Chapter Text
1. The Spark Beneath the Ash
“You cannot fight the storm unless you realize you're already in it.”
Evander Black didn’t just enter the world—he was called forth. From the very first breath he took, his life was not his own but a carefully crafted prophecy woven through the bloodlines of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Black. Unlike his brothers, Evander wasn’t a rebel or a sacrifice; he was the answer to a question nobody asked. Raised in grand halls that felt colder than any prison, schooled in politics before he could even read, and trained to speak like a lord before he could talk like a kid, he was shaped under the heavy burden of legacy. Every step he took was accompanied by the whispers of his ancestors, and every look thrown his way was a reflection of high expectations: be perfect, be powerful, be unforgettable. And so, he became all those things they wanted—except for one: free.
Evander was the third son of Wulburga and Orion Black, born just a year after Sirius Black left the family. He wasn’t something Wulburga had ever wished for, but he turned out to be exactly what every Black truly needed. Like all his family members, he started his journey at Hogwarts when he turned eleven, and he was sorted into Slytherin, following in the footsteps of his ancestors. His grandfather, Arcturus Black, was proud of him, especially since he was making a return to politics after nearly a decade of retirement. Evander had been building connections since he could hold a quill, and he continued to do the same at Hogwarts. He was respected, recognized, praised, and highly sought after. By the time he finished his fourth year, he had become the uncrowned King of Slytherin house.
It was at the beginning of his fifth year that everything began to unravel—quietly at first, like a hairline crack in glass. And then he came. Unannounced. Uninvited. A disruption wearing too-big robes and those damned green eyes that saw far too much and understood far too little. They called him the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, the savior of their crumbling world. But to Evander, he was none of those things. He was a soft voice in the dark, a mess of contradictions—fragile and infuriatingly brave. A hurricane disguised as a boy. And by the time Evander realized what was happening, Harry had already slipped past his armor, shattered the cold precision of his life, and settled into the hollow places he never dared acknowledge. He didn’t ask for him. Didn’t want him. But somehow, Harry became the only thing that tethered him to the light—his lifeline, his ruin, and perhaps, his only escape from the darkness he was raised to worship.
It was the morning of September 1st—another year, another performance. The Hogwarts Express hissed with steam and anticipation as students swarmed the platform, their laughter and footsteps echoing through a world Evander had long since grown tired of. Fifth year awaited him, gilded with fresh accolades. Over the summer, he had once again claimed the title of Duelling Champion—this time, earning the distinction of being the Youngest Champion of the Century. He had moved with quiet precision, securing new alliances with foreign pureblood houses, extending the Black influence like a shadow over old kingdoms. Everything was unfolding as it should. Controlled. Expected. Perfect. And yet, fate does not honor perfection. As he stood alone in the corridor of the Hogwarts Express—composed, unreadable—he didn’t yet know. Didn’t sense the shift. Couldn’t hear the quiet rumble of change galloping toward him. He hadn’t seen him yet. But the moment he did, something in his world cracked. And nothing that followed would be within his control.
He hated the first day.
Too loud. Too many limbs and laughter. Too much noise in the cracks of the train, where silence used to live. Evander stood at the far end of the corridor, posture immaculate, back resting lightly against the glass panel of an empty compartment. He hadn’t put on his robes—he never did until the castle came into view. The world outside was still mundane, still crawling in between magic and memory, and he had no intention of blending into the mess of first-years chasing chocolate frogs and lost owls.
Then came the collision.
Hard. Sudden. A shoulder slammed into his chest, and the scent of something foreign—soap, dust, and something warmer—hit his senses before the boy even looked up.
“Ow—bloody hell, sorry—” The voice came out in a rush, winded from the impact.
Evander didn’t stumble. He never stumbled. But he had to take a breath—slow, measured—because something inside him jolted like the crackle before lightning, sharp and fleeting and hot.
The boy staggered back, wide-eyed. Dressed in oversized, worn-out Muggle clothes that barely clung to his frame—faded jeans, a threadbare jumper, laces untied. And then there were the eyes. Green. Vivid. Uncomfortable with how much they seemed to ask without permission.
Evander’s gaze narrowed, not in anger, but in annoyance.
What... was that?
He didn’t speak. Just studied the boy in silence as the train thrummed beneath them, his breath perfectly still while the boy’s came fast and uneven.
The boy flushed, looked down quickly, muttered, “Didn’t see you there,” and began to shuffle past, dragging his trunk behind him that scraped the edge of the wall.
But as he passed, their arms brushed.
Another spark.
This time, Evander felt it down to his ribs—like a thread had snapped, or perhaps stitched itself for the first time. He didn’t know which, and he hated not knowing.
He didn’t turn around to watch the boy leave.
He simply stared ahead, cold expression unshaken—but inside, something shifted.
A thread pulled taut.
A question left hanging.
And he didn’t even know the boy’s name.
Not yet.