. Rigel leaned against the stall, one hand on the wooden beam, his other idly scratching the creature’s neck. “Family is important.” The winged horse huffed in agreement, as if understanding. And still, he wasn’t sure. But the voice of a little girl — unnamed, and unforgettable — stayed with him as the snow began to fall outside. He had believed that they would never cross paths again. Who was he to know that in his third year, that small muggle girl would actually be the Girl-Who-Lived. Lady Holly Potter. He will forget about her, remember her once, when he is in the comfort of her home with many people around them. But for now he let her fade from his memory. He wouldn’t look for a muggle girl, he needed to find the best match for his family. For Holly she was enchanted by the boy who acted older than he was and went to the park everyday in hopes to see him once again.

Chapter Text

Blackmoor Keep – December, 1988 – Age 11

The same fire from that night burned brighter now, casting flickers of gold on the portraits that lined the wall — silent witnesses of Black family history. Rigel stood before them once more, but this time, he wasn’t alone. Andromeda sat with her back straight, hands folded in her lap. Edward Tonks rested one hand gently over hers, and Nymphadora sat beside them, less fidgety than usual — sensing the weight of what was to come. Kaida leaned against the far wall, present but silent, her presence lending quiet strength to her son.

“Lord Carrow was very clear. He doesn't care for you, Andromeda. You were a means to access Black wealth and influence. He offered me a deal. If I invest in his venture, he’ll drop the matter of your banishment.” Ted’s jaw clenched, but Andromeda showed no reaction. She had expected as much. The two cared little about each other; this is what a marriage meant in the Black Family. Just a means to ensure the prosperity of business, not self-happiness. “I’ve decided to make that investment.” Gasps rose — from Kaida, even from Nymphadora. She had believed that they would not be part of their family. The investment was too risky; Rigel had sorted it all out for them. Andromeda’s eyes narrowed slightly in caution. “But there is a price for rejoining the family.” He met each of their eyes in turn. Andromeda had expected as much; there was always a price to pay when being reinstated, and Rigel had put the family name out for them. He was so young.

“You were cast out for marrying a muggleborn, but I am acknowledging a different story. You were cast out because you married into another family. That must be reversed. The Black Family does not accept outsiders. It absorbs them. The three of you — all of you — must renounce Tonks' name. From this moment on, you will bear the name Black.” Andromeda blinked rapidly, stunned. Nymphadora's mouth fell open. Ted, however, rose to his feet slowly. “You, Edward Tonks, will be bound to this House. Not as a tolerated exception — but as a recognized member. You will be my kin, as would any son of a Black daughter. You will take the oath. As will your daughter.”

“Rigel… you would do that… for us?” Andromeda, overcome with emotion, whispered, then remembered what being a Black daughter represented, and she isn’t sure if Rigel would change those aspects. She knew that he did not hold the same ideas as other purebloods like the Malfoys, but would they have freedom? Will her daughter have the freedom to love anyone of her choosing?

“I am doing it for the family. We grow stronger when we do not let hatred cut us apart. But do not mistake my decision for charity. It comes with legacy, burden, and bond. As you know, what that will entail for an unmarried woman in the family.” He raised his chin; he is lenient. But not too lenient. Andromeda must see that he will not get rid of having the power to choose who enters the family. “You have three days to consider. Once the investment is complete, the ritual can be prepared.”

Ted didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward. “We don’t need three days.” He looked to his wife, then his daughter. “We accept. I accept. We’ll stand by your side. Not as a separate branch, but as Black.”

“Ted, think it through. We cannot just let Dora marry anyone she wants. Lord Black would have to agree to the marriage, or he would choose for her.” Andromeda pleaded with her husband. She wanted her family, but would not shackle her daughter with the same fate as she once had; her daughter had other plans.

“Mom, it’s ok. I was hoping…I don’t care about that, I just want to be an auror.” She smiled at her mother, holding her hand. Unlike Andromeda, who did not want to be arranged to marry and dreamed of love. Nymphadora did not care about falling in love, and if she had to marry, she would have begged her mom to set her up with someone or remain single forever. Now, it appears it was up to Rigel to set her up with someone if the family needed it.

“If you are both sure, then alright, we accept.” There was a long pause. Kaida openly sobbed; her sister was back. A new wave was coming for the Black Family. Everyone will have different opinions, but Rigel seemed to care about survival. Kaida was glad she never mentioned the values the Black family had. She was sure her son would eventually figure it out. Then Rigel nodded once.

“Then welcome home.”

Kaida smiled — proud of her child. Her child would run around making fun of old ladies and play pranks with other kids. Her child, she once believed, had grown up way too slowly for her liking. Andromeda covered her mouth with one hand, the tears welling in her eyes too old to be spilled easily. Nymphadora stared at Rigel like she was seeing him for the first time. “I will begin the ritual preparations. The family magic will welcome you… and bind you to it.” He turned to leave, then paused. “Once the investment clears, we will begin. Be ready.” And as he stepped out of the room, something stirred in the air — not just magic, but the shifting of a family's fate.

The grand dining hall in Malfoy Manor was bathed in warm, golden light, the silver chandeliers sparkling above the gathered guests. Narcissa Malfoy sat at the head of the table, eyes narrowed in sharp contemplation as the latest news unfolded before her. Lucius Malfoy, beside her, looked far less amused. “Lord Black makes bold moves,” he muttered, shaking the paper. “I didn’t think it would happen so quickly.”

Narcissa’s gaze flicked to the parchment in her hand. She’d already read the headline, and her thoughts were elsewhere — drawn to the implications for her family. She was glad for her sister and her family. She could feel them in the Black Family; three new stars in their family were created. Rigel had done well to allow them in, but not as Tonks. Narcissa wanted to mess with her husband. “The Weasleys aren’t the only ones with their sights on the new Lord Black.”

“He’s a child. The whole thing reeks of manipulation. What kind of head of a house does business deal with someone like Lord Carrow?” Narcissa’s expression remained steady, but her mind was working quickly. He was a clever child, she could agree with that; she knew the business with Lord Carrow would flourish. She read it in the stars, but her husband did not wish to enter it. Now Lord Black, Carrow, surprisingly Weasley, and Longbottom have entered business together. She knew that Rigel had done well and would be wealthy. The Blacks had two vaults that the public knew of that were vast and filled to the brim with gold, but the reality was that they had 15 vaults just like that, except 3. One was the family jewels vault, the second was family documents, and the third only the Head knew what was inside. Rigel could very well not work, and his great-great-great-grandchildren will remain as wealthy as he is now, even if they do not work. “You would think the Black family would never be so bold, but he’s different. This… this Rigel is reshaping the family.”

A chill fell over the room as her words settled. In the far corner, Leta Lestrange stood by the window, her gaze distant. “Are we to be concerned about this new Lord Black? He’s already taken in Andromeda and her family, and he’s going to invest in Carrow’s schemes.”

Narcissa turned toward her niece, weighing her response carefully. “Lord Black may be young, but he’s powerful. And he’s doing something that even the old blood of the Blacks could never fathom — welcoming those who’ve been cast out. It could be a dangerous precedent.” Lucius made a scoffing noise, but Narcissa continued, her voice sharpening. “We need to be careful. His willingness to forgive the Tonks, I mean the Blacks, and the way he’s handling the family’s legacy, suggests a shift. He’s no longer bound to the old ways. He will make decisions based on his family’s strength — and that means us.”

Lucius threw down the paper, his frustration palpable. “He should have nothing to do with them. But if he continues on this path, we may need to intervene.”

The warmth of the Burrow was filled with the usual chaos of the Weasley family on Christmas break. Children ran around the house, playing with enchanted ornaments while their parents conversed in the living room. It was in this comfortable setting that the Daily Prophet had found its way into the hands of Arthur Weasley. Arthur read the headline aloud, and immediately, the room fell silent. “Lord Rigel Black welcomes Andromeda, Ted, and Nymphadora Black back into the Black family. The investment deal with Carrow goes through.”

Charlie dropped Ginny’s toy, she scrambled to grab it and ran away, only throwing him a glare for taking her precious doll. Arthur and his wife Molly Weasley had 7 children. There was the oldest, Gryffindor at Hogwarts, 16-year-old Bill, then a Gryffindor 15 year 15-year-old Charlie, 12-year-old Gryffindor Percy, then there were the 10-year-old twins Fred and George, 8-year-old Ron, and finally 7-year-old Ginny. They were a loud bunch, but Molly, who grew up as an only child, even if she had twin brothers far younger than her, couldn’t have it any other way. Her children were a delight. Arthur had saved money on the side, planning a weekend getaway with his wife, but with the constant owls from Lady Longbottom, he invested that money in Lord Carrow's business. If it goes up in flames, he knows that Lord Black and Lady Longbottom would get justice, and he will get that money back. Percy, who had been sitting across from the chaos, muttered under his breath. “I can’t believe it. The Tonks? That family’s been cast out for years, and now they’re back?”

Bill, who had been sitting with Fred and George, looked over, his expression thoughtful. Molly, much to Arthur’s disapproval, had been teaching Bill how to be a proper Lord. Bill studied because he liked making his mom happy but was already looking to go to Egypt. Charlie was in dragon land and Percy was the only one who really questioned his mother. Bill opened his mouth wanting to impress his mother. “It doesn’t seem like a coincidence, does it? Lord Black is making a move — one that’s clearly going to affect more than just the Blacks. And the way he’s handled the Tonks family… he’s changing the narrative of the Black legacy.”

Percy raised an eyebrow, his tone skeptical. “But what about Bellatrix? She’s been the most loyal to the Dark Lord. Is she just going to step aside and let Rigel take charge like this?”

“I don’t think anyone’s going to just ‘step aside’ when it comes to Bellatrix. She’s never been the type to let someone take her place.” Fred had heard all about the Lestrange’s from the Daily Prophet, and other forms of media. George had stared for too long at the young Leta Lestrange, something his twin always made fun of.

“And Sirius? Isn’t he technically still a Black? How will he feel about this?” George asked, wanting to know more about why this was such a huge deal. So what if the Tonks disappeared and the Blacks threw their money around. Why was this specifically such a big topic?

“It seems like Lord Black is trying to create a new identity for the Black family. And it’s clear that Bellatrix and Sirius don’t fit in with that vision.” Percy explained with an eye roll.
“I guess the old Black family has really been torn apart. I mean, they’ve got Bellatrix on one side and the Tonks family on the other. That poor boy has a lot of work ahead of him.” Molly stressed, she hoped that the young boy will be alright. This was a lot of attention for someone so young.

“Don’t forget, the Black family has always been powerful. But Lord Black may not just be concerned with power — he may be concerned with what it means to be family.” Arthur warned them all. Things in the wizarding world were changing and Lord Black is the one that is the front man of the change.

Later that evening, Rigel sat in his study, looking over the reports on his desk. The Daily Prophet headline lay next to him, and his mind raced with the consequences of his decisions. His father, Sirius, and Bellatrix Lestrange were distant thoughts now, but the weight of their legacy lingered in the air. What would this mean for them? What is he to do with them both? Bellatrix needs to be casted out or she will need to be cleansed of the dark mark. He cannot have anyone in his family bowing down to another lord. Sirius…he didn’t want to think about it. Everything was so much, and now after the rituals he could feel his family in different lands. He told Andromeda, Edward, and Dora to all pack up and move to a different house. They are the branch family, they need to be in sacred land of the Blacks not in a run down home. They moved to Andromeda’s childhood manor. Ted and Dora were experiencing the link for the first time and cried at the sense of safety the ancient magic gave them. A knock at the door broke his concentration. “Come in.”

The door creaked open, and Kaida stepped inside. Her eyes were filled with curiosity, but also concern. “Have you thought it over, Rigel? The response from the wizarding world will be mixed. The Malfoys, the Longbottoms, even your own family… they will all have opinions about your choices.”

Rigel leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping the armrest. He hadn’t yet made up his mind about the repercussions. “I’m well aware. But the Black family has always been about survival. This is about more than just power; it’s about defining who we are.” He paused, his voice lower. “Bellatrix will never accept this. And Sirius… he is lost, no matter what I do. This is the price of rebuilding. A family fractured beyond repair. But I will not let it crumble further.”

Kaida nodded, her gaze full of quiet understanding. “Then you’ve made the right decision. The Black family has always been strong — but perhaps, it’s time to redefine what that strength means.”

Rigel turned his gaze back to the flickering fire, the decision settling within him. “The Black name will rise again. But it will not be the same Black family it once was.”

Chapter Text

Blackmoor Keep – March 1989 – Age 11

The owl came at dawn. It took months for the owl to finally arrive at his window. Rigel had been busy. Lord Carrow’s business had started to make a profit, and Rigel had started to move his family's money. Andromeda, Ted, and Dora were now his responsibility. At the start of the year, before Dora went back to Hogwarts, he had gathered them with their wardrobes. There, he had a seamstress measure them and a house-elf throw out their clothing. They were now adorned with the year’s fashion, Dora had protested, but Rigel would not have it. Leaving his mother to care for the rest, he reminded her that she was the acting Lady of the House. Have a social life. There were now tea parties, and Andromeda and his mother had tea parties with the other ladies. There were now galas planned for the year, and charities they would be in charge of or donating to. Nymphadora had her orders, reigned in the Hufflepuffs, and made alliances with strong marriage contenders. Rigel would be looking over the profiles of prospects she fancied, and he would create his own with the help of their mothers for her to choose.

In a few years, when she is 17 years old, she will start going on courting dates; till then, she will be getting the education she never received. Rigel had a governess enter their home, and she began to teach Nymphadora how to act like a lady. Sending Rigel letters detailing how clumsy the girl was and the slow progress. Ted was promoted in his job, but having to be told that the wizarding world doesn’t promote Muggle-borns with no backing made him furious. But now he was Black, he had a perfect background, which irritated the man, but he began to see the differences. Muggle-borns all over England were not being looked at for promotions; they all went back to the Muggle world. He set the example using his family name; Rigel could not have been prouder. The strange owl in his office wasn’t like the others Rigel had seen—no Ministry seal, no Ministry stiffness, no fondness that Andromeda’s family carried. This owl was proud and slow, feathers like smoke and snow, and it glided through the open window like it had flown this path for centuries. It landed on the iron railing of Rigel’s study, the railing he had added in his study for the amount of owls he had been receiving, it dropped a thick parchment envelope at his feet, and gave a single hoot, as if to say, “At last.”

Rigel stared down at the envelope, heart suddenly louder than the wind outside. The parchment was cream, heavy, and wax-sealed in deep emerald. The crest of “Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry” gleamed at the fold, and his name—his full name—was written in green ink with deliberate elegance:

Mr. Rigel Orion Black

The West Tower

Blackmoor Keep

Breakfast was waiting in the small solar room that Kaida had claimed as her own. She was seated already, sipping black tea and reading the morning edition of the Daily Prophet—which, as always, had something to say about him. Rigel had made big moves with the previous Tonks family. Moves he had not regretted. The thought of Hogwarts passed his mind a couple of times, but he was sure he didn’t need it. He had tutors teaching him the curriculum, and had already studied up to his fifth year. He needed Hogwarts for socialization, not education. He was fine without it, but seeing this letter in front of him made him change his mind. He wanted to go. He wanted to attend Hogwarts and see if he is a Gryffindor like…his father. A Slytherin, like the rest of his family, or a Ravenclaw, like his mother claimed to be. He wanted to meet his lifelong friends and experience what made his parents crazy. What made his cousin crazy and excited to return to Hogwarts? Ever since leaving France, he had only worked; what will it be like having something other than paperwork, ledgers, and appearances? Would he finally love the UK? Or will he remain yearning for France? He entered the small solar room; he didn’t look up as he entered. “You’ve received it, then.”

Rigel placed the envelope beside her plate. She finally glanced at him, then set down her teacup and ran a finger over the crest. “Have you opened it?”

“No, I believed you would have enjoyed it opening up together.” Rigel tested her mood. At times, she would be the mother he grew up with, the one who believed him to be her baby, too delicate for the world. Other times, she would be the perfect lady and treat him like the Head of the Family. Even in times, he just needed her arms around him.

“Thank you…” Kaida whispered, dropping her perfect posture and allowing him to sit with her on the love seat. She watched as he broke the wax, wrapping her arm around his shoulders. Inside was the official letter, smooth and solemn:

“We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…”

And the list of books, supplies, robes, and most importantly, his chance to finally be more than a shadow. More than just Lord Rigel Orion Black. The genius boy who was making changes in Wizgamont. The boy who, after three meetings, began to speak out, began to make his path in becoming the leader of the neutral faction. Rigel’s fingers gripped the page tighter.

Kaida smiled, proud, her voice softened. “You’ll need to choose your path carefully. Hogwarts is not just a school. It is a mirror. It will show you who you might be… and who others think you are.”

He looked up at her. “Do you think I’ll be like Father?” The air went still. The first time since he was 8 years old that he mentioned him. They seemed to have an unspoken agreement. Do not speak of his father, and they will be in harmony. Instead of pulling away from him, Kaida tightened her arm around his shoulder. She reached out, brushing a stray curl from his face. His hair had gotten longer; he was due for a trim.

“No,” she said firmly. “You’ll be better. Because you’ll be free.”

That evening, owls came from across the country. Some were invitations—Nymphadora Black sent a formal note through Andromeda, requesting a pre-Hogwarts visit to the castle. She wanted him to meet her friends, to meet her best friend, a Gryffindor obsessed with dragons. Charlie Weasley. Rigel politely declined, stating that they could meet at Hogwarts, as he is busy ensuring the House will stay afloat while he is away. A curious letter from Hogwarts Headmaster came, and a more curious note was from Leta Lestrange herself. A folded card. No return address. The owl didn’t even stay to rest. It was strange as the Malfoys had all started to attack him and his faction. He did not care what they thought. They were a branch of his family. They will do well to remember that.

Hogwarts is the beginning.

Watch the staircases, trust the stars.

Some ghosts still breathe.

-L

Rigel burned that one in the hearth without a word. Leta seemed to know something, and he would get to the bottom of it. Even as a cold and ruthless Lord, he was shaping up to be Rigel kept the letter. The Hogwarts letter. He placed it in the center drawer of his desk, next to his empty wand box and the Black family engagement ring. His wand securely on his forearm and Black Family signet on his finger, he stared at the fire. He didn’t know who he’d become at Hogwarts. But he would not be a pawn. He would take his rightful place as a player.

Blackmoor Hall – Later that evening

The candlelight flickered low in the library. They had come to the library for a single moment of tranquility. Kaida sat by the hearth in her velvet armchair, her fingers toying with the stem of a crystal glass filled with blackberry wine. Rigel, still clutching the Hogwarts letter in his lap, sat on the tufted chair near her. He was staring down at the letter, confused about not having received it sooner, and impatient about what would come once he was at Hogwarts. The excitement had worn off. Now came the questions.

“Mother…what can you tell me about Slytherin?” He wondered, finally looking up to his mother. His mother had always stated that she was a Ravenclaw, but she was always around her group of Slytherin friends: Severus, Regulus, Evan, and Barty. The only Ravenclaw she had ever known was Pandora, and she had not heard from her since she left for France. 

“It is not what the others say.” Kaida glanced over the rim of her glass. Slytherin was a strange house. There were rules in the house and a long legacy that must be maintained. It was a political minefield where even the slightest wrong move could mean family destruction. Kaida did not doubt in her mind that her son would be a Slytherin. He was thrust into a world he did not wish to be a part of and did not know of, but he became a worthy player. She was proud of him, as her child would do well in the future; he was already doing well as the Head of the Family, and he was only 11. 

“Then what is it?” Rigel tilted his head. She set her wine down. Her voice dropped into something more ancient than bedtime stories.

“Slytherin is not simply a House. It’s a strategy. A fortress. A table where every seat is earned, and every ally matters. You are sorted into it not for who you are… but for who you might become.” She stood and crossed the room, fingertips trailing across spines of ancient books. “While Hufflepuff laughs together and dines in fellowship, Slytherins make introductions that will become partnerships for life. Marriages. Pacts. Secret favors. The ones you dine beside today may save—or destroy—you tomorrow. The stakes are different.”

Rigel looked down at his hands. It would be another battle; Rigel would never know peace if he were sorted into Slytherin, but that does not mean that he will know peace if he is not. Being a Slytherin would make his life easier in the long run, but it would destroy any freedom he wished to have inside the halls at Hogwarts. “They say Slytherin is selfish.”

“They are realists. In Slytherin, if there are two lives at stake and only one can be saved, you don’t waste time debating who deserves it. You save the one who will win the war.” Kaida turned to him fully. She moved to the window and looked out over the misty moor. “Hufflepuff is loyal…but loyal to everyone. That’s their strength and their tragedy. They would walk into fire beside you, even if it means you both perish. They want peace more than victory.”

“And Ravenclaw?” Rigel frowned. Nymphadora was immediately loyal to their family, and that made him doubt her intentions. He agreed to let her be for now, as when she is 17 years old, he will test her by marrying her off and bringing in another male to populate the Blacks. A man with great standing, who would be eager to protect their family. Perhaps a student from Durmstrang, as they are taught dark magic. 

“Ravenclaws care for the truth, but only the truths that interest them. They are dangerous not because they scheme, but because they don’t. They don’t play the game. They’ll walk past a fire if it doesn’t match their curiosity. But if pressed—if truly pressed—they’ll find a way to end the war without anyone dying at all. That is their power.” Kaida smiled, seeing the gears turning in her son’s head. She was glad that he was asking these questions.

Rigel swallowed. “And Gryffindor?”

Her eyes turned sharp. “Ah, Gryffindor. The heroes. The firebrands. Do not be fooled, Rigel. They speak of bravery like it were a virtue. But they mistake loyalty for loudness and friendship for impulse. They believe that if you call someone your brother, it makes it so. They will leap before they look, and worse—if they must choose, they’ll sacrifice their loved one to save the world, and call it noble.” She came close and crouched in front of him. “You will meet Gryffindors who smile at you. Some may even like you. But know this, my son: the lion has claws. They would rather be remembered as martyrs than protect what is theirs. Do not make the mistake of thinking their love is unconditional.”

Rigel’s brows knit together. “Then what about my love? What if I don’t want to be like them or you? What if I want something else?”

Kaida studied him for a long moment. Her voice was gentle this time. “Then be clever, Rigel. Use what you learn to write your own script. You are my son, but you do not have to be my shadow.” Her face took a dark shadow, and she uttered the last words of wisdom she could on this subject. Knowing that whatever happens after this talk will be up to her son. She would protest if he came home claiming to love a Gryffindor, and would object to the marriage as fiercely as she could. “But you must understand the board before you move your first piece.”

Rigel nodded slowly, feeling older than he had that morning. He would go to Hogwarts not as a pawn—but as a player. And he would never, ever let himself be sacrificed. Nor would he let his future allies or lover be made into a lamb raised for slaughter.

Chapter Text

Blackmoor Keep — August 31, 1989

The sky above Blackmoor Keep was a deep indigo, dotted with stars that twinkled faintly through the enchanted glass of the massive windows. The castle itself seemed to glow from within, tall spires and turrets of black stone shining with silver trim, the small dragon statues perched along parapets almost lifelike in the moonlight. Tonight, every torch, every magical chandelier, every enchanted candelabrum in the grand hall had been lit, bathing the Keep in a warm, golden luminescence that belied its cold, imposing exterior. This was the night before the start of the school year, the night of a grand gala that would be repeated for 7 years, only twice repeating as Nymphadora graduates, and when Rigel graduates. He had it all planned perfectly, to the point of sending out carriages for guests to ensure they did not learn the location of his palace.

Guests began to arrive in long Muggle vehicles called limousines; they were all enchanted to glide silently across the gravel courtyard. Wizards and witches of prominence, influence, and wealth stepped down, robes flowing, jewels glinting. It was a gala to celebrate Rigel and all the students who will be attending Hogwarts tomorrow. They will all remember the celebration, but none of them will remember how to arrive. The Longbottoms arrived first, Augusta upright and elegant, her green robes shimmering under the hall’s light, for once she was not wearing that vulture hat, followed by her grandson Neville, who clutched his hands nervously. Then came the Carrows, Rosiers, Malfoys, Weasleys, and Warringtons, all exchanging subtle bows and careful smiles—politics, pride, and social stature layered into each gesture.

From the Ministry, the aurors arrived last, disciplined and silent, led by the Head Auror Alistor Moody, known as Mad-Eye Moody. They were there to watch over the newly appointed Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, as the plump man greeted everyone like he was the star of the party. The Hogwarts contingent followed: Headmaster Dumbledore, tall and serene, his beard catching the soft light; Minerva McGonagall, stern and calculating, the very picture of the witch who commanded respect without raising her voice; Severus Snape, head of Slytherin, black robes impeccably tailored, his dark gaze cutting; Filius Flitwick head of Ravenclaw, and Pomona Sprout Head of Hufflepuff, both radiating quiet authority, their presence completing the school’s protective mantle.

Inside Blackmoore Keep, the guests assembled in the wide, polished entrance hall, whispering in low tones as house elves ushered them down the grand staircase. The walls, adorned with ancestral portraits of the Black lineage, seemed to lean in, observing every arriving noble with painted eyes that glimmered under the chandeliers’ glow. Everyone was observing the room, the chandeliers, and the moving portraits, all whispering around them. Then, the music stopped. A hush fell across the room, subtle yet commanding, like the castle itself had inhaled sharply.

At the top of the stairs appeared Lady Andromeda Black, graceful in a gown of deep emerald, her husband, Edward Black, close at her side. Beside them, Nymphadora Black, poised and charming, accompanied by Kaida Black, each woman radiating intelligence and presence. They paused midway down the stairs, the silver embroidery on their robes catching the light, and all eyes followed them, anticipation mounting.

At the top of the stairs, he appeared. Rigel Black, Lord of Blackmoore Keep, standing tall, shoulders squared, in the family colors of black and silver. His black hair was neatly combed, silver eyes scanning the crowd with that quiet, calculated calm that had already begun to define him. The dragons along the stairway seemed to shimmer in approval. The long history of the Blacks was finally coming to light, the castle knew it, and soon the world would also know it. He stood in the middle of his family, calm and calculating, looking over the guests who had graced themselves. A slow step forward, letting the weight of the room settle onto him without flinching. Then, with a voice clear and resonant, he spoke:

“Welcome, honored guests, to Blackmoore Keep. Tonight, we gather not only to celebrate the start of a school year but to honor the legacy of our family, the bonds of friendship, and the bright futures that lie ahead.” There was a pause, the kind of pregnant silence that commanded attention. Then Rigel’s gaze swept the room, settling briefly on Dumbledore, on Augusta Longbottom, on his mother, Kaida Black, and on the Hogwarts Heads. His lips curved into a small, controlled smile. “Please, enjoy the evening. Eat, drink, and let the warmth of our home surround you.”

A soft murmur of appreciation spread through the hall. House elves stepped forward with trays of crystal goblets and delicate hors d’oeuvres. The orchestra, stationed in a small balcony above, resumed the music, this time with a subtle grandeur that echoed through the high ceilings. As the crowd began to mingle, Rigel’s expression remained calm, poised, almost regal. But in the back of his mind, anticipation for Hogwarts shimmered like the faint silver threads in his robes—tomorrow, he would leave this hall, this home, and step into a world where he would need all of his cunning, his charm, and his measured composure. But for tonight, he is the Lord of this House, and he will act like it.

As the murmur of the crowd filled the ballroom, Rigel’s silver eyes scanned every detail, every posture, every whispered conversation. Each guest was a piece on a board he had already begun to map in his mind. The Malfoys moved with deliberate grace, Lucius in deep purple robes, eyes calculating, notched whispers trailing every step. Draco, a young boy who still believed his father could fix everything, tugged at his mother’s sleeve, trying to appear composed, yet the way he darted glances toward Rigel betrayed both curiosity and rivalry. Rigel made a mental note: young Malfoy’s ambition was palpable, but naïve. The Weasleys, in contrast, radiated warmth and energy. Even in formal attire, their twin boys leaned close to whisper jokes and subtle commentary to each other. Rigel observed them with mild amusement, recognizing the ease of friendship and confidence they carried—a stark contrast to the measured poise of Black heirs. He noted how their presence subtly unsettled some of the more rigid, aristocratic families, though he found the levity refreshing.

Across the hall, the sacred 28 wove through the crowd, faces polished and expressions sculpted into indifference or subtle disdain. Their presence was a reminder of old alliances, old rivalries, and the weight of bloodlines that had long dominated the wizarding elite. Rigel’s gaze lingered briefly on Zabini, sleek and quiet, calculating, and filed him mentally under “potential asset or threat.” However, he could not deny the beauty Lady Zabini carried with her, even if she was on her husband number 4 at the moment.

At the far end, the Rosiers and Carrows whispered amongst themselves. Rigel’s lips curved in a thin, subtle smile—he knew their ambition, their taste for influence, their subtle readiness to exploit weakness. They would watch, always watching, but Rigel’s presence ensured they would not overstep. The Carrows had made progress that the Rosiers envied as their business started to take fruit, and Rigel was at the center of it. The Rosiers sent business plans to the young lord, but none caught his attention. The Longbottoms were a different matter. Augusta carried herself with the precision of someone who had mastered scrutiny, yet there was warmth for Rigel, a recognition of his composure and intelligence. Neville shuffled slightly at her side, staring at Rigel as though seeing a living example of the power and responsibility that awaited him. Rigel inclined his head slightly—a gesture of acknowledgment.

Hogwarts faculty were positioned near the orchestra balcony. Minerva McGonagall observed with a carefully neutral expression, lips pressed in measured disapproval when any youth stepped too far out of line. Severus Snape, leaning slightly to the side, eyes dark and penetrating, seemed to read every subtle move Rigel made. The head of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff exchanged whispers, wondering why they were even here when they did not wish to be in the mists of politics. They were educators, not politicians. While Dumbledore, serene, his gaze flicking with faint amusement, allowed the young Lord to command the room without interference—a silent acknowledgment of potential. Not that Rigel wanted it, he would not be his pawn.

At the center of the ballroom, Andromeda and Nymphadora Black, accompanied by Kaida, moved with calm authority. Andromeda’s emerald gown shimmered with magic subtly entwined, Nymphadora’s silver-trimmed black ensemble whispered of grace and cunning. Rigel’s eyes softened for a moment as he considered them—family, yes, but pillars of the world he must navigate. He allowed himself the smallest, fleeting smile. Music swelled once more, and Rigel’s gaze swept the room like a chess player assessing his pieces. Every whisper, every glance, every subtle shift in posture was noted. Friend or foe, ally or rival, opportunity or threat—it all mattered. And yet, beneath it all, Rigel reminded himself: tonight was not about control. Tonight, it was about introduction, observation, and presence.

He moved slightly, and the ballroom seemed to respond to him, the warmth of the chandeliers accentuating the silver embroidery on his black robes. He gave a subtle nod to Dumbledore and the Hogwarts heads, a silent acknowledgment of the year to come, of the students he would meet, and the world he would soon navigate beyond Blackmoore Keep. Even amid the grandeur, the political tension, and the calculated observation, Rigel felt something quietly thrilling—tomorrow, the journey began. And tonight, he was Lord Black, poised, calculating, and fully aware of every eye, every whisper, every possibility.

The music seemed to taper into silence as Kaida Black, ever regal and composed, swept towards her son and took hold of his arm. Her robes of deep sapphire shimmered under the chandeliers, contrasted by her black pepper hair caught in an intricate braid, and her presence alone commanded attention. “Darling, I want you to meet someone very important,” she began, her voice precise and deliberate, carrying just enough warmth to smooth over any tension. “It is my honor to introduce to you the new Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge.” She announced as she got within earshot of the Minister of Magic. He quickly turned to look at the host of the party and smiled brightly at the boy.

“Minister Fudge, this is my son, Lord Rigel Orion Black,” she continued, sweeping her hand toward him. Rigel stepped forward, silver eyes glinting, back straight, the perfect blend of youthful energy and aristocratic composure. A small bow, precise, deliberate, and controlled. “Lord Black, the Minister.”

Fudge inclined his head with a polite smile, extending a hand. “Lord Black, it is a pleasure. Your family has long been respected in the wizarding world, and Blackmoore Keep… it is remarkable.”

Rigel allowed a faint smile, the corners of his mouth barely twitching, and shook the Minister’s hand, strong and measured. “Thank you, Minister. We strive to uphold the legacy,” he replied, his voice calm and deliberate. Every syllable was chosen to reflect authority, heritage, and the promise of vigilance. “By any means, if you need funds. Know that the House of Black will be a lending ear.”

Behind Fudge, Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody stood, cloak draped loosely, magical eye scanning the room with restless precision. The soon-to-retire Auror’s presence radiated a quiet intensity, a reminder that even in ceremonial spaces, danger—and scrutiny—was never far away. Rigel’s gaze briefly met Moody’s, and he inclined his head subtly in acknowledgment. The flickering magical eye studied him in return, as if testing the young Lord, silently grading composure, attention, and instinct.

Kaida’s gaze swept the room again, lingering on various influential families, before she guided Fudge and Moody forward. “We are most pleased that the Ministry could join us tonight. This gathering celebrates not just our family, but the unification of old alliances and the fostering of new relationships within our magical society.”

His mother and the minister began making small conversation as Rigel’s eyes flicked across the room: the Malfoys, Weasleys, Longbottoms, Rosiers, Carrows, and more—all observing, all calculating, all weighing what this introduction might mean. He noted the subtle shifts in posture, the tightening of fists, the glances toward the Ministry section. Everything was a signal, every detail a piece of a larger puzzle. With a hand movement, they all noticed how the music changed, and Andromeda, with her husband, opened the dance floor for other participants. Soon, the whole ballroom had people dancing, and Rigel was a silent commander to all. Rigel observed, always observing—the way Fudge’s eyes lingered on influential faces, the way Moody’s gaze swept the crowd with professional skepticism. Every detail was a mental note, every gesture a lesson in politics, power, and human—or wizard—nature.

Rigel’s silver eyes flicked toward the corner of the ballroom, where Nymphadora Black stood quietly, her posture hesitant but impeccable. Her mother, Andromeda, had trained her well, but Rigel knew a young lady of her standing required more than poise—she needed presentation, the subtle choreography of social grace that marked a Black family debut. Excusing himself from his mother and the Minister of Magic, he went off to reach her before she became a wallflower. Rigel approached her, gliding with measured steps, the soft swish of his black-and-silver tailcoat brushing the polished floor. He stopped just short of her, giving a faint nod of acknowledgment. “Miss Nymphadora,” he said quietly, his voice low and controlled. “Shall we make our rounds?”

Nymphadora blinked, a mixture of surprise and deference in her gaze. “Of course, Lord Black,” she replied, following him without hesitation. There was an unspoken trust in his presence—he was authority and assurance all at once, and she knew instinctively that he would guide her through the subtle complexities of this gathering. He was younger than she was, but she couldn’t help but leech herself to him.

Rigel offered a small hand, which she took, and he led her forward. Their steps were synchronized, deliberate, as if the room itself had contracted around them, drawing every eye toward the pair. Silver chandeliers cast warm light over polished marble, reflecting off dragon statues that lined the walls like silent sentinels. Every gaze that fell upon them noted the subtle interplay of lineage and care: Rigel, the young Lord, and the new but eligible Nymphadora, the blossoming lady of the Black household.

As they approached the Longbottoms, Rigel’s attention shifted, scanning the room for potential opportunities while keeping Tonks perfectly shielded from awkward attention. Augusta Longbottom rose slightly from her seat, hands clasped, her gaze calculating but tinged with welcome. Neville, wide-eyed and fidgeting with the cuffs of his jacket, peered at Rigel as if expecting some sudden reprimand or display of power.

“Lady Longbottom, Heir Longbottom,” Rigel said smoothly, inclining his head slightly. “It is a pleasure to see you both this afternoon.” His voice carried a controlled warmth, just enough to soften the edges of his commanding presence.

Nymphadora curtsied lightly, glancing to Rigel for reassurance before offering a polite, “Hello, Lady Longbottom, Heir Longbottom.”

Neville’s eyes darted nervously between them, and Rigel’s lips twitched in a faint, imperceptible smile. He could see the boy’s mind working, measuring them both, trying to reconcile the legends of the Black family with the reality standing before him. It felt so long since Neville had seen Rigel; sure, they wrote to each other, but that was rare. Rigel had many responsibilities; he couldn’t just drop them all because he needed someone. “Hello, Lord Black, Lady Black.”

“Miss Black, Neville. She isn’t married to Lord Black.” Lady Longbottom corrected her grandson, making Neville flush bright red. “Lord Black, pleasure as always. This must be the new Miss Black…oh my…how lovely she is. When will she be allowed to accept calls? My cousin’s son has a child who studies in France. Quite bright but three years older than Miss Black.”

“Yes, this is Miss Nymphadora Black. I have decided that by her coming of age, she will have her ball and will be accepting calls after. Of course, following the Black tradition of having all young ladies move into the Lords' House, so I could supervise. When I am at Hogwarts, Mr. Black, her father, would supervise in my absence.” Rigel announced to all who were listening. Shocking Nymphadora on what was going to happen after she graduated from Hogwarts, she hadn’t been told, but it seemed like this was tradition. She was meant to learn this during the winter break from Hogwarts, and she had just finally mastered etiquette. Ted and Andromeda all knew the tradition, as Andromeda confessed it to her husband. They weren’t blindsided like Nymphadora felt, but there was nothing that could be done. They were part of the family, what Rigel says…goes.

“How wonderful, I must then inform my cousin.” Lady Longbottom gave Rigel a curtsy, and Rigel bowed back at her.

“I shall leave you both, enjoy the festivities.” Rigel gave a nod to Neville and a quick wink at the nervous boy. As they continued, Rigel subtly guided Tonks past the influential figures of the room. His movements weren’t just about presentation—they were scouting. He noted which families were eager to make alliances, which eyes lingered with curiosity, and which whispers spoke of opportunity or threat. Every interaction was a potential thread to weave into the network he was already beginning to craft for Nymphadora.

Chapter Text

Blackmoor Keep — August 31, 1989

Nymphadora mirrored his subtle nods, following his lead perfectly, and Rigel’s gaze swept the room again, silver eyes calculating. Marriage prospects. Connections. Influence. Tonight wasn’t just a gala; it was a lesson in power, perception, and loyalty. And Rigel, young though he was, would ensure that Nymphadora walked it with both grace and strategic advantage. As Rigel guided Nymphadora through the ballroom, his silver eyes flicked briefly toward Lord Carrow’s son, who lingered near a gilded pillar. The boy was studying at Durmstrang, yet his sharp eyes scanned the room with the same practiced vigilance Rigel had come to respect. He noted the age—the same as Nymphadora—and the subtle posture that spoke of both privilege and control. A potential connection, Rigel thought, filing the observation away for later consideration.

“Charlie is over there with his family…could I introduce you?” Nymphadora asked, her voice carrying a quiet mixture of curiosity and deference.

“Of course,” Rigel replied, tilting his head ever so slightly. His hand lingered near hers, a gentle but unmistakable reminder of his guidance, and together they moved toward the cluster of red-haired figures at the far corner of the ballroom. They looked slightly out of place, like brightly colored birds among the somber tones of the aristocratic gathering.

Charlie Weasley was the first to notice them. His eyes widened slightly, and a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “It’s Lord Black,” he whispered, nudging his siblings. “The infamous Lord Black.”

As they approached, Nymphadora stepped forward gracefully. With the nudging of Molly, Charlie was pushed in front of his family. “Good evening, Mister Weasley. I hope you are enjoying the festivities…umm…oh, yeah…I would like to introduce you to Lord Rigel Black,” she said, her voice confident at the beginning, becoming hesitant by the confused look Charlie gave her and finally confident at the end, she was carrying the authority her guardian lent her.

“Er…right…I…umm…pleasure to meet you Lord Black. This is my dad…Lord Weasley and my mom, Mol-er…Lady Weasley.” Charlie was clumsy pointing at his parents behind him making Nymphadora smirk at the boy. Rigel just turned his silver eyes from the boy in front of him towards the couple behind him in disappointment. They did not teach their children the proper wizarding ways. How are they going to survive now?

Arthur Weasley inclined his head with warmth, his eyes bright behind round spectacles. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Black. Thank you for allowing me to enter into business with you. Your support has made it possible for us to provide robes for everyone attending tonight.” His tone carried genuine gratitude, tinged with awe at the young lord’s presence.

Rigel’s posture remained impeccable, silver eyes glinting ever so slightly in acknowledgment. “The honor is mine, Lord Weasley,” he said smoothly, voice carrying a faint but deliberate edge of command. “The family name may open doors, but it is opportunity and foresight that keep them open.”

Arthur nodded, clearly impressed with the boy’s poise. He also didn’t know what to do with himself as this was the first time he ever spoke with other Lords. Usually Dumbledore did all the talking and all he had to do was nod but now he was in front of a child that made him feel inferior to him by just existing. Arthur didn't know what to do with himself. “And now, allow me to introduce my wife and children,” he continued, gesturing toward the familiar group of Weasleys clustered together. “Molly, here is the young Lord Black. And these are our children—William, the oldest and my heir. Charles, the second oldest, Percival, the twins; Fred and George, Ronald, and Ginevra”

Rigel inclined his head slightly to each of them, acknowledging each with a polite, measured nod. Nymphadora mirrored him, her own demeanor perfectly composed beside the young lord, the pair presenting a subtle harmony of aristocratic grace and youthful command. “Pleasure, I hope everyone is enjoying the festivities. For the children there are some out in the garden…playing. Mister and Miss Weasley are more than welcome to attend their games, perhaps an introduction to Heir Longbottom is necessary?”

“Yes of course, it would be good for them to stretch their legs.” Arthur muttered looking at his youngest children who were bored standing around. “You met Headmaster Dumbledore?”

“I haven’t gotten the pleasure, Lord Weasley. I’m sure in time I will be able to have a conversation with the Headmaster.” He nodded at Arthur noticing his fidgeting fingers and how his wife looked around the room wondering if they really belonged there. He felt Nymphadora looking around showing a bored expression. Rigel’s silver gaze swept the group carefully, taking in each red head, the subtle tension in their shoulders, the nervous curiosity in their movements. Then with a small nudge he pulled Nymphadora back to the conversation. Turning to the Weasleys letting his mask slip a little. “Difference is perception,” he murmured to them. That caught their attention, as they looked around the room. “Observe, learn, and decide accordingly. One must always know the players before the game begins.”

“We best be off, I look forward to speaking with you in length, Lord Weasley.” And with that, they moved on, Nymphadora poised beside him, Rigel silently cataloging the evening, the guests, and the subtle alliances forming around him—always calculating, always present, yet every step perfectly choreographed to project authority without arrogance, power without cruelty. Rigel led Nymphadora across the polished marble floor, the soft echo of their steps harmonizing with the fading strains of the orchestra. His silver eyes scanned the room, noting seating arrangements, clusters of conversation, and even the subtle posture of each guest. Every detail mattered; every gesture could signal intention, alliance, or weakness. She led him to where the Hogwarts professors and Dumbledore were located. Professor Sprout was the first to meet them.

“Lord Black, I would love for you to meet Professor Sprout. She is the Head of the House of Hufflepuff.” Nymphadora introduced him to her head of the house and Professor Sprout smiled kindly at the boy. Who was sure to become a Slytherin. “Professor Sprout, this is Rigel Black, Lord of the House of Black.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, young Lord. I am looking forward to teaching you, I am the herbology professor. Miss Black is wonderful in my course…of course, she is a Black.” Her laugh was kind, not mocking, just observant and wonderful. Rigel could feel at ease with this woman, no doubt was she a Hufflepuff.

“She could use some assistance in potions.” A greasy haired man with a long nose stated making the smile drop from Professor Sprout’s face. He extended his hand towards the boy, not letting the kind woman introduce them. “Professor Severus Snape, Head of Slytherin and the potions professor.”

“Lord Black, I suppose I will be seeing you soon.” Rigel shook his hand making the man narrow his eyes at him.

“Perhaps, or you could become like your father,” Severus sneered, making the table uncomfortable.

“Enough, Seversus.” A stern looking woman huffed standing up and stood near them. She had thin silver glasses and a strong Scottish accent. “Professor McGonogall, Head of Gryffindor. I hope you are in my house, I believe Gryffindor would be good for you.”

“Thank you for your kind words, but we shall see tomorrow night.” Rigel politely declined, hoping to be in Gryffindor. He wanted to be a Gryffidor, it would bring him closer to the man that called himself his father. But he knew he wouldn’t, his family would be in jeopardy if he became a Gryffindor. It would be best to be a Slytherin like all the previous Blacks in his family.

“Pleasure to meet you, Lord Black. Professor Filius Flitwick, I will be teaching you charms this upcoming year. I am the Head of Ravenclaw, the house your mother was in.” He smiled politely at Rigel seeing the look on the lioness. He needed to intervene before she spoke up to defend her lions. “You remind me so much of my old classmate. The previous Lord Black, Orion Black that is. He was calm and collected much like you…none of that black legacy, I heard so much about.”

Rigel’s silver eyes flicked, meeting the speaker’s with calm precision. A faint, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Orion Black, you say?” he began, his voice smooth, carrying just enough clarity for the crowd to hear without sounding rehearsed. They were all listening in, knowing that the professor said something he shouldn’t have. “I suppose you could say I share his… composure. But as for the rest,” he paused, letting the words linger, “I prefer to define myself rather than inherit rumors.”

He inclined his head slightly, polite but unmistakably final, then moved on, leaving the speaker blinking and the crowd murmuring. With a graceful turn, Rigel gestured for Nymphadora to continue their rounds. “Let us greet the next of our esteemed guests,” he murmured, voice low enough for only Nymphadora to hear. His mind cataloged the Hogwarts staff strengths, the potential for alliances, and even Flitwick’s words. The Black Legacy, it was a rumored disease that truly meant nothing…at least for where he will be taking his family. The so-called disease meant nothing to him. Nymphadora nodded, keeping step beside him, aware that even in these formalities, Rigel was at work—not merely navigating a gala, but subtly orchestrating connections, observing weaknesses, and silently arranging a network of trust. But that word got her thinking…what exactly was The Black Legacy? Is that an official name? With a glance she turned to her mother. Andromeda was clutching her husband's arm tightly, afraid he would leave him, the look in her eyes made Nymphadora cautious. There was more to this than Rigel was saying…was this…thing hereditary? How can she prevent herself from having that look in her eye?

And as they moved on toward the next cluster of guests, Rigel’s presence seemed to fill the room—not with arrogance, but with a cold, calculating authority softened just enough to allow warmth for those he deemed worthy. The polished marble of the ballroom reflected the glint of chandeliers, casting a soft glow over the guests. Rigel’s silver eyes swept across the room as he guided Nymphadora toward a cluster of tall, imposing figures—the Malfoys and Carrows—standing just to the side.

A sharp voice called over: “Lord Black, Lady Tonks.”

Rigel turned, inclining his head respectfully. “Lord Carrow,” he said smoothly, “a pleasure.”

Lord Carrow’s eyes flicked briefly to Tonks, and then to Rigel, a subtle assessment running over them both. “I wished to introduce my son. He will be leaving for Durmstrang later this evening, studying diligently, and I thought it proper you two should meet.”

Rigel nodded politely, offering his hand to the young man. “The pleasure is mine,” he said. His tone was calm, measured, carrying the weight of his family’s legacy without veering into arrogance. Nymphadora didn’t like the man, but followed suit, offering a small, polite bow.

The young Carrow inclined his head with a mix of curiosity and formality. “It is an honor, Lord Black,” he said, glancing briefly at Nymphadora.

Rigel’s silver gaze flicked to the ever bored Miss Nymphadora Black, a slight tilt of his head acknowledging her composure, then back to the Carrows. “I hope your studies at Durmstrang have been rewarding. Discipline, focus… These are traits that will serve you well in life and in our world.” Heir Carrow’s eyes lingered on Miss Black, a question unspoken. Rigel caught it immediately and spoke before she could respond. “When Miss Black comes of age,” Rigel said evenly, “she will be accepting calls from suitors here, at my home. You need not rush her, Heir Carrow.”

A faint, calculating smirk passed over Rigel’s lips, unseen by most, but Lord Carrow’s eyes narrowed in curiosity and mild frustration. His mind was already working to assess the boy before him—a young Lord, barely past his elbow, who spoke with confidence, authority, and a subtle hint of strategy.

“Of course, Lord Black,” Lord Carrow replied, though his tone carried a slight edge of impatience. “We shall wait for the proper time.”

As Rigel and Nymphadora moved forward, they approached the Malfoys. The tall, pale form of Narcissa Malfoy stood elegantly, her composure flawless, her eyes assessing the newcomers. Tonks inhaled subtly, aware of the power and poise emanating from the woman before her. Rigel, sensing the tension, inclined his head to Narcissa. “Lady Malfoy,” he said with a quiet respect that nonetheless held authority. “It’s a pleasure to see family again.”

Narcissa’s eyes briefly flicked to Nymphadora, a silent evaluation before she returned her attention to Rigel. “The pleasure is mine, Lord Black,” she replied, her voice smooth, controlled, yet with an undertone that suggested she was already measuring his mood.

It was at this moment that Rigel’s eyes caught movement from across the room—a flash of black hair, elegant and poised. His breath caught slightly, though his face betrayed nothing. He was approached by the figure, and for the first time, Rigel formally met Miss Leta Lestrange. She paused mid-step, meeting his gaze with a flicker of recognition and amusement. Rigel’s presence was immediate—calm, measured, aristocratic, yet with the sharp awareness of someone sizing up an equal.

“Miss Lestrange,” Rigel said formally, extending his hand with precision. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Leta inclined her head, a faint, mysterious smile playing on her lips. “Lord Black,” she replied softly, “the pleasure is mine.”

For a heartbeat, the room seemed to shrink around them, the unspoken tension of first impressions, alliances, and potential rivalries settling over the encounter. Rigel turned slightly, gesturing to Nymphadora, then with a smooth nod, excused himself and Nymphadora toward their next set of introductions, leaving Lord Carrow and the Malfoys to ponder the sharp, calculating presence of the young Lord Black and his poised companion. Even as the conversation began to flow around introductions and polite pleasantries, Rigel remained poised, calculating, and silently marking the alliances, the potential threats, and the opportunities. For tonight, he was Lord Black, the young master of Blackmoore Keep, fully aware that power was both performance and perception—and that every gaze in this room mattered.

Chapter Text

Provence, France – Age 6

The lavender fields shimmered in the afternoon sun, their scent wafting lazily through the open garden doors. Inside the marble-floored salon, a young Rigel sat cross-legged on an emerald carpet, eyes narrowed in concentration. Before him lay a polished chessboard—though the pieces were not ordinary. Each was labeled with a different name. The knight bowed dramatically when moved; the bishop floated like mist. But most importantly, the queen glowed faintly blue. Kaida Black, resplendent in black silk with her long hair braided in silver ribbon, knelt beside him. Her nails were painted green. Her eyes, sharp as the cut crystal in her rings, watched every move.

“Now,” she said smoothly, “the queen favors the knight. But the rook has the ear of the king. And the bishop, dear Rigel, speaks for the Ministry.”

Rigel frowned. What did the Ministry have to do with chess? What did all this mean? He just wanted to play with his mother, but she had always spoken in riddles. Every game was a lesson; she was teaching him to act strangely. It was like she was always preparing him for something. “So the knight has the queen’s trust… but the king listens to the rook?”

Kaida smiled. Her child was smart and never complained when she taught him to be a Lord. She could see it in his face that he was bored and annoyed at her lessons, but they were necessary for her comfort…and his survival. “Exactly. And the bishop? He serves neither—but whispers to them both.” Rigel moved the knight forward. The piece galloped with a flourish. He wanted to learn to play chess, not whatever this is. “Now what happens if the queen is threatened?” His mother asked.

Rigel paused. “The knight would defend her.”

“Would he?” she tilted her head. “And if doing so meant the rook would fall?”

He hesitated. The King wouldn’t like it if the rook fell, as he was his ear. He cared for the rook, so he would not let the rook fall. Unless he was willing to sacrifice those he cared for, Rigel could not use a piece that cared too much. That would be annoying. It would be best to get rid of the piece that would cost him the game. Kaida’s voice dropped to a whisper, like secrets on parchment. “Politics, my darling, is not about protecting power. It’s about knowing which piece must be sacrificed… and which piece cannot be touched.”

Rigel sat back, chewing his lip. “Then what about the pawns?”

“Ah,” she chuckled. “The pawns are everyone else.”

September 1st, 1989 – Hogwarts Express

The Platform was chaos. Rigel wasn’t entirely sure he still wanted to attend Hogwarts. Especially after last night's recall on the dreaded Black Legacy, now the Prophet could not help but mention that rumored disease. The station swarmed with students, parents, grandparents—far more adults than children, he noted with a frown. It was a dwindling generation. The sight stirred a strange thought: perhaps he ought to ask Andromeda whether she might consider having another child. Or even remarrying her mother. He didn’t want a sibling—but he would do what it took to expand the family.

Owls shrieked, trunks rattled across the platform in waves, and white steam slithered along the ground like restless spirits. Rigel stood still amid the commotion—tall for eleven, silent as ever—his dark coat trailing behind him like a shadow stitched from ancient tales. Kaida, his mother, had not come. She’d said her goodbyes that morning in the marble foyer of Blackmoor Keep, pressing a folded letter into his hand and kissing his brow without a word. Then she vanished up the tower stairs again, leaving Rigel in the care of the steward, who escorted him to King’s Cross and departed without waiting for the train. He didn’t mind. He was building his chessboard. He would not delude himself into thinking he was the King—not yet. He wasn’t even a piece. But he would be the strategist. One day, when he had children of his own, they would be kings. For now, everyone else was a pawn—tools to protect the legacy he intended to restore. He boarded the train quickly, found an empty compartment, and slid the door shut behind him. That was when he saw them. Five sets of initials, carved in careful hand beneath the window: L.E. for Lily Evans. J.P. for James Potter. R.L. for Remus Lupin. P.P. for Peter Pettigrew. And finally, the one that made his stomach twist—S.O.B.

Sirius Orion Black.

Rigel hissed a curse under his breath but did not move. He would not run. He sat with perfect posture, emerald velvet waistcoat pristine, boots shone to a mirror polish. Silver cufflinks glinted with a crest that few dared speak of aloud. A slim book on wizarding etiquette rested on his lap, opened precisely halfway. His black robes, trimmed in green silk, caught the light as the train began to move. There was no peace for Rigel—not even for one compartment’s length of time. A knock tapped against the glass. Two red-haired boys peered in, grinning with matching expressions of mischief. The Weasley boys had graced him with their presence.

“Sorry,” said one. “Is this seat taken?”

“Yeah,” the other added. “Everywhere else is packed.”

Rigel studied them, expression unreadable. The infamous Weasley twins. The ones who had rejected their birthright. Dreadful. Still, he inclined his head slightly. “Do come in. It would be inhospitable of me to refuse such disheveled company.”

The twins blinked, then exchanged gleeful grins. They dragged their trunks partway in and collapsed onto the seats opposite him. “I’m Fred,” said the first.

“George,” said the second. There were more similarities than differences. Fred had fewer freckles than George and was an inch shorter. George, on the other hand, had bigger ears, and his blue eyes were a shade darker than Fred’s. Rigel was trained to spot differences, and his allies would spot differences.

Rigel gave a solemn nod. Then, with a gloved hand pressed to his chest and the poise of a young aristocrat, he said, “Lord Rigel Orion Black, of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black.”

Fred whistled. “Blimey. I knew you were familiar! We went to your house yesterday! Mum was over the moon, could not stop talking about it, but also talked about the Black Legacy, all worried.”

George nudged his brother. “Dad said that is a topic the Black family doesn’t talk about.”

“Why not? Oi, Black…can I call you Rigel?” Fred frowned, not caring at all about the stiffness of the boy across from him. “What exactly is the Black Legacy? Is it the money thing? Or the status?”

Before Rigel could reply, the door slid open again. A tall girl stepped in, her robes immaculate. Eyes sharp. Her expression was poised but distant, like someone taught to keep secrets behind glass. She glanced between Rigel and the twins. “Mind if I sit?”

Rigel stood and gave a small bow. “It would be an honor, Miss Lestrange.”

She inclined her head. “Leta, of the House of Lestrange.”

“What is with you people?” Fred squinted. Leta Lestrange is second to her name. They exchanged greetings last night, but there were many eyes on them. Hoping to hear their conversation, Rigel thought it best not to speak with her then. He didn’t want people to believe him when to started courting the girl. Leta would be a perfect wife; she knows how to hold her tongue and be the perfect image. She will have hopes and dreams, but she knows that those come second. But was it wrong for Rigel not to want that? Was it wrong for him to wish for a wife who would challenge him but remain devoted to only him? He was devoted to his family, and he wanted a wife who would be devoted to him. Not the family…just him.

“Yeah, you alright over there?” George blinked.

Leta tilted her head, like a cat examining an unfamiliar noise. “You’re not heirs?”

“Heirs of what?” Fred asked. Rigel made another note on Fred. He was more outspoken than tactful than the two. George had barely spoken a word but revealed everything about himself while Fred shouted who he was.

“The Weasley family,” Lestrange replied plainly. “And through them, the Prewetts. Twins like you—especially through the Prewett line—are rare. Sacred, even. You could claim House Prewett if you’re of age and no direct twin steps forward.”

Fred’s jaw slackened. “That’s… something.”

George nodded. “Mum’s never mentioned it.”

“She wouldn’t,” Rigel murmured. There was something about that woman that Rigel did not like. Perhaps it was that she wasn’t like his mother, who openly held her youngest child for the world to see. She was a strange woman. “She married someone her family did not approve of. Love over lineage. Such topics are often… avoided.”

Fred narrowed his eyes. “Is that a jab?”

“More of an observation.” Rigel’s tone was cool. Andromeda was like Lady Weasley, marrying and having Ted’s children. It was a strange phenomenon. One that he could never see his mother doing. Of course, she would for his father. He was sure that if his father had loved her, they would have left this all behind, and he would have been raised by both.

A silence stretched—awkward and thick. Then Leta, mercifully, broke it. “Let’s start over. You two know nothing of the Houses, do you?”

“A bit,” George offered. “All our brothers are in Gryffindor.”

“Where the brave and noble dwell,” Fred added for dramatic effects. Of course, butchering the Gryffindor mantra, but the twins seemed not to care.

Rigel cleared his throat. “Then allow us to provide you with a description of thee four houses.”

“Slytherin,” Leta began confidently, “is the House of legacy. We are power, strategy, influence. We build alliances. We do not beg for glory, we simply have it if we wish it.”

“Ravenclaw,” Rigel continued, “is for the brilliant and the bizarre. They crave knowledge more than power, though they often lack… practical application.”

“Hufflepuff is loyal,” Leta said with rare gentleness. Something Rigel appreciated as Nymphadora was a Hufflepuff. “Kind, steadfast. They won’t stand behind you—they’ll stand with you. They’ll die for a friend, without hesitation.”

“And Gryffindor,” Rigel concluded with a faint smirk, “is the House of reckless lions. They believe that loyalty and bravery excuse poor judgment.”

The twins stared at them. “So…in your eyes,” George said slowly, “Ravenclaws are nerds, Hufflepuffs are golden retrievers, Slytherins are chessmasters, and Gryffindors are lunatics?”

Fred nodded. “Yeah. Sounds about right. You two need to loosen up! You are at Hogwarts! No titles at Hogwarts!”

Hogwarts — September 1st, 1989

The train shrieked as it slowed, steam curling against the darkened sky. The air rippled with humidity and magic. Excited chatter rippled through the platform as students spilled out of the train, cloaks tugged close against the crisp night air. Lanterns bobbed in the distance where a booming voice called, “Firs’-years! Firs’-years this way!”

Hagrid’s massive figure loomed like a mountain against the mist, his tangled beard catching the glow of his lantern. Rigel, Leta, Fred, and George followed the throng down a narrow path slick with mud. The air smelled of damp earth and lake water, the darkness pierced only by the lanterns swinging in Hagrid’s grip. Rigel had extended his hand and helped Leta along the path. No doubt rumors would surface because of the exchange. Hagrid called out, “Four a boat, no more than four!” Confused, Rigel kept walking and helping Leta until they reached their destination.

At the shore, small boats bobbed restlessly, waiting. Rigel hesitated for half a breath, taking in the strange sight—the castle towering in the distance, windows glowing like a crown of stars. Then Fred hooked him by the elbow and shoved him forward. “C’mon, Lord Black, you’re not afraid of a little splash, are you?”

Rigel arched a brow but allowed himself to be tugged into the boat. George plopped in on the other side, and Leta, muttering darkly, settled beside Rigel with a flip of her curls.

The moment the boat pushed off, Fred and George started rocking it. Rigel’s silver eyes went wide, his hand gripping the side before Fred nudged him with a grin. “Don’t look so serious! It’s a boat, not your funeral.”

Rigel tried to smother a laugh, but George leaned in, eyes mischievous. “Bet the great Lord Black can’t even—” He rocked the boat violently. Rigel slipped, grabbed Fred’s arm, and a startled laugh broke free before he could stop it.

It was sharp, unguarded, real.

Fred and George froze for half a heartbeat, then burst out laughing with him, the sound carrying over the black water. The twins weren’t the only ones startled by the laugh, Leta also stared at Rigel with wide eyes. That was before she too started to giggle. The boys ignored Hagrid’s warnings as they kept rocking the boat. Leta couldn't swim…but she wasn’t going to let them know that, she didn’t need the embarrassment. Not when she needed to ensure that no one took vengeance on behalf of their loved ones. She was the daughter of Bellatrix Lestrange, Leta could still remember the cries of her mother upon hearing the death of the Dark Lord. She could still hear the madness in her voice as she made plans, how she convinced her loving father to leave her and attack the Longbottoms. She could still hear the anguish of her mother, as she heard that the love of her life is dead.

“Honestly!” Leta huffed, clutching at her hair as the boat swayed. “If one drop touches my curls, you’ll regret it.”

Which, of course, only made them laugh harder. Rigel’s shoulders shook, his laughter mingling with theirs, and for the first time since the gala at Blackmoore Keep, he didn’t sound like a lord at all. He sounded like a boy.

Chapter Text

Hogwarts — September 1st, 1989

The boats glided forward in unison, lantern-light flickering across the inky water. Rigel leaned slightly over the edge, watching the ripples trail out behind them. His laughter lingered in his chest, softening the stiffness in his posture. Fred and George, smug with their success, smirked at one another as if they’d just cracked the hardest shell at the feast. The lake was vast and silent except for the occasional splash of an animal and the whisper of night creatures in the reeds. Mist curled low over the water, clinging to the hems of robes, and every so often, Rigel caught the glint of something moving beneath the surface. He shivered, though it wasn’t from the cold.

Then, as the boats rounded a jagged bend in the cliffside, the mist parted… And there it was.

Hogwarts.

The castle rose impossibly high, each tower like a dark spear against the starlit sky. It was bigger than his home; he had believed that no place would be as big as Blackmoor Keep. A palace made of stone and magic, but Hogwarts. Hogwarts was a masterpiece. Hundreds of windows glowed with golden light, casting reflections onto the black water. Enchanted banners snapped in the breeze, and the faint toll of a bell carried across the lake, low and solemn. Rigel’s breath caught in his throat.

For a moment, the others’ chatter faded into nothing. All he could do was stare, wide-eyed, at the fortress that looked less like a school and more like a crown carved from stone. He felt a strange flutter in his chest—anticipation, perhaps, or awe. His home had become beautiful in his eyes after many years staring out at the grounds. Hogwarts, in his opinion, was breathtaking. There was warmth in this castle, unlike his palace, which held no warmth upon his arrival. Hogwarts was welcoming them with open hearts and open arms. Rigel was in awe.

Beside him, Leta pressed her lips together, pretending she wasn’t equally spellbound. She was a lady; she could not show her emotions, but Rigel stopped caring. The Weasleys were right, they were at Hogwarts…there are no titles here. Fred gave a low whistle, George muttered, “Blimey,” and Rigel—

Rigel thought of every whispered tale Kaida had told him in the firelight, stories of magic and secrets and ghosts that roamed these very halls. Now, the place was no longer a story. It was his.

The boat bumped gently against the landing, snapping him from his reverie. Hagrid’s booming voice echoed across the stone steps, calling the first years to follow. Rigel climbed out, steadier than he felt, the castle looming above him like a promise. He never forgot his manners as he reached out for Leta’s hand and helped her out of the boat. The four of them all followed the half-giant up the stairs to a set of large wooden doors. Professor McGonagall had greeted them and taken them to a separate room to wait for the sorting to begin.

Sorting Ceremony– Hogwarts 1989

The doors of the Great Hall creaked open as the Sorting line filed in, but conversation dimmed at the sight of a boy with storm-grey eyes and a steady, deliberate stride. All good things must come to an end, as he is Lord Black, not just another schoolboy. His black hair framed a face that was already too composed for an eleven-year-old. Where others shifted nervously, he moved with quiet purpose, as though the room belonged to him already. Rigel Orion Black stood, spine straight, jaw tight. He masked his nerves well, but his fingers flexed at the seams of his sleeves. He had waited for this moment. He heard stories from the older generations about how they would have to fight for their place and manipulate their way into a house, but he had not believed them. He wasn’t as gullible as the rest of his peers. On its stool, the Sorting Hat twitched. Its frayed brim cracked open in a rasping yawn.

A few Gryffindors whispered.

“Looks just like the clippings of Sirius Black…”

“But sane.”

Rigel did not flinch at the stares. He catalogued every face that dared linger on him too long. A sharp tilt of his chin, the faintest arch of his brow — and their gazes slid away. Professor McGonagall had called a few students already, and they were quickly sorted, no hat stalls for the meantime. When his name was called — “Black, Rigel” — he walked to the Sorting Hat without hesitation, robes swishing in controlled precision. A murmur swept through the hall like wind through dry leaves. A Black. At Hogwarts again. The last Blacks had been Narcissa, Andromeda, Regulus, Bellatrix… and Sirius. They each had their own scandals. Narcissa became a walking doll; the once powerful woman was reduced to silence. Andromeda, exiled from her house, was only to be welcomed back. Regulus disappeared into thin air; no one heard of him, only they knew that he was a Death Eater, turned traitor in the eyes of the so-called Dark Lord. Bellatrix…driven into madness by some Lord. Then, there was Sirius, a traitor, the man who threw everything away for power. The man who fathered the new lord. Or so the rumors say. Rigel stepped forward, composed and deliberate. He did not look at the Head Table, nor the students. His focus was ahead, unyielding.

The Sorting Hat slipped over his head. “Ah… another Black. I see pride, yes, but not the reckless kind. Calculating… cold when you need to be. You measure everything by its use. Oh, child, you are built to command.”

“And command I will.” Rigel’s voice in his mind was low, steady, every word deliberate. “Give me the House that sharpens a blade, not dulls it. Slytherin will do.”

The Hat chuckled. “Not even a debate? Cold certainty… You remind me of your grandfather. Very well, SLYTHERIN!”

The word cracked through the Hall like a spell. Rigel rose, removed the hat, and strode to the Slytherin table. He didn’t glance sideways, even as upper-years leaned in, whispering behind cupped hands. They all stared at him. Rigel seemed not to care. These people were not Lords who talked down to him; they were children. He was a child, but could not act like them. No smile. No acknowledgment. His presence alone was enough. One boy muttered as he sat down: “He doesn’t look eleven at all. More like a Lord already.”

“Lestrange, Leta!” The Sorting Hat hadn’t even touched her head before it shouted: “SLYTHERIN!”

It stared at her, grim and silent, as if there had been no choice at all. Leta offered a poised curtsy, chin high, and swept to the Slytherin table without hesitation. She slid into the seat across Rigel as if it had always belonged to her. Everyone whispered: A Lestrange and A Black. Together once more, and there was nothing that could have been done, seeing that Leta and Rigel did not mind their company. “Weasley, Fred!”

Fred visibly swallowed but stepped forward with determined strides. He cast a glance toward the Gryffindor table, where his brothers waved and whooped encouragement. He was a Weasley; the only place he belonged was with the lions. There was no other house that would take him in. His parents always stated how much they despised Slytherin, they cared little about Hufflepuff, and they often said Ravenclaws were for the strange wixen. He had to be a Gryffindor; his family would disown him if he became anything but a Gryffindor. His parents, his grandparents, every Weasley and Prewett had been a Gryffindor. He could not fail. Although when the hat was placed on his head, it did not yell out Gryffindor like all his brothers said it did for them. “Ah… another Weasley. I suppose you want Gryffindor, too?”

“Well—yeah, obviously. My brothers are there.” Fred was confused. There was no other option besides Gryffindor, was there? He was meant to be in the house where both of his parents were. Where all his family had been, so why wasn’t the hat telling him to?

“But you are not like your brothers. Cleverer than they realize… willing to twist the rules when it suits you. Yes, yes, I could see where your mind will take you. I see Slytherin in you. Real potential.” No. The hat was wrong; he couldn’t be with the snakes. It wasn’t allowed; he would be disowned. His parents had always stated that Slytherins were the evil house. Only Death Eaters and Blood Purists are sorted in that house. He could not be in that house.

“No. I want Gryffindor.” He whispered out loud, making Professor McGonogall glance down at him with sharp eyes.

“Ah, but you don’t need Gryffindor. You need to carve your own path. Better be… SLYTHERIN!” The hat laughed out loud for everyone to hear and damned him. The Gryffindor table clapped—polite, strained. But the Slytherins made room, some with amused curiosity, others with curled lips and narrowed eyes. Fred rose slowly. He didn’t look back. Rigel shifted, making space, and gently tugged him into the seat beside him.

“You’ll be fine,” he said, low and certain. He was a friend; Rigel didn’t have any friends upon becoming a lord. The boys he grew up with in France all stopped writing to him upon his succession; he was alone. Now, Fred was alone, but Rigel wasn’t going to let him be alone. It was maddening being by himself. “You’re with us…and your brother will join us soon.”

Fred blinked, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Of course, you’re twins. You do everything together,” Rigel nodded once. Leta rolled her eyes but said nothing. Weasley was interesting; there had never been a Weasley or a Prewett that was a Slytherin. This boy was ambitious, cunning, and ready for what it took to win. Leta could certainly not see it, but the sorting hat was never wrong. She would have wished to be named his fiancée if it weren’t for the Twin Prewett rule. Twins must share a bride to have no issues with the heir. There was also the old magic of the Twin Prewett line, how they are able to share minds and switch bodies. Leta would have to fall for both, but she saw no potential. They weren’t like Rigel…strong, independent, and far beyond their years.

“Weasley, George!” George approached quietly, sat with less drama than Fred. The Sorting Hat dropped over his head with an audible sigh. “Ah, the other twin… hmm. You want to be with your brother, don’t you?”

“Of course. We’re twins. Always together.” George shot back, his voice tight with disbelief. They had always been inseparable—two halves of the same coin, two flames flickering in perfect unison. Hogwarts could not, would not, pull them apart. It was impossible.

The Sorting Hat stirred, its voice low and ancient, filling George’s mind like a wind through hollow stone. “But you do not belong here—not the way he does. You need contrast, not reflection. You need… GRYFFINDOR!”

The word crashed through him like thunder, reverberating in every corner of his bones. George froze, caught between instinct and command. Fred’s laughter, so certain, so unyielding, seemed distant now. He rose slowly, each step surreal, as if the world had tilted beneath his feet. The cheering around him swelled, a tidal wave of approval he could scarcely hear. His gaze, though, never wavered from Fred’s.

Fred did not look back.

And George—walking toward Gryffindor—felt the unbearable weight of the divide, the first fracture in a bond that had always felt unbreakable.

Rigel’s hand remained steady on Fred’s shoulder, a small anchor in the swirl of chaos. “It’s only a table,” he murmured, almost to himself. Even he could not have foreseen this—a pair inseparable, now cleaved apart by a single choice. Fred swallowed hard, nodding, as if that simple affirmation could make it any less jarring. The weight of it pressed on him, but Rigel’s presence lent a strange steadiness, something neither laughter nor magic could replicate.

Leta, perched casually on the edge of the table, chin resting on her palm, observed them with an expression equal parts amusement and intrigue. “Well,” she drawled, the corner of her mouth quirking, “this is going to be interesting.”

George’s absence was a quiet shadow on the table, the echo of a twin’s laughter faint and unreachable. Fred’s shoulders tensed, but he allowed Rigel’s calm to seep in, if only for a moment. The Sorting Hat had separated them, but the four could still remember the small boat carrying the edge of mischief, chaos, and something far deeper.

The golden plates appeared in a shimmer of magic—piled high with roast chicken, buttered carrots, honey-glazed ham, and foods Rigel didn’t yet recognize but that smelled like childhood dreams. Candles floated overhead in perfect stillness. Laughter and talk filled the Hall like waves slapping against a ship’s hull. Rigel sat like a statue: hands folded, back straight, expression composed. He hadn’t touched his goblet. He regarded his plate like a diplomat negotiating a truce—not a child at supper. Fred, in contrast, was inhaling food between gasping questions.

“So… did your mum really teach you to talk like that?” he asked around a mouthful of potato.

“No. She raised me to think like that.” Rigel didn’t blink. He slowly took a bite of his food after his plate glowed green. The House Elves, in contrast with his family, had cleared it; there was no poison. Leta Lestrange's plate gave a yellow glow, and she quickly had them replace the contaminated food until her plate glowed green.

“Same difference.” Fred paused.

“If you believe that, Fred, then we have a great deal of work to do.” Rigel gave a small smile. Slightly worried that he wasn’t checking his plate like the other heirs.

Leta nearly choked on her pumpkin juice. “He’s not joking. You’ll be quoting Cicero by Christmas.”

Fred looked alarmed. “What’s a Cicero?”

“An art,” Rigel said, lifting his fork with elegance. “And a weapon. You’ll need both in Slytherin.”

Fred glanced up at the green and silver banners above their heads. “Still weird, me being here. George is over there with our brothers.” He pointed with his knife. Sure enough, George was watching. Their eyes met—confused, hurt, tethered.

Rigel leaned in, voice quiet. “Being separated from your twin is a wound, not a punishment. You’ll learn from it. So will he.”

Fred’s smile faded into something quieter, more thoughtful. He didn’t reply for a long time. Across the table, older students stared. Some whispered. A few flinched at the name “Black.” One girl was whispering to another girl while stealing glances at Leta.

“Malfoy’s future lapdogs,” Leta murmured, not bothering to lower her voice. “Ignore them. They think your name makes you theirs.”

Rigel said nothing. His gaze drifted to the High Table. There was Professor Snape—sharp and watchful, his eyes glittering like obsidian under candlelight. He gazed at the Slytherins with something like pride… and warning. Professor McGonagall, regal and stern. And Dumbledore, smiling gently, eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles, as though everything meant nothing… and everything. A sudden clatter. Fred had knocked over his goblet of pumpkin juice. Rigel flicked his wand out from his sleeve. The spill vanished instantly, making the older students glance at the 11-year-old Lord.

“You’ve already learned spells?” Fred gawked.

“My mother made sure I’d arrive prepared,” Rigel said simply. Not wanting them to know that he was ahead in his education, and starting this summer, he will be learning the Dark Arts from personal tutors from Drumstrang Academy. The school he secretly wished to attend seemed too far for him. If the Ministry called an emergency meeting, he wouldn’t be able to attend if he studied at Drunstrang. Hogwarts was a better option as he was allowed to leave the grounds on account of being the Lord of his House. Something the Headmaster fought to prevent him from doing, but the Minister of Magic put his foot down and declared Lord Rigel Black had all authority to leave school grounds when he pleased. The school governors agreed with the Minister, and Rigel felt like he won the first battle against Dumbledore in a war he wasn’t sure he wanted to fight in.

“Of course she did,” Leta muttered. “Kaida Black wouldn’t send her son to Hogwarts unarmed.”

Rigel allowed his spine to relax. Just slightly. Across the Hall, George laughed at something a boy with dreadlocks and dark skin had said. Other students still watched Rigel like a chess piece that had moved early—and dangerously. He lifted his goblet at last. Took a slow sip. “Let the game begin,” he murmured.

Chapter Text

Slytherin Dungeon – September 1st, 1989 – Late Evening

The descent into the dungeons brought chill air and colder silence. Torchlight flickered green across wet stone. The walls echoed with student chatter, bouncing like coins tossed into a deep well. The prefect leading them—sharp-featured Yvonne Selwyn—stopped before a blank stretch of wall. There were serpents in the columns, but other than that, everything seemed like it belonged there, and nothing was hidden. “This is the entrance to our common room. You will need the password to enter. The password will change monthly until Samhain has passed, then it will be changed weekly. Do not forget it. The password is: Dominus.”

The wall groaned open. It was a cathedral of shadow and elegance. Emerald tapestries hung like silent witnesses. A vast fireplace crackled between two serpent-carved pillars. And beyond the glass-paneled wall, black lakewater shimmered. Shapes stirred in the deep, tentacles, flickers of scale, a golden eye watching. Fred exhaled. “Wicked.”

“It’s beautiful,” Leta said, stepping beside Rigel. “Dark… but alive.”

Rigel said nothing. He stood still, letting the space fill him. This wasn’t décor. This was a legacy. Cold, powerful, ancient. Selwyn clapped. “First-years, this way. Girls to the right dormitory. Boys to the left. Don’t wander. The dungeons aren’t forgiving.”

Fred leaned in. “Think the squid ever peeks in at night?”

Rigel’s lips twitched. “I rather hope it does.”

Their dormitory was carved from stone and silence. Dark wood trunks. Green velvet curtains. Silver lanterns flickering above each bed. There were 2 beds per room; they were barbaric, but they were also in school. They had to have a roommate, no matter how much they did not wish to have one, and they had to share a bathroom with said roommate. Fred dove into one, bouncing once. “Dibs!” Rigel moved with calm precision. He placed his trunk, withdrew his night robes, and paused by the small silver-framed mirror on the wall. He looked. Not the heir Kaida Black had raised—not entirely. Not yet the man the House of Black would remember. But something between. Something beginning.

Slytherin Common Room— September 1989

The dungeons of Hogwarts were colder than Rigel had expected. Not that he expected warmth to be associated with Slytherin, but he was used to a certain type of climate that the dungeons could not provide. The lake pressed against the enchanted glass like a watching eye, green and rippling. The walls dripped in places, and the stone floors swallowed footsteps like secrets. But the Slytherin common room… the common room was beautiful. Emerald light filtered through the windows. The fire burned blue in the hearth. Velvet armchairs and claw-foot tables stood arranged like pieces in an ancient game. It smelled of ink, old books, and ambition. Rigel stood in the center of it all like he belonged there—and he did. A hush fell when he entered, Leta beside him. Someone whispered, “That’s him.”

Not “that’s Rigel.” Not “the first years.” Just—Him. He was Black.

The Lord, now that Sirius had betrayed the family he swore to protect, rotted in Azkaban. Regulus was missing. Kaida never had any claim to the title. And so it fell to Rigel—the boy with his grandfather’s name. They treated him like royalty. Older Slytherins dipped their heads when he passed. Fifth-year offered to carry their books. Seventh-years asked his opinions on magical theory and wizarding politics like they mattered. And Leta, for all her own dark legacy, stood at his side like a queen in exile—her reputation lacquered in Lestrange blood and silence. Rigel took the high-backed chair nearest the fire. Leta curled into the seat beside him, one knee drawn up, chin balanced on her hand. Across the room, Cassius Warrington watched with guarded admiration. The elder Malfoys—cousins of Lucius—stood near the stairwell, silent and assessing. It was everything Rigel had been raised to expect. And he hated it. He hated the stiffness of the smiles, the lazy assumptions, the way they bowed not to him but to a name. He hated the whispered jokes about Muggleborns, the reverent praise of Regulus’s “honorable service,” the refusal to speak Sirius’s name at all. He didn’t want this. But he understood it. Kaida’s voice echoed in memory: “Sometimes, mon étoile, you must wear a crown.”

So Rigel smiled. He sat straighter. He asked barbed questions in class and quoted obscure magical texts with ease. He offered pointed compliments and measured critiques. He laughed at their jokes—but never too loud. He praised Slytherin values—but never cruelty. He became what they expected. The perfect Slytherin prince. Leta noticed, of course. One evening, as the fire dimmed and the common room quieted, she said softly, “You’re playing them.”

Rigel glanced sideways. “Is it working?”

She considered him. “They worship you. But they’ll try to use you, too.”

“I know.” Rigel glanced back to see Fred sitting on the couch, reading her etiquette book. Trying so desperately to fit into Slytherin, without knowing the rules. Something Rigel could not continue to watch.

“Then why not burn it all down?” Fred looked up from his book, wondering why it was so hard for them to just survive the year. It’s been weeks, and he has not spoken to his brother. Every time they encountered each other, Slytherin and Gryffindor students fought, pulling them away from one another. Rigel was the one to inform him that the older students were behind it; they wanted to be sure that their first years were protected…they are, after all, hated by the whole school. Everyone did not wish to share a house with a poor Weasley boy; it would look bad on them if they excluded a snake in their pit. So they tolerated him, after all, he was always with the Blacks and Lestrange.

Rigel tilted his head. His voice was even, measured, smooth, betraying nothing of the storm inside. “Because a prince with no court is just a boy in a tower.”

And yet, beneath the evenness, a darkness stirred, coiling through his thoughts like a serpent. Flashes of cruelty, control, the kind of dominance that made people bend and shiver—images he had not dared entertain, impulses he had not allowed to surface—licked at the edges of his mind. He could see them, taste them almost: the subtle humiliation of a careless rival, the satisfaction in bending someone’s will to his, the sharp thrill of power wielded cold and absolute. But his voice remained even. Calm. Polished. Not a tremor, not a hint of malice, though the ideas burned behind his silver eyes, waiting. He clenched his hands lightly on the edge of his seat, a tether to keep the darkness seductive whispers from spilling outward. He would not be claimed. This darkness was a myth; he was just tired. Everyone had these thoughts once in a while. Even as the dark thoughts danced tantalizingly in his mind, Rigel’s tone betrayed only composure, only the subtle, commanding authority of someone already learning to control the fire inside.

That night, in the dormitory, Rigel stood before the silver-framed mirror. His reflection was half-cast in moonlight. His robes were flawless. His posture, regal. His wand—acacia with old runes carved into the hilt—rested beside his gloves. But beneath it all, he could still feel the boy from Provence. The one who climbed olive trees barefoot. Who spoke to the stars before sleep? Who read fairy tales by the candlelight. That boy had to vanish for his family to survive. The adults gave him a heavy burden. But he will thrive in his title; he needed to become better, stronger. There was a war brewing in the shadows. His family would not become extinct.

The next morning, the Great Hall glowed with mist-softened light. Fog hung over the lake outside, and students' voices echoed more gently in the cool air. Rigel sat at the Slytherin table, his toast cut into exact squares, tea held like a glass of fine wine. Across from him, Fred chewed on a sausage like it might run away, squinting at his class schedule with jam on his fingers. Leta Lestrange, her curls pinned back in silver clips, leaned toward Rigel. “He eats like he was raised by hippogriffs.”

Rigel gave a slight shrug. “Better than the ones who try to talk with their mouths full.”

Fred frowned. “Oi. This is a Weasley thing. We fuel up.”

“On what? Shame?” Leta murmured, sitting close enough for him to feel the warmth radiating from her. She quickly brushed at the smudge on his cheek, then wiped his hands with surprising tenderness. Rigel hummed in response, letting himself linger in the small, fleeting intimacy—but not too long. Every gesture, every glance, he cataloged quietly, measuring its weight. Leta would need to fall for both brothers, not just the Slytherin one. She would have been a good wife, capable and clever, but she carried her own title and responsibilities. He would not saddle himself with another house—or another obligation—simply for a political alliance. Decisions like that required precision, control, and a mind untethered from fleeting emotion.

Better to call himself an idiot, he decided silently, than bind himself to a woman who wielded power like a blade. Unbeknownst to him, when he is older, he would look back and murmur “idiot” aloud. For now, it remained a quiet oath, tucked away behind the hum of Leta’s presence and the silent calculations of a Lord in training.

“You’re awfully cheeky for someone who begged to sit in my compartment,” Fred teased, waving her handkerchief off him. She was worse than his mother—though George would be furious if he got too close to The Lady Leta Lestrange, the girl his brother had been quietly smitten with ever since spotting her in the Weekly Witch segment on upperclass ladies.

“I was scouting threats,” Leta replied, raising a brow and silently huffing at Fred, who refused to let her wipe his hands.

“You’re both insufferable. Do carry on,” Rigel interjected with a smirk, though he knew with certainty—Leta Lestrange would be the twins’ future wife. He could see it now, in every glance and subtle gesture. Preparations would need to be made; Leta would have to leave the Malfoy household eventually. Before Leta could retort, a voice interrupted.

“Fred.”

They all turned. George Weasley stood awkwardly at the end of the table, his red jumper rumpled, his stance unsteady, like someone walking a tightrope. Behind him, Gryffindors laughed and joked, but George didn’t glance their way. Fred froze, their eyes locking—mirrored faces, mirrored wounds. Then Fred gestured. “C’mon. Sit down before you combust.”

George hesitated. Several Slytherins were already whispering. Leta rolled her eyes and patted the bench with mock regality. “We hereby grant temporary Gryffindor entry,” she said. “Cleansing ritual required afterward.”

George grinned and slid in beside her. Fred remained on her right, George now on the left. Leta glanced at Rigel; he lifted a single eyebrow. Interesting—he mirrors Fred, but not entirely. A flicker of caution beneath the bravado. “You lot are weird,” George murmured.

“You’re one to talk,” Leta replied, voice warm but sharp, almost too precise. For a few moments, the four of them sat quietly—an unlikely alliance in the serpent’s den. His eyes flicked over Fred and George with the subtle weight of command. Fred is bold, instinctive. George hesitates, calculating. Perhaps the sorting hat made a mistake. Perhaps George should have been the one in Slytherin and Fred the one in Gryffindor. Leta—more careful than she lets on. Noted. Even as Rigel smiled, it felt measured, controlled, as though every laugh and gesture were being cataloged.

“Charms next,” George said, breaking the silence. “What about you lot?”

“Free period,” Leta shrugged, already thinking about the twins’ future and her own role in it. Self-aware, ambitious. Could be useful, if guided correctly. The twins were a great mystery, why was it that George was the Gryffindor when he was cautious and calculating. While his brother, Fred, was the Slytherin when he was so loud and irrational.

George groaned. “I’ll be getting hexed while you sit on your thrones.”

Fred gave a mock bow. “Send our regards to the commoners.”

Rigel’s lips twitched, barely a smirk. And yet they moved as if unaware. Children. His hand brushed briefly against the table edge, an imperceptible reminder of his presence. He held the center of this room; those dark spots, those intrusive thoughts meant to make others kneel, did not need to appear. They did not yet see it, but they felt it. And still…he felt it. A whisper at the edge of his mind, a pull that urged him toward cruelty, obsession, control. A subtle, poisonous call. He would not be his father; he would not succumb to his mind. But the shadows stirred, coiling in the corners of his thoughts, testing his patience, tugging at his impulses. He straightened imperceptibly, hiding the tremor that almost slipped through his composure. Every laugh, every gesture, every word he spoke was measured, controlled—but the whispers of the darkness lingered, taunting. I will not let it rule me. I am Rigel. I am not Walburga’s heir. I am not Orion’s shadow. I am my own.

And yet, even as he made that promise to himself, he felt the weight, the darkness growing stronger, more potent within him than it had been before. He has begun to feel it upon arriving at Hogwarts, perhaps being under the eyes of more people made something shift in his mind. It whispered of power, of domination, of pleasure in the control of others. Of cruelty that could be as intoxicating as it was terrifying. Rigel’s silver eyes flicked over the room again. He would fight it, for now. But he knew, somewhere deep beneath his calm exterior, that he was not invincible. That the same darkness that had claimed others in his bloodline could one day claim him. And when it came, he would be the most dangerous Black of all.

For now, he smiled, warm enough to be disarming. But the fire beneath it burned—subtle, unseen, waiting. George snorted and rose, hesitating before glancing directly at Rigel. “You’re alright, Black.”

Rigel met his gaze evenly. Acknowledgment granted, but only as permitted. “I tend to agree.”

George offered a crooked smile and headed off. Fred lingered, watching him go, expression unreadable. Fred is a wild card. He laughs, but he thinks. He’ll test boundaries. He’ll be surprised. That will be…entertaining.

Rigel tapped the table once, crisp and commanding. “Come, Weasley.”

Fred blinked. “Come where? And just call me Fred.”

Leta smirked. “To your education, obviously.”

As they stood, Rigel allowed himself a fraction of ease, letting a small smile reach his eyes—but only for a heartbeat. Even now, even here, I am Lord Black. And they are all pieces on my board.

Chapter Text

Slytherin Common Room – Midday, Free Period

The common room was quiet during classes, lit by greenish shafts of lake-light. Fred sat in a leather armchair, slouched and confused. Leta Lestrange lounged nearby, legs crossed, watching like a queen in waiting. Rigel Black paced slowly in front of the hearth like a young professor, his hands clasped behind his back. Rigel turned toward Fred. His tone was measured, precise. “Slytherin House, contrary to what you may have heard, is not a pit of snakes—it is a court.”

Fred blinked. “Er… what?”

Leta’s lips curved faintly. “He means politics, Weasley.”

Rigel nodded once. “You see, in Hufflepuff, you make friends. In Ravenclaw, you study. In Gryffindor, you charge into fires and call it bravery.”

“You two really don’t like Gryffindors…” Fred noted, scratching the back of his neck. Rigel stiffened before he could stop himself. The words cut sharper than they should have, threading straight into the marrow of his name. Leta’s lips pursed, her posture sharpening as if bracing for a storm. Of course, he didn’t like Gryffindor. His father—the man whose shadow haunted his every step—had been a Gryffindor. His mother’s voice still echoed in him, sharp and cold, painting them as reckless, arrogant, foolish children who mistook chaos for bravery. And yet… it was Gryffindor that had landed Sirius Black in prison. Gryffindor had been both his father’s pride and his ruin. Rigel carried the contradiction like a stone in his chest. To admire, to despise, to fear becoming the same—he did not know what to do with it.

His jaw tightened, but when he finally spoke, his voice was smooth, even, too carefully measured. “We don’t dislike them. We understand them. That is enough.”

“In Slytherin,” Leta said smoothly, as if Fred had not unknowingly made a mistake. Gryffindor was a topic Leta did not discuss due to Sirius Black and Fred seeming to want to talk about it. Something Rigel clearly did not. “You build power. Carefully. With intent.”

Fred frowned. “And what if I want friends?”

“Then you’re lucky we like you,” Rigel replied with a rare half-smile. “Because this is the period where we teach you how not to embarrass yourself.”

Fred shifted, uneasy. “But… I’m just me. A Weasley. No one cares about that name here.”

Leta tilted her head, eyes sharp. “Not entirely true. The Weasleys are old blood, if fallen. And the Prewett line—your mother’s family—was twin-born. That kind of lineage carries weight. You may not see it, but others will.”

Fred’s brow furrowed. “Weight for what?”

Rigel’s gaze sharpened, his pacing slowed. “Votes. Invitations. Influence. Respect. You don’t even realize what you carry, and that’s why you’re here.”

For a heartbeat, his smile faltered. A darkness tugged at him, that coiling instinct in his blood urging harsher words: bend them, break them, make them kneel. He could almost see Fred bowing, not learning. It would be easy—too easy—to twist this boy into something pliable. The darkness whispered promises of dominance, cruelty polished into power. Rigel forced his hands tighter behind his back, holding still, refusing the temptation. Not my father. Not me. Fred swallowed, glancing between them. They weren’t warm, they weren’t gentle—but they were focused, dangerous, and, oddly, willing to guide him. He sat a little straighter. “Alright then. What’s the first lesson?”

Rigel’s lips curved again, slow and cool, masking the war beneath his skin. “Perception is power.”

Hogwarts – Potions Classroom – Two Days Later

George settled into the Gryffindor side of the dungeon classroom, the low torchlight flickering off the dark stone walls. Beside him, Lee Jordan, a bright-eyed first-year with carefully crafted dreadlocks strung with tiny gold charms, was animatedly explaining a joke George hadn’t quite caught but laughed at anyway. The room smelled of sulfur and herbs, something George was sure the bat-like Professor always smelled like.

“Honestly, you’d think Snape would appreciate a bit of humor,” Jordan whispered, leaning in. George grinned, relaxed. For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, he felt like he might actually belong somewhere. Lee Jordan was a good friend who was always up for a good joke, now that his twin brother could not be bothered to prank anyone…not that George had asked him to begin pranking Hogwarts. George was sure his brother would say no if asked. The heavy oak doors swung open, and the air shifted. Rigel Black entered first, Fred Weasley at his side, and Leta Lestrange gliding just behind them. They moved with a deliberate elegance that drew every gaze in the room. Heads turned. Whispers sparked. Even Snape’s eyes flicked up briefly, his lips twitching in something almost like approval.

Fred’s posture was different—straighter, sharper, his usual impish grin replaced by something refined, almost calculating. Rigel leaned toward him, voice low but clear, carrying that odd Victorian cadence as he corrected Fred on the “proper use of pauses” in conversation. Fred nodded seriously, adjusting his words with a precision George had never heard from him before. At their table, Leta sat with easy poise, legs crossed neatly, her tone quiet but unmistakably commanding as she chimed in. George caught fragments of her words as she leaned closer to the boys. “… presentation matters… not just cleverness… they’ll expect more of a lord…”

The whispers in the classroom swelled—Slytherins muttering about the “Black boy with his new court,” others remarking on Fred’s strange change. George’s eyes flicked to Rigel, and he froze. The boy’s hand, resting lightly against the table, trembled—just barely—but the tension in it was unmistakable. For a fleeting second, his expression shadowed, dark thoughts lurking beneath the mask of control. Then Rigel smoothed his palm flat on the wood, expression calm, as if nothing had happened. George swallowed. Something dangerous pulsed in Rigel, something he didn’t yet have words for. He wasn’t the only one who noticed. Fred had placed his hand on Rigel’s shoulder, dropping the act briefly as he tried to get Rigel to smile. Leta was frowning, unsure of what was happening.

But then Fred glanced up, caught George watching, and in that instant his mouth quirked—the smallest, cheekiest grin, familiar and unpolished. The old Fred. He winked, quick and irreverent, before turning back to Rigel and Leta as though the mask had never slipped. George exhaled. Maybe his brother wasn’t lost yet. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that Rigel Black was pulling them all into a game far bigger than they understood—and that Fred was walking willingly into it.

Potions Class – Slytherin Side

Rigel slid onto the high-backed stool beside Fred, setting his cauldron down with delicate precision. His posture was flawless. His tone, when he spoke, could have been mistaken for a young diplomat’s. He was every inch the Lord; he had been prepared for his whole life. Nothing would change in his stance; he was sure of it. Those tremors were all just in his head; there wasn’t anything wrong with him. He wasn’t carrying too much; he was fine.

“You must understand,” he murmured as he measured a sprig of belladonna, “it’s not merely about power, Weasley. It’s about perception.”

Fred nodded, still fumbling with the pestle. “It’s just Fred—Right, perception. So if you sound like a lord, people treat you like one.”

“Not exactly, but close enough,” Rigel replied, guiding Fred’s hand gently. “Control your tone. Never raise your voice—draw people in instead of pushing them back.”

Behind them, Leta leaned closer, her silver eyes flicking between Rigel’s perfect movements and Fred’s clumsy attempts, clearly approving of the training. “Your brother,” Rigel added, tilting his head toward George, “is charming. But charm without control is simply fireworks. Pretty for a moment. Then gone.”

Fred glanced over his shoulder. George was laughing at something Lee had said, completely unaware of the conversation just a few feet away. “I just… I don’t want to leave him behind,” Fred admitted under his breath.

“You won’t,” Rigel said, sprinkling powdered asphodel into the simmering potion. His hand trembled briefly, enough to send a few grains spilling. His jaw tightened, and for a moment his dark eyes flickered with something sharp, cruel, before he blinked it away and smoothed his sleeve. “But if you are to lead, he must see you shine. Let him follow. There is so much you still need to know about the Prewett line. Many things we aren’t aware of. Once you claim your birthright, you’ll access ancient texts of your bloodline.”

Fred exhaled slowly, gaze sharpening. Choosing to ignore the hand tremors of Rigel, as the boy did not like talking about them. “That’s how you feel about Sirius, isn’t it?”

Rigel’s hand froze above the cauldron. “…That is a name I do not speak in school,” he said quietly, voice like cool steel. “Not until I’ve made mine mean something different.”

Fred gave a respectful nod. Rigel resumed the motion, then added, almost casually, “Leta is arranging for a tailor. You’ll need robes cut to your height. No Weasley hand-me-downs. Not if you’re to claim the Prewett name.”

Fred blinked. “But… that’s just a family story.”

“Not anymore,” Leta said, her tone regal. “Now it’s a strategy.”

Fred grinned despite himself, a flicker of his old self peeking through. “Politics in Potions class. My mum would throw a fit.”

“Then best we keep it between lords,” Rigel smirked, then quickly added, feeling Leta’s glare behind him. “And ladies…”

When class ended, George hung back as the Slytherins filed out. Leta walked beside Fred, still lecturing about tailoring, while Rigel trailed a step behind. His hand twitched again—just a tremor, but enough that both twins noticed. George frowned. Fred caught his eye, and for once, neither had a joke ready. Later, tucked into a quiet alcove, Fred fidgeted with his sleeve cuff. “You saw it too, didn’t you? His hand.”

George nodded, serious for once. “Yeah. Like he was fighting something.”

Fred swallowed. “I don’t think it’s nerves. Rigel doesn’t… shake.”

George leaned back against the stone wall, uneasy. “Then what is it?”

Fred didn’t answer. He just looked back toward the Slytherins, where Rigel’s figure was disappearing into shadow, Leta at his side. There was something wrong with his friend—Fred could feel it in the tremor that sometimes stole through Rigel’s hand, in the way his eyes darkened at certain words, as though he heard whispers no one else could. He intended to figure it out, but how could he, when Rigel never let anyone close enough to see beneath the polish? When it came to emotions, Rigel was a brick wall—impenetrable, deliberate, perfectly composed. Yet Fred had seen him smile, even laugh, in fleeting, unguarded moments. He knew there was warmth in him somewhere. So what happened? Why did Hogwarts, meant to be liberating, look like another cage around him? Fred’s chest tightened with a thought he didn’t dare speak aloud: maybe Rigel wasn’t reshaping his legacy. Maybe it was already reshaping him.

Back in the Great Hall, Rigel raised his goblet with perfect composure, his dark gaze unreadable. “To legacy,” he said.

George lifted his own, but his eyes lingered on the faint twitch of Rigel’s fingers. “To not losing ourselves,” he muttered, almost too quiet to hear. The four laughed anyway, and by the end of the week, it became almost natural for two Gryffindors to be seen laughing beside Slytherins. But in the quiet corners, Fred and George kept wondering what exactly haunted their friend—and what might happen if it ever broke free.

Chapter Text

December 1989— Hogwarts

Rigel Black shouldn’t have been wandering the castle at this hour. But sleep had slipped from his grasp, leaving him hollow-eyed and restless. His Hogwarts office was connected to his room, something that was unheard of for many years, but Rigel had always been the exception. His office was buried beneath essays, parchment, and correspondence—homework scrawled alongside drafts of letters no twelve-year-old should be writing. His birthday has come and gone; he didn’t need to celebrate. There was no way for him to have a gala, and a simple cake would not be fitting for his station. Sometimes he didn’t know where schoolwork ended and the paperwork of a lord began. The lines blurred until they felt the same: endless ink, endless obligations.

Fred had offered to keep him company, but Rigel refused. He needed time alone. Time to think about things heavier than essays—whether he ought to dig into the Sirius Black case, or track down Regulus and drag him out of whatever hole he had chosen to rot in. Regulus was still the heir, technically. If Rigel could find him, force him to do his duty, marry, produce a line… perhaps the weight on his own shoulders might lessen. But the dreaded darkness that came with Hogwarts didn’t loosen. It coiled tighter the longer he ignored it, whispering in the back of his mind, clawing at his thoughts until his chest ached with the restless pull. Tonight, it drove his steps not to the Astronomy Tower, where he usually found silence, nor to the dungeons where cool stone gave him reprieve, but somewhere stranger—Filch’s office. The door creaked when he pushed it open, the hinges groaning like a warning. Inside, the air smelled of moldy parchment and burnt dust. Shelves sagged under confiscated goods: cracked Sneakoscopes, broken toys, cursed quills, boxes stacked like weary sentinels. Rigel’s eyes roved the shadows. He didn’t know what he was searching for—until he found it.

A plain wooden box, half-buried beneath a stack of Zonko’s trinkets. Unremarkable, except for the faint thrum of magic against his skin. It called to him. He crouched, lifted it free, and the latch gave with barely any effort. Inside lay a single piece of parchment. Old. Faintly stained. But intact. Rigel frowned. This? This was what had dragged him from his bed, what the darkness in his blood had whispered for? He reached out, fingertips brushing the parchment. The moment he touched it, warmth surged beneath his skin—dark and steady, as though the parchment itself recognized the heir of Black. He picked it up—and the moment his fingers touched the paper, warmth pulsed beneath his skin.

“Messr Padfoot is awed that his descendants have found this map. He must applaud you for seeking mischief.” Rigel froze. Descendant? Did his ancestor make this empty map? Where had he heard that name before? Before he could think it over, he ran out of the office and returned to his dorm. Fred barely lifted his head from his bed when Rigel sat down at the foot, tossing the parchment paper towards him.

“What’s this?” Fred mumbled, sitting up, only to watch words come alive in the paper.

‘Messr Moony, kindly asks you to mind your business and put down the parchment.’

‘Messr Prongs, not so kindly, asks you to sod off and keep your freckled nose out of it.’

‘Messr Wormtail agrees with Messr Prongs.’

‘Messr Padfoot wishes to speak with someone other than a freckled git.’

“I guess these people don’t like freckles?” Fred laughed as they stared at the parchment. “What is this?”

“Flich’s office stated that this is extremely dangerous. Then the parchment said it was a map. So…there has to be a way to unlock it…Want to make your name known? You and George should start causing mischief?” Rigel smirked. For the first time, he felt like he was 12. Like he didn’t need to pretend to be anyone else. Like, he could just be a dumb kid who nicked a dangerous item from Filch’s office. Fred smirked at him and turned back to the map.

“What’s the magic word map? This is the first time Rigel wants to cause mischief, and I will not allow this to be over.” The Map, if it could laugh, it would have, but alas, the map just revealed some more words from Moony, Padfoot, Prongs, and Wormtail. ‘Messr Wormtail, must congratulate Rigel for wanting to cause mischief, but cannot help them.

'Messr Wormtail advises to just leave the map alone and go on with your lives.’

‘Messr Moony must roll his eyes at the freckled git, he must do better than that.’

‘Messr Prongs laughs at the outrageous declaration and hopes that they are truly up to no good.’

‘Messr Padfoot agrees with Messr Prongs and hopes that they tap their wand and solemnly swear to it.’

“Well, that was useless.” Fred huffed, tossing the map back at Rigel, and the dark-haired boy stared at the map. Tap their wand… and swear that they are up to no good? That is how you open it? They couldn’t have given them the key that easily…did they? Rigel took out his wand and glanced at Fred. Clearing his throat, he lightly tapped the tip of his acacia wand with a magical core of thestral hair.

“I solemnly swear…that I am up to no good.” At once, ink swirled across the parchment like spilled starlight. Lines formed corridors. Names popped into view. And at the very top, in elegant, defiant script:

Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs

Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers…

are proud to present

THE MARAUDER’S MAP.

Rigel’s breath caught. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Padfoot. Padfoot. The name stared back at him, sharp as glass, scraping against the edges of his mind. The dreaded darkness stirred beneath the surface, whispering, urging, pulling—images of cruelty, control, and obsession flickered behind his eyes. He could almost feel the darkness rising, a shadow of the power that had always lurked in his blood. His mother had called out that name when she believed he was fast asleep. It was a silly name, a name that meant loyalty. It was Sirius’ name—the name James Potter had given his father back when they were like brothers. The memory of lavender fields, the long days spent running and laughing, pressed against the shadows, but the darkness pushed back. “Fred…how about you and George start making your names known after Yule?”

Rigel’s chest tightened, and for a moment, he felt the pull of the darkness more keenly than he had ever remembered. But then Fred’s voice cut through the haze, warm and teasing, grounding him. “I like the sound of that, only if you join us!”

Rigel blinked, the dark tendrils receding slightly as he looked at his friend. The shadowy whispers faded, replaced by the familiar spark of camaraderie. He allowed himself a small, quiet smile. Perhaps he could navigate the legacy in his blood—and still carve a place for loyalty, for laughter, for friends. “Yes…I think I will.”

Hogwarts Library — December 1989

The library was quiet, bathed in the pale gold of morning sun streaming through high windows. Rigel crouched behind the tall armchair, eyes sharp and calculating as he surveyed the unsuspecting students bent over their homework. His hand hovered over his wand, the faintest tremor betraying the darkness stirring beneath his calm exterior—a pulse of restless power he hadn’t yet learned to suppress. Beside him, Fred and George were nearly vibrating with anticipation, while Lee’s fingers twitched, eager to assist.

“Are you sure this will work?” Lee whispered, eyes wide. Rigel’s silver eyes flicked toward him, calculating.

“Timing is everything. We vanish the first sheet, then the second. Only when someone looks directly at it. Precision, not chaos.”

Fred grinned, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Chaos is fun, though.”

“Not yet,” Rigel murmured, his voice calm and precise. A tiny tremor ran through his hand as he brushed it along the corner of the first homework sheet. For a moment, it felt… larger than him—a whisper of something sharp and demanding that tugged at his mind. Fred and George both caught the subtle movement—a faint quiver, barely noticeable, like the echo of a heartbeat in the air. Neither spoke of it. Neither needed to. Rigel’s lips twitched in an almost imperceptible smirk before he blinked and focused. Control. Timing. Not malice.

The first essay floated from its paperweight and vanished, leaving its owner blinking and flustered. Fred and George stifled their laughter.

“Did you see that?” whispered Fred, pointing, barely audible. Fred and George moved through the chaos with practiced ease, their laughter quiet but vibrant, scattering the attention of anyone nearby. They noticed the slight tremor in Rigel’s hand as he tapped the charm, the way his jaw tightened for a moment, and the flicker in his silver eyes when the darkness stirred beneath the surface.

They didn’t say anything. Not a word. Pretending ignorance was part of the fun, part of the thrill of being in on the secret. But curiosity gnawed at them. Why did Rigel seem to wrestle with himself at times? What was that shadow flitting behind his composed exterior? George nudged Fred, whispering, “Did you see that? His hand… for a second there—like he was about to—”

Fred waved him off with a grin. “Let it be. He’s fine. He’s just… different, that’s all. We don’t need to know why right now. Just watch, enjoy, and let him join the fun.”

Rigel, oblivious to their quiet observations, concentrated fully on the charm, guiding the ink as it danced across the students’ open books, twisting into letters and shapes. He could feel the pull beneath his skin, the dark thrill rising, but he clenched his teeth and forced it down, forcing control over the part of him that would delight in outright chaos. Fred caught George’s eye and shrugged with a mischievous smirk. “He’s weird, but he’s ours, isn’t he?”

George nodded. “Yeah… ours.”

Leta, who had been sitting primly with her essay spread neatly before her, reached forward—and her paper disappeared mid-air. Her eyes widened, then narrowed as she tried to snatch it back. “What is—?” she hissed, hands fumbling through thin air, hair falling across her face in a wild arc. Rigel’s lips twitched again. This is perfect. Another faint shiver ran along his fingers, the darkness brushing at the edges of his control, whispering cruel amusements that he carefully ignored. Fred’s quiet laughter rippled, mirrored by George’s. Lee’s grin was wide enough to threaten the candle flames. Leta’s scowl deepened. “Honestly! This is childish!” she snapped, frustration lacing her voice as she tried again to catch the essay, only for it to vanish again. “You’re supposed to be Slytherins,” she added, glaring at the three of them. “I expected—discipline.”

“Discipline?” Rigel murmured, almost to himself, though loud enough for her to hear. “Control is more powerful than discipline.”

The darkness Rigel would not name stirred faintly again in his hand, a teasing tug of cruelty that whispered of cleverer, darker amusements, of perfection in torment. Fred and George exchanged a brief, almost unnoticeable glance but said nothing. Something’s off, but… what? They silently wondered, dismissing it for the thrill of the prank. Rigel shook it off and focused on the joy of the moment instead, letting Fred and George’s laughter guide him back to the lightheartedness of it.

Leta, perched at a nearby table, let out a sharp, exasperated sigh. “Honestly, boys, are you ever serious?” she hissed. Rigel’s lips twitched. He didn’t answer, letting the silence speak louder than any words. The thrill of the prank pulsed through him, tempered by a restraint that only someone like him could muster. And as the ink slithered across the students’ pages, the twins knew that Rigel Black was more than a child joining in mischief—he was something more, a mind balancing curiosity, cunning, and a dangerous inheritance he didn’t fully understand. Leta threw her arms up in defeat as her essay finally landed back on the desk with a soft plop, charmed gently by Rigel. “I don’t know why I even try,” she muttered, smoothing her hair indignantly.

Fred smirked. “Because we’re teaching you patience, Lestrange.”

Rigel straightened, brushing an invisible speck from his sleeve, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “And because you’re hopelessly serious,” he added, voice calm, precise, yet carrying a spark of amusement that made Leta blink in disbelief. For a moment, she sat stunned, realizing she had been bested by her childish friends. Leta decided she needed female friends. Her scowl softened, but only slightly. She would plot her revenge—but for now, the room was alive with laughter, whispers, and the subtle hum of magic working just as Rigel intended. And somewhere deep beneath the laughter, the darkness stirred faintly—like a shadow brushing against the edge of his mind—but Rigel ignored it, enjoying the simple triumph of cleverness and camaraderie. Fred and George, meanwhile, exchanged another glance, both noting the slight tremor, neither daring to say a word. Some things were better left unspoken… for now.

Chapter Text

Hogwarts Library — December 1989

The three boys huddled near the hearth, Leta having stormed off with a dramatic flourish, muttering about the impertinence of children. Lee slipped away to join a knot of Gryffindors, quickening his pace to catch Angelina Johnson before the Quidditch talk left him behind. Fred leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes sparkling. “Alright, Rigel, you’ve got skill—serious skill. Why stop at essays? Hogwarts is practically begging for mischief.”

Rigel’s lips twitched, but his hands remained folded neatly in his lap. “I… I shouldn’t. I am supposed to act… responsible. A lord. Attention of this kind is dangerous.” His silver eyes flickered toward the library windows, imagining any professor or prefect noticing their handiwork. The tiny pulse of the darkness brushed along his spine—a whisper of recklessness he had not invited, and he quickly smothered it.

George leaned back, smirking. “Oh, come on. You’re not going to suddenly grow up overnight. Mischief is like… breathing at Hogwarts. You plan, you execute, you vanish. No one sees you, no one blames you.”

Fred nudged him gently. “Exactly. And you? You’re too good at this. We need that. We need… precision.” He leaned closer, voice low. “We make them think it’s luck, or ghosts. No one suspects the Prince of Slytherin. That’s your edge.”

Rigel considered it, the faintest tremor dancing along his fingers as the darkness that had started to whisper of clever cruelty. Don’t get carried away, he reminded himself, but the notion of bending the rules, of orchestrating something clever and unseen, tugged at him.

“What about Dumbledore?” George said suddenly, eyes wide. “Imagine his face. He’s always twirling that beard, thinking he’s clever. We give him a little… surprise.”

Fred grinned. “I’ve got ideas. Fawkes feathers in his ink. A whoopee cushion on the chair. Maybe some self-inking quills in his office.”

Rigel’s hand brushed against the edge of the table, and he felt the thrill of control—of precise manipulation without exposure. “Subtlety,” he murmured, voice soft but firm. “Nothing that could draw suspicion to me or… the Black name.”

Fred leaned back, arms crossed. “Of course. Subtlety with style, that’s your department. We do the chaos; you do the finesse. Everyone thinks it’s magic. Everyone thinks it’s… just a trick of Hogwarts.”

Rigel nodded, lips twitching with the barest hint of a smile. The tremor in his hand returned for a moment, sharper this time, a whisper of the darkness promising cunning and amusement, but he focused on it, keeping the darkness at bay.

“Then it’s settled,” George said, clapping his hands softly. “We start tomorrow. First, some harmless mischief in the Great Hall. Then… Dumbledore gets a taste of precision.”

Fred grinned. “He won’t know what hit him. You’ll be a shadow in the background, lordly and untouchable.”

Rigel’s silver eyes gleamed, the thrill of plotting without exposure warming him. “Very well,” he said, voice calm. But beneath that calm, the darkness lingered, coiling like smoke, whispering just enough to make him imagine the perfect, untouchable prank—one no one would ever connect to a twelve-year-old Slytherin.

Hogwarts — The Great Hall — December 1989

The Great Hall buzzed with the usual chaos of lunchtime, silverware clattering, students whispering, and a few stray sparks of magic dancing in the air. Rigel, Fred, and George huddled at their usual table, Leta perched beside them, arms crossed and clearly trying to suppress a groan. Lee Jordan had gone to sit with Angelina Johnson, Oliver Wood, Alicia Spinnet, and Katie Bell. Wood was already making a roster for when he became captain. It was decided that Thompson would name Wood captain next year, and the boy had been training the Gryffindor first year to be the backup players for his team. Lee Jordan had been talking to the commentator, who would be graduating this year, and Lee was on his way to take over the position. Fred leaned forward, voice low and conspiratorial. “Right. Step one: distraction. Rigel, keep everyone busy. We want Dumbledore not to suspect a thing.” 

Rigel inclined his head, eyes scanning the room. A faint tremor ran through his fingers as he gripped his wand, almost imperceptible, a whisper of the darkness stirring—an old, dangerous hunger for control, for the thrill of bending others without consequence. He shook it off, focusing, letting the twins’ excitement draw him back. George grinned. “I’ve got the ingredients. Some Fawkes feathers in a vial of ink, a dash of chamomile for color shift. I had the House Elves add it to his drink saying that a fourth year asked me to hand it over to them and that it came directly from Madam Pomfrey. ”

Leta’s nose wrinkled. “You three are childish. Absolutely childish.”

Fred chuckled. “Exactly why it works.”

Rigel’s silver eyes flickered with a brief, calculating gleam. “Timing. We wait until he’s standing in front of the staff table.”

The moment came. Dumbledore swept into the Great Hall, eyes alight with their usual mischief, one hand absently combing through his long, silvery beard. Rigel’s wand movement was almost imperceptible—a gentle swish, a precise flick. His hand trembled ever so slightly as the magic surged through him, a whisper of the darkness urging him toward darker amusements, but he tamped it down. He would remain untouchable, precise, unseen.

A heartbeat later, the hall erupted.

Dumbledore’s beard shimmered, shifting from silver to deep crimson, then emerald green, then violet, before settling on a shocking shade of golden orange. Students gasped, pointing, and some laughed at the color-changing beard. Now, the older man would just need to drink his pumpkin juice, and his body would begin to change color thanks to George adding the potion.  Professor McGonagall’s eyes narrowed, lips pursed in thin disapproval. “This is utterly inappropriate! Whoever did this—this… beard desecration—will answer to me!” Her voice carried across the hall, strict and sharp.

Dumbledore, however, laughed—a rich, twinkling sound that filled the hall. He stroked the now-golden-orange beard, twirled it between his fingers, and raised his hands in mock triumph. “Ah, splendid! I do believe this suits me far better than the old silver. What do you think, students? Shall we make this the new Hogwarts fashion?”

The hall erupted in laughter and applause. Some students cheered, others whispered in awe, while McGonagall’s face flushed an uncharacteristic shade of red. The hall erupted louder when Dumbledore took a long sip of his pumpkin juice. Within moments, his skin began to shimmer—first blazing Gryffindor red, then rippling into deep Slytherin green. Fred and George snickered, trying to suppress their amusement. From across the table, they exchanged a glance, subtle concern in their eyes—Rigel’s hand had quivered for just a fraction of a second, the twitch almost invisible beneath his composed movements. But then his silver eyes caught theirs, calm and calculating, and the tremor was gone. They didn’t speak of it; some things were better left unspoken.

Leta groaned, muttering about childishness as she smoothed her hair. “I can’t believe you’re all laughing at this. It’s infuriating.”

Fred leaned back, satisfied. “Oh, Leta. The best part? He’ll never find out who did it.”

Rigel’s eyes met hers for just a fraction of a second. “And some things,” he said quietly, “are better left unseen.”

The twins exchanged a glance, knowing their new Slytherin companion had a darkness beneath that perfect composure, yet they only chuckled. Let him have this, Fred thought. It’s harmless… for now.

Hogwarts — December, 1989

That evening, the Weasley twins sat tucked away in the Gryffindor common room alcove, the fire painting restless shadows across their faces. Fred leaned back, lazily twirling a quill between his fingers, while George rubbed the last stubborn smudges of ink from his sleeve. It was the first time they’d truly been alone in days—and Fred had missed it more than he’d admit. The others in Gryffindor had learned, rather quickly, not to comment on George’s “Slytherin meetings.” The last few who tried had woken to their hair dyed in alternating house colors. After that, no one said a word.

“You see that?” Fred muttered, voice low. “When he flicked the wand at Dumbledore’s beard… his hand—did you notice?”

George frowned, eyes narrowing as he replayed the moment in his mind. “Yeah. Just for a second. Trembled. Almost like… like he enjoyed it too much, if that makes sense.”

Fred nodded. “Exactly. I mean, he kept it in check, smooth as ever afterward. But it was there. That little twitch… something’s under that ‘perfect’ skin.”

George shrugged, trying to mask the unease. “He’s Slytherin, mate. We don’t call him out. Not yet. Some things are better watched.”

Fred smirked. “You mean… let the little lord stew in it? Good plan. Still… creepy, though. Oi! I’m in Slytherin too!”

“Yes, but I’m sure the hat made a mistake,” George smirked at his brother, also missing these moments. They lapsed into quiet contemplation for a few moments, the fire crackling softly. Both knew Rigel’s perfection wasn’t all it seemed—the tremor had whispered a warning. Whatever that was, it was powerful. And perhaps, in time, it would be something neither twin could fully control. For now, they kept it between themselves. Some things were better left unseen. 

Slytherin Dormitory — December 1989

The Slytherin dormitory had quieted at last; the only sound was the scratching of Rigel’s quill against Black Family documents that required his immediate attention. Moonlight spilled faintly through the depths of the Black Lake, silvering the trunks and folded robes neatly placed inside their open trunks. Fred lay sprawled on his bed, tossing a Quaffle up and catching it lazily. Rigel paused his letter to the Wizagamont, a letter that would grant Fred and George access to the locked Prewett vaults. 

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Rigel muttered the words under his breath, setting the half-finished letter aside. The parchment trembled faintly between his fingers. He reread the correspondence from his grandmother—each line sharper than the last. That old woman was making a spectacle of herself. She despised that he bore the title of Lord Black, that he dared to let blood traitors back into the family, that he was reshaping the house she worshipped like scripture. Every word dripped with venom.

A bastard cannot sit the Black throne, she’d written. A blood traitor’s son cannot carry our name.

Rigel’s jaw tightened. If Sirius Black had been a blood traitor, a disgrace, then why had he stood beside Voldemort? His grandmother, Walburga, had lived and breathed the family creed—how could she not have known her son’s true allegiance? Has Sirius truly fooled them all? Was he so lost, so fractured, that he never told anyone what side he truly stood on? Or was there something else? Something deeper—something no one had wanted to see? He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. The pieces didn’t fit. None of it did.

“What’s wrong, Rigel?” Fred sat up quickly from where he’d been sprawled on his bed. He and George had agreed to give Rigel space—to not even think about pressing, or trying to make the dark-haired boy talk about whatever haunted him. But now, seeing his friend’s trembling hands, Fred couldn’t stay still. Rigel looked... frayed. Always on edge, always somewhere else behind those cold, calculating eyes.

A friend should know when his mate’s birthday is. But Rigel never said a word about it. Leta knew—of course she did—but she’d never tell. The wizarding world had never managed to uncover the date of birth of the most infamous, most controversial Lord Black in generations. All anyone knew was that he was their age. Rigel’s office door stood open, as it always did when Fred was around—his way of keeping an eye on him, though Fred suspected it was the other way around. Fred had been half-heartedly packing for their trip, while Rigel buried himself in his so-called important work.

But somewhere along the way, something shifted. Rigel had started muttering under his breath, words too low and sharp to make out. The air in the room began to thrum—books rattled on the shelves, inkpots trembled, and the quills danced across parchment like frightened insects. Fred froze. He’d never seen Rigel lose control before. The boy was always composed—too composed. Fred would have bet his last Skiving Snackbox that Rigel’s first bit of magic hadn’t been accidental at all, but deliberate, precise. Now, though… this was different. This was raw.

“It’s nothing… family business,” Rigel muttered, taking another letter and staring at the black ink scrawled across the parchment. He couldn’t make sense of it. Something didn’t add up. Sirius Black — traitor, murderer, the man who had the Potters killed. That was the story, the one everyone told. The truth, and nothing but.

And yet, his grandmother said otherwise. His mother said otherwise. Nothing is as it seems, she’d written. He had thought she meant Sirius earned the Potters’ trust only to betray it — but now he wasn’t so sure. 

Something was missing. Something is wrong.

What if Sirius hadn’t betrayed the Potters at all? What if he’d betrayed someone else? The so-called Dark Lord, perhaps? Could he have been a spy — a double agent — playing both sides until he chose one too late? Or maybe he was as twisted as the world believed. Rigel didn’t know anymore.

“Forgive me,” he said quietly, setting the letter down. “Do close the door on your way out.”

“No, Rigel.” Fred’s voice was firm, steady. “Come on, we’re friends. You can tell me what’s bothering you.” Rigel didn’t look up. Fred pressed on, his tone softening. “You’re this great Lord Black, and you’ve got no one to talk to. So talk to us. Leta’s Lady Lestrange — she’ll be your rival one day. We’re not lords or heirs or anything like that. You can trust us. Or… if that’s too much, then just trust me. I’m your roommate, your friend.”

A faint, humorless smile tugged at Rigel’s lips. “You sounded very Gryffindor just now.”

Fred smirked, leaning back against the desk. “Yeah, well… Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw — they’re just houses. I’m ambitious, sure, but I work hard, I’m brave, and I’m not completely daft. Maybe everyone’s a bit of every House.”

Rigel’s brow lifted slightly. He hadn’t expected that.

Fred sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “What I’m trying to say is — don’t bottle it all up. You’re not fooling anyone.” A pause. Then, with a crooked grin: “And don’t think you can change the subject. You know you’re dying to hear some advice.”

It was the first spark of wisdom Fred Weasley would ever offer Rigel Black — and the first time Rigel didn’t turn it away. Years later, Fred would grow wiser under Rigel’s careful eye, and Rigel would grow reckless under Fred’s warmth. But for now, they were just two boys — both trying to make sense of a world that told them they were meant to be enemies.

“It’s… my grandmother, the late Lady Black,” Rigel began, voice tight, “she’s been writing to me. Telling me I’m disgracing the family name by allowing Andromeda and her family in. She…” He paused, unsure how to explain without revealing too much — without telling the world he was looking into the Sirius Black case. No one would understand. No one would agree. They all knew the so-called truth, but only he was thinking it over. No one wanted to know what truly happened that Samhain night. Only he, as Lord Black, needed to know. And yet, even as he spoke, a low hum thrummed in his mind — the faint pull of a darkness he hadn’t felt in a while. It whispered, urging him toward cruel solutions, reminding him of all the ways a Black could bend others to their will. Rigel’s fingers trembled imperceptibly over the parchment. Do not show weakness, it murmured. Do not be swayed. Take control.

“What exactly is she saying? What has you so worked up? Come on, I know you’re not telling me the whole truth,” Fred pressed, crossing his arms. Rigel bit his lip, looking away for a moment, fighting the pull in his chest. He might as well tell him — some of it, at least.

“Sirius’ case… it doesn’t make any sense,” he confessed quietly, avoiding Fred’s eyes. When he finally glanced at him, expecting horror, he found instead furrowed brows — Fred trying to understand. “I’ve been on edge for a while… something was said at a ball, I don’t want to repeat it. That isn’t important. What matters is the case. My grandmother repeatedly insisted that my father — Sirius — was a blood traitor, that he forsook the family and our past beliefs. She said only Regulus Black was a Death Eater. She attended every meeting, and yet they never saw Sirius. Severus Snape, Lucius, and Abraxas Malfoy — they were all there. And she hosted those meetings in our sacred home. The home I vowed that once she’s gone, I would burn down, as that house became tainted by another Lord’s magic.” Rigel paused, drawing a slow breath. That wasn’t what he had meant to say. That wasn’t what he wanted anyone to know. With a faint shrug, he let the moment slip past, moving on as if it had never happened, the tremor in his chest buried beneath a mask of calm. “And yet… she swore Sirius wasn’t a traitor, at least not to the Potters. And everyone still says he practically killed them. None of it makes sense.”

The pulse of the darkness strengthened, whispering cruel and vengeful thoughts, urging Rigel to judge, to strike, to act before thinking. His jaw tightened. A small tremor ran through his fingers, but he forced it down. He could not let it take him — not yet. Not here.

“So… we investigate,” Fred said, shrugging, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“What?” Rigel’s voice barely carried. “You… you want to help?”

Fred was unusually quiet for a moment, weighing the words. Then a sly smile tugged at his lips. “Well, it sounds like the start of a very bad idea,” he said cheerfully. “Which means, naturally, I’m in.”

Rigel blinked, startled. The pull in his mind softened, replaced by warmth. Fred’s presence was a tether, grounding him from the dark whispers. “You’re in?”

Fred jumped onto Rigel’s desk, leaning forward with his arms resting casually on his knees. His grin was easy, mischievous, but his eyes held a flicker of curiosity—always watching the boy who carried so much on his shoulders. 

“Rigel, my friend—if you’re asking whether you’re mad, the answer is yes,” Fred said, his tone playful yet certain. “If you’re asking whether I’ll help you…well, the answer will always be yes. We’ll begin this ‘grand quest’ of yours.” His grin widened, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “Think of it as a Christmas gift from me to you.”

Rigel’s throat tightened. He let out a breath, forcing a faint smile. The tremor in his hand faded as he met Fred’s gaze. “Fred… you’re a true friend. I’ll help you too — whatever you need, whenever you need it.”

Fred shook his head, that easy smile softening. “You already have, mate. More than you realize. Just let me help you.”

The two boys sat in the half-darkness, the silence between them no longer heavy but warm — an unspoken promise that whatever came, neither would face it alone. Even as the whispers of a darkness lingered at the edges of Rigel’s mind, he had something stronger now: friendship, loyalty, and a choice. For the first time, he felt the weight of the darkness not as a curse to succumb to, but as a force to master. The last trace of the lonely twelve-year-old lingered for a moment… then faded. Lord Rigel Black had emerged.