Chapter Text
9. In the Shadow of Legacy
When bloodlines clash with ideologies, only legacy can silence dissent.
When the contract had sealed and glowed gold in full view of the Wizengamot—sanctioned by ancient house magics and blessed by the Mother Magic herself—it left no room for doubt. The chamber, filled with the most powerful Lords and Ladies of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, stood hushed, the weight of history pressing down upon their shoulders.
Then, predictably, Albus Dumbledore rose from his elevated seat, his expression drawn into that familiar mask of sorrowful wisdom he wore like a well-aged robe. The tip of his wand glimmered faintly as he addressed the assembly.
“Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot,” he began, his voice calm yet saturated with that underlying arrogance that grated against the bones of the old blood. It was the voice of a man who still believed himself the moral compass of the magical world, even when it no longer pointed north. “This contract—impressive though it may appear—is a burden, I daresay, upon a child no older than twelve. It is our duty as guardians of this world to remember: members of House Black stood beside the man who murdered James and Lily Potter.”
The words hung in the air like hexes uncast.
Across the chamber, Lord Nott, who had been seated with a patience born of decades of political maneuvering, raised a brow. A man rarely shaken, even he found himself impressed by the silence that followed. It wasn’t fear—it was calculation.
He shifted his gaze to the high alcove seat of House Black, recently reoccupied. There sat Evander Phoenix Black, serene, unreadable, every inch the heir of legacy and fire. The chair, untouched since Aractrus Black’s last appearance, had long stood as a symbol of Black decline. Now it declared resurgence—louder than any words could.
A loud and unmistakable snort broke the silence.
“Is th’ weight o’ a hundred winters finally twistin’ yer logic, Albus?” came the gravelly voice of Lord Selwyn, sharp and unapologetic. “Or dae ye now fancy yerself older than the very bones o’ Mother Magic? Ye saw what we all saw—that contract was sealed in blood and flame, an’ marked by th’ house magics themselves.”
He gestured broadly to the chamber, ignoring the twitch in Dumbledore’s brow. “Now unless yer sayin’ yer wand holds more say than hers”—he pointed vaguely to the invisible but omnipresent essence of Mother Magic—“ye might want tae reconsider paintin’ yerself the enemy o’ every ancient house still breathin’.”
Ripples of discomfort passed through the benches. Even among Dumbledore’s staunchest allies, some shifted in their seats, as though reminded of where power truly rooted itself—deep in blood, history, and law.
From the Light faction, Augusta Longbottom cleared her throat—a pointed gesture that commanded quiet. Dignified in her green robes, the Dowager Lady of House Longbottom stood, her presence ever unshaken despite years of personal tragedy.
“While it is true that young Harry Potter is not yet of age,” she said, tone crisp, “it is also true that his betrothed—Lord Black—is recognized legally and magically as an adult and head of his House. House Black may have walked dangerously close to the fire of You-Know-Who,” she continued, her voice tightening ever so slightly, “but we must also acknowledge that the late Lord Black never openly pledged himself to that monster.”
There was a pause—one laden with grief and unspoken pain.
“And though I will never forgive what certain members of House Black did to my family,” her eyes darkened briefly, “it would be folly to stand against a union sanctified by magic older than the stones beneath our feet. It is not our forgiveness that legitimizes this contract, nor our comfort—it is the will of magic itself.”
Murmurs rose again, this time less dissenting, more contemplative. The laws of magic were absolute. Even Dumbledore, for all his genius and grandeur, could not rewrite them.
Evander, seated upon the ancestral throne of House Black—tall, austere, and wrought in ancient obsidian—rose with the kind of effortless grace that only old magic and inherited pride could bestow. The rustle of his robes echoed in the cavernous chamber, and the murmur of political tension fell into absolute silence, as if the very walls of the Wizengamot leaned in to listen.
In his hand, he raised a wand unlike any other—a wand carved from rare ghost-ash wood, faintly pale like the bones of the earth itself, humming with deep, patient power. It was a singular creation of Garrick Ollivander, forged in the old ways, with a phoenix core spun from ancestral fire. The wand glowed, slowly and solemnly, a soft golden light radiating from its tip like the breath of an ancient god.
Then, his voice rang out—not loud, but steady, resonant, and clear, cutting through the ancient court like the toll of a funeral bell. “I, Evander Phoenix Black, son of Orion Pheinous Black, Lord of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Black,” he said, each word crisp and precise, “hereby swear on my magic, my blood, and the honor of my House… that my intended, Harry James Potter—future Consort of House Black—shall be treated with utmost care, cherished beyond measure, and held sacred within the halls of my kin.”
His wand lifted higher, the golden glow intensifying as if Mother Magic herself were listening.
“He will be respected. He will be protected. And he shall remain the one and only Consort of House Black until the day he dies. So mote it be.”
The words rang with finality—no hesitation, no room for doubt.
The oath settled like a veil of gold over the chamber. The glow from his wand expanded and engulfed him in a shimmering aura, as the raw force of magic accepted his vow. A proud, regal eagle Patronus erupted from the tip of his wand, wings spread in full glory, soaring above the chamber in solemn procession—a symbol of House Black’s unyielding spirit, its protectiveness, and the pride it held in its own bloodline.
For a moment, no one moved. The stillness wasn’t fear—it was reverence.
Then, with a sharp, resolute breath, Lord Selwyn rose to his feet, wand lifted high. “So mote it be,” he said, his tone ringing with fervor and the old tongue of Highland blood. His brogue was unmissable, thick with tradition and thunder. “Let th’ world witness the word o’ House Black.”
One by one, the Lords and Ladies followed. Ancient wands raised, golden light blooming like stars across the chamber. From House Nott to Greengrass, from Rosier to Parkinson—even those of Dumbledore’s Light faction hesitated before lifting their own, bound more by the law of magic than by allegiance.
“So mote it be,” they all said in unison, the sacred phrase reverberating against the stone walls of the Wizengamot like the binding of a divine pact.
Evander stood amidst it all—young, powerful, the last scion of a once-fractured legacy now reforged. The oath he made wasn’t just for Harry Potter. It was a message.
House Black had returned.
And it would bow to no one.
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Albus Dumbledore sat heavily in the high-backed chair of his office, the aged wood creaking beneath his weight as though echoing his exhaustion. The Wizengamot meeting had been, without question, the most tiresome—and politically damning—session of his long and decorated life. A goblet of lemon water remained untouched at his desk, long since gone warm. The only sound in the otherwise still office was the soft, haunting song of Fawkes, his faithful phoenix, whose melody had always soothed the more volatile tides of Albus’s thoughts. But not tonight. No, tonight even Fawkes’ immortal song could not calm the storm.
His mind reeled—not from what had been said, but from what had been proven.
Never in his decades as Chief Warlock had Albus witnessed a magical contract invoked with such authority, precision, and sanctity. The golden light, the ancient recognition of blood and house magics, the way even the more reluctant Lords and Ladies of the Sacred Twenty-Eight had bowed their heads in respect—it was a blow. One that made him realize how deeply he had underestimated both the contract… and the boy who had invoked it.
Evander Phoenix Black.
The name alone now pulsed with influence.
He had watched that boy over the years, quietly and from a distance. The last true heir of the ancient Black bloodline—elegant, cold-eyed, and undeniably dangerous. A boy forged from the marrow of power itself, as if the spirits of both his elder brothers had woven themselves into him. From Sirius, the reckless charisma and cunning. From Regulus, the hidden depth, the quiet brilliance. But Evander was more than both. Far more. He did not merely possess the Black legacy—he embodied it. He did not rebel like Sirius. He did not submit like Regulus. He ruled.
And today, he had ruled the Wizengamot.
It wasn’t just his voice, or the oath, or the arcane contract that had bound the name of Harry James Potter to the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Black—it was the way the world had answered him. Lords who once whispered behind the backs of “dark” families now stood beside him, their wands raised in shared magic and unity. Even Augusta Longbottom, so deeply scarred by the crimes of Bellatrix Lestrange, had held her peace.
Dumbledore’s fingers twitched against the armrest of his chair, nails tapping lightly in a rhythm of unease.
How had he missed it?
How had he not known of the old Black-Potter pact? How had such a pivotal clause, one forged in the blood of Houses, slipped past the gaze of the man once hailed as the greatest living wizard?
Because the truth—unsettling as it was—had crept into his bones like a chill.
Albus Dumbledore no longer held dominion over the political heartbeat of wizarding Britain. For the first time in decades, his grip on the future of Harry Potter had slipped… and landed in the elegant, gloved hands of a Black.
The contract was legal. Ancient. Blessed by Mother Magic herself. And thus, untouchable—even by him.
Harry James Potter.
The Boy-Who-Lived, the symbol of hope, the child he had carefully positioned over the years like a pawn on a blood-soaked chessboard. Albus had plans—oh, many plans. Plans for sacrifice, for redemption, for a glorious death cloaked in the illusion of victory. And now? Evander Black, that polished serpent in noble's robes, had swept in with old law and older blood and torn those plans to shreds without lifting a blade.
His lips pressed into a thin line.
He needed to think. No, he needed to maneuver. The boy—Harry—was still young. Impressionable. And Evander, for all his ancestral might, was still but a teenager. Surely… Surely there were cracks to exploit. Time to stall. Pieces to shift.
Perhaps Severus could help.
The Potions Master had always been his most… precise instrument. A man of debts and grudges. And with his ties to both Harry and the remnants of the Death Eaters, Severus might still be the key to reasserting control.
With deliberate calm masking the flaring panic in his chest, Albus stood and swept from his office, robes billowing in his wake like a storm cloud. The gears of manipulation—long rusted by arrogance—had begun to turn once more.
This war wasn’t over.
Not yet.
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Evander Black, Lord of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, bearer of a sealed magical contract and now legal guardian of a twelve-year-old wizard who was also, by pact and prophecy, his future consort—was lost.
For the first time in his carefully ordered life, he did not know what to do.
The scroll had burned gold in the halls of Wizengamot, the magic had accepted, the Lords had bowed, the oath had been spoken. And now... there was only silence. Heavy, expectant, pressing against his skin like invisible chains. The address of Harry James Potter was folded neatly in the inner pocket of his robes, ink still fresh from the Ministry’s documentation office. Yet Evander sat frozen in his private chambers at Black Manor, the same place his ancestors had drawn blood, played gods, and shaped destinies.
And now it was his turn. But he couldn't move.
His hands clenched in his lap, pale knuckles belying the storm behind his composed expression. The young Lord who had faced the entire Wizengamot and made it bow was, now, simply a boy—seventeen and unsure—sitting beneath the shadows of too much legacy.
The sound of soft footsteps broke the stillness.
Cassiopeia Black entered the room, her presence commanding without need of announcement. Regal in dark silk, silver streaks woven into her midnight hair, she was every inch a Black: elegant, dangerous, mad—and utterly formidable. The last true matriarch of the family. And for the next two years, his Regent.
No one dared cross Cassiopeia Black. Not even Dumbledore.
She moved with purpose, taking the armchair beside the fireplace without invitation. Her posture was proud, her eyes sharp. But when she looked at Evander, something softened.
"You should not sit like this, lost, my young Lord," she said, voice threaded with steel and old affection. “You need to move. You need to claim what is yours.”
Evander turned toward her, expression unreadable, though a hint of vulnerability slipped through the cracks. A rare thing. “Harry Potter… he’s someone I don’t know if I will ever be able to handle, Great-Aunt,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. It felt like a confession—one that weighed too much.
Cassiopeia’s eyes didn’t waver. She leaned back, folding her hands in her lap, thoughtful. “When your grandfather Arcturus Black married Malenie Rosier, he was fifteen. She was twelve,” she said, calmly, as though discussing the weather. “Your grandfather, may Merlin curse his soul, was the worst bastard to ever crawl out of this family’s bloodline. Vain. Cruel. Arrogant to the bone.”
She paused, then gave a strange, fond smile. “And yet, Malenie? She was fire incarnate. A Rosier in blood and spirit. She bent for no man. She spat in the face of power. And yet, Arcturus adored her. He fought her, yes, but in the end he loved her—because she was everything he couldn’t control, and everything he didn’t know he needed.”
Evander didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He only listened.
Cassiopeia continued, voice lower now, intimate. “I was there, Evander. I watched them carve a life out of something impossible. She bore him Lucretia at fifteen, and by twenty she ruled this house in all but name. You think you and this Potter boy are opposites?” She gave a short, knowing laugh. “Perhaps. But mark my words: I have lived long enough to see how love grows out of chaos. I’ve seen it consume and I've seen it heal. And I believe—truly believe—that your story, whatever shape it takes, will eclipse all of ours.”
Evander exhaled slowly. It wasn’t certainty he felt—but something close. The beginning of movement in his chest. The cold burn of purpose reigniting.
Cassiopeia stood, her long fingers brushing the velvet of her robes. Her eyes, sharp as steel and just as unyielding, pinned him in place. “Now go, my young Lord. Go and bring your intended home. The future Consort of the House of Black does not belong in the dust of Muggle houses or beneath the guardianship of fools. He belongs here. With you.”
A pause.
“In his true abode.”
And with that, she swept from the room, leaving only the scent of her perfume and the lingering echo of destiny.
Evander stood.
His hand slipped into his pocket and withdrew the parchment. He unfolded it slowly, staring at the address.
Number Four, Privet Drive.
It was time.