Rewritten in Fire and Blood

He was born to lead—not loved, not nurtured, but forged.
The Black family’s crown jewel, raised beneath pureblood expectation and ancient cruelty, sculpted into a legacy no heir dared challenge. He was glory wrapped in silk, ambition cloaked in charm.
And Harry should’ve known better than to look twice.
But power like his doesn’t just shine—it seduces, it devours.
What begins with glances turns into something darker, something neither of them can name without bleeding.
In a world poised for ruin, some bonds are a curse.
And some men were never made to be touched—only survived.

Notes:

Dark themes, including trauma, manipulation, and magical warfare
Canon divergence begins around Book 5
Exploration of family dynamics and political tensions in the magical world
Some characters may be portrayed differently from canon.
Original characters are present and play major roles.
I do not own Harry Potter or any characters from the original series. All rights belong to J.K. Rowling and the respective copyright holders. This story is a fan-made, nonprofit creation.

Chapter 1: The Spark Beneath the Ash

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.

Chapter 2: Green Eyes and Game Boards

Summary:

Slytherin thrives on silent wars and shifting loyalties—yet nothing unsettles Evander more than the boy behind emerald eyes.

Chapter Text

2. Green Eyes and Game Boards

Power bends in silence, but one name echoes louder than any spell, disrupting the order he was born to rule.

The Sorting Feast was, as expected, an exercise in predictability—a stale tradition dressed in flickering candlelight and hollow cheers. Evander sat in his usual place at the Slytherin table, the seat that had long ago been silently acknowledged as his. He didn’t care to watch wide-eyed children be sorted like lambs to houses; he had already memorized half their surnames and assessed their bloodlines before stepping on the train.

Around him, his year-mates fell into familiar patterns—Marcus Flint was blustering about Quidditch again, arms flailing as he made bold declarations of victory and revenge against Gryffindor, voice growing louder with each sentence. It would’ve been comical if it weren’t so painfully dull.

Evander listened without really listening, nodding at intervals that maintained the illusion of camaraderie. Conversation was a currency he had learned to counterfeit perfectly. While the others bragged about broomsticks and strategy, Evander’s mind moved elsewhere—tracking house alliances, watching who sat beside whom, calculating subtle changes in how the younger years leaned toward their table’s center. He noticed the glance Professor Snape threw his way—half-expectation, half-measure—and met it with a nod so slight it could’ve been mistaken for shadow.

Professor Snape was many things—Potions Master, Head of Slytherin, and a man so tightly wound in bitterness that he bled contempt with every syllable. To most, he was a figure to fear. To Evander, he was merely another cog in the great, groaning machinery of Hogwarts—respected, yes, but never revered. He played the part of mentor well enough, offering nods of approval when Evander outshone his peers, and rarely interfering when he maneuvered through politics both inside and outside their house. Yet beneath that grudging respect was something uglier. Snape detested him—not for his actions, which were always immaculate, but for his face. For his name. For the way his hair curled too much like Sirius's, and his mouth curved into that same disdainful smirk. Evander could feel it in the man’s stare: that deep, silent rage reserved for a ghost he could never exorcise. But what made it worse, for Snape, at least, was that he was not just Sirius. He was also Regulus. Quiet, precise, utterly composed, and capable of slicing someone apart with a look alone. The combination unsettled Snape in a way few others could, and Evander knew it. Exploited it, even. Because for all the man’s robes and titles, Snape would always remain what he had always been—a half-blood boy who had begged for belonging. And Evander? He had never begged for anything. He had been born already owed.

Evander was not like the others. He did not fidget. He did not boast. He did not crave attention—only control. And yet, tonight, something felt...off. His fingers curled slightly against the polished wood of the table as a ripple passed through the hall—a name spoken 'Harry Potter', a momentary pause in noise, like air being drawn before a storm. He didn’t look up at first. But his world, so carefully ordered and sealed, shifted ever so slightly on its axis.

When the name “Harry Potter” echoed through the Great Hall, a hush fell so abruptly it was almost theatrical, followed, inevitably, by a rush of whispers like wildfire licking at dry wood. Evander, who had been absentmindedly tapping his fingers against the polished table, went still. His spine straightened not in surprise, but with the ease of someone raised to pay attention when legacy entered the room. Like the rest, his gaze turned toward the front, and when the boy stepped forward—the same disheveled, green-eyed stray who had crashed into him on the train—Evander blinked once, slowly. So that’s him. The savior of their world. The hero in borrowed rags. He wasn’t sure what he had expected—perhaps someone taller, someone who didn’t look like he barely belonged in his skin—but it certainly wasn’t this slight figure with wild hair and hesitant steps.

Evander’s gaze remained fixed on the boy perched nervously upon the stool, legs too stiff, shoulders too tight—like a lamb about to be crowned instead of slaughtered. The Great Hall held its collective breath, a thousand eyes and expectations pressing down on a single eleven-year-old with a lightning scar. When the Sorting Hat finally bellowed “Gryffindor,” Evander didn’t so much as blink. Of course. It was never going to be anything else. As his grandfather had once sneered, “Any child marked by Sirius Black is destined for a lifetime of reckless choices and empty glory.” And how very on-brand it was. Sorting him anywhere else would’ve set the entire social order on fire. He watched the boy descend the steps, wide-eyed and dazed, like someone still dreaming through the applause. As Potter approached the Gryffindor table, the infamous Weasley twins practically leapt to greet him, their grins wide and territorial. Even that sanctimonious bore Percy Weasley stood to offer him a handshake, polished and painfully polite. It was sickeningly theatrical—the Chosen One welcomed home by his pack of golden fools. Evander sipped his water and leaned back slightly, the faintest curl to his lip. Fame was a fragile thing, but here it was, messy-haired and a legacy too heavy for a boy who hadn’t even learned how to sit still under pressure. So, this is the boy the world has been waiting for? He looked… ordinary. But there was something in the way his presence shifted the room—a weight that Evander felt in his bones, and despite himself, he couldn’t quite look away.

“Well, no great revelation there—the Boy-Who-Lived sorted into the House of Gryffindor bravado and impulsive heroics,” Cassia Rosier murmured, her voice smooth as silk dipped in venom. She tilted her goblet, the orange liquid inside catching the candlelight as she spoke. Fluent in five languages and fluent in secrets, she was the type of girl who could poison a man with a smile and still be invited to his funeral. Evander respected her sharpness—but kept her close only by necessity, and always at arm’s length.

“Potters have always been Gryffindors, if anyone’s paying attention to the basics,” drawled Marcus Flint from one seat down, cracking a walnut with brute force rather than finesse. His Quidditch muscles did most of the talking; his intellect, less so. The surrounding students offered half-hearted nods—his comments were rarely clever, but tradition was a comfort, even in ignorance.

“There are historical reasons for it,” Lucien Bletchley chimed in, her tone dry but informed. Her long fingers rested lightly on the table, her Prefect badge gleaming. “The Potters are an old line, interwoven with Godric Gryffindor’s blood through marriage centuries ago. Honestly, it would’ve caused a social and magical uproar if the boy had landed anywhere else.”
Lucien wasn’t one for small talk or social maneuvering—she lacked the pedigree for it—but what she lacked in aristocratic polish, she made up for in precision and quiet knowledge. Evander appreciated her efficiency, if not her charm.

Then came a voice with serpentine smoothness. “Well, it appears your dear cousin is already taken with our freshly crowned legend,” Octavian Avery remarked, a smirk curling on his lips like the edge of a knife. “He’s creating quite the scene, if subtlety counts as theatrics.”
Octavian was the only one Evander ever allowed past the outer edge of his thoughts. Dry-humored, dangerous, and deliciously disinterested in glory, Octavian spoke in whispers that carried more weight than most people’s declarations. He was the only Slytherin whose silence meant watch closely.

At his comment, the entire section of the table naturally turned to look. Across the hall, at the far end of the Gryffindor table, a certain platinum-haired aristocrat was scowling so hard he might’ve cracked the polish on his family ring. Draco Malfoy, flanked by his ever-loyal shadows Crabbe and Goyle, was muttering furiously—his hands twitching with theatrical indignation as the twins on either side of Potter laughed louder than necessary.

Evander, unmoved, took a sip from his goblet and let the sharp tang of elderflower wine rest on his tongue. So it begins, he thought.

Chapter 3: Gilded Shadows

Summary:

Evander Black rules Slytherin with silence, secrets, and legacy—an heir among heirs, where ambition is currency and respect, inherited.

Chapter Text

3. Gilded Shadows

He walks in polished silence, a prince among snakes, but every heir watches with sharpened teeth.

The feast had drawn to its expected end—boisterous applause, clinking goblets, and the fading scent of roasted meats hanging in the enchanted air. With customary grace, Evander rose from his place at the Slytherin table, Lucien Bletchley falling into step beside him. Together, they led the newly sorted first-years down into the winding, torchlit corridors of the castle, away from the warmth of the Great Hall and toward the shadows that belonged only to them.

The path to the Slytherin dormitories was cold and slick underfoot, carved through ancient stone and silence. As they descended deeper into the dungeons, the torches flickered with green-tinged flames, casting long, watery shadows on the walls. Beneath the Black Lake, hidden from the eyes of the naïve and the unworthy, lay the true heart of Slytherin House—a sanctum for the ambitious, the cunning, and the dangerously brilliant.

This was not merely a house—it was a crucible, where legacies were sharpened and alliances forged like blades. It was the birthplace of Tom Riddle, who would one day become the Dark Lord, yes—but also of Merlin himself, the most powerful wizard in history, and of powerful names like Phineas Nigellus Black, Regulus Black, and Bellatrix Lestrange. Here, diplomacy was taught as a weapon, and power came not from brute force, but from whispered promises and knowing when not to speak.

For the pureblood elite—those born into names that carried weight and history—Slytherin was not a choice, it was a continuation. The children of the sacred twenty-eight lines walked these halls as heirs, not students. The house didn’t just reward ambition—it demanded it. And for those like Evander Black, who bore centuries of magic in their very blood, Slytherin was a throne room waiting to be inherited.

As they reached the iron-wrought threshold of the Slytherin common room, the air grew colder, denser, like the castle itself was holding its breath. The torchlight shimmered dimly against the damp stone walls, and the carved serpents that adorned the entryway gleamed with a silver sheen, watching silently. Lucien Bletchley stepped to the side, her posture impeccable, her silence deliberate. The unspoken signal was clear: this was Evander’s moment.

Evander took a single step forward, and the soft sound of his boots against the flagstone echoed down the corridor. Before him stood the newest generation of Slytherin—some composed and already wearing the weight of their legacies like second skin: the Zabini heir, the Greengrass heiress, the young Nott. Others were still wide-eyed, barely holding their wands properly—his cousin Draco among them, doing his best impression of calm but betraying his nerves in the twitch of his fingers.

They all looked to him. And so he looked back—slowly, deliberately—meeting each gaze with the same cool calculation that had come to define him. There was a silence that only respect could command.

Then, Evander spoke. His voice was smooth, composed, and clear, polished like onyx and carrying a quiet authority that left no room for disobedience.

“This,” he said, gesturing to the door behind him, “is the entrance to the Slytherin dormitories. The password is ‘Pureblood.’ It changes weekly, and it always means something. Something important to us.”

He let the word settle—Pureblood—its weight, both tradition and weapon. His grey eyes scanned over them again, a flicker of something ancient in their stormy depths.

“If you forget the password, you’ll be locked out until another student passes through. Slytherin doesn’t coddle forgetfulness. We reward precision and discipline. That begins tonight.”

He stepped closer to the ornate, serpentine door handle, the silver snake coiled with its eyes glinting in the gloom. But before unlocking it, he turned slightly, his voice dipping into a tone colder and sharper.

“You are about to enter a house that bred the greatest wizard the world has ever known—Merlin himself. A house that shaped leaders, generals, diplomats, and kings in all but name. It is not a sanctuary—it is a crucible. You will not rise here because of your name alone, no matter how grand. You will rise because you deserve it. Because you have the cunning to earn your place in these halls.”

Then, with all the ease of someone long-accustomed to command, he turned back to the door, placed his hand on the serpent’s head, and whispered, “Pureblood.”

The snake shimmered briefly, then uncoiled with a hiss. The door creaked open, revealing the emerald-lit grandeur of the Slytherin common room beyond—an expanse of green stone, dark woods, and silver accents that reflected the rippling surface of the Black Lake overhead.

Evander didn’t look back to see if they followed.

He didn’t need to.

The hiss of the door sealing behind the first year's echoed faintly, like a serpent curling into shadow. He stepped into the center of the Slytherin common room, his boots clicking against the dark stone floor polished smooth by centuries of ambition. The room itself was like the lake above—still, cold, and watching. Emerald light filtered through the glass panels set deep into the lake’s bed, casting slow, hypnotic ripples across the arched ceiling and onto the ancient tapestries that whispered secrets in threads of silver and green.

Around the room, upper years lounged on tufted leather armchairs and serpent-backed sofas, cloaked in shadows and superiority. Some looked up when Evander entered, their gazes curious, assessing. A few nodded in acknowledgment. One or two offered small, measured gestures—flicks of fingers, brief smirks, silent waves that spoke not of friendship but allegiance. He returned them all in kind, giving each the same recognition they gave him, no more, no less. Politics, after all, began long before the first class.

While Lucien Bletchley stood near the hearth, delivering the standard orientation speech with all the warmth of a Ministry official, Evander let his gaze drift across the room. He didn’t need to memorize names—he already knew them. What he studied now was body language, hierarchy, and tension.

Tonight was no ordinary night. It was the first day of term, and with it came The Unveiling.

A centuries-old Slytherin ritual whispered about in other houses as superstition, but regarded here with the solemnity of a blood pact. The Unveiling was not just a rite of passage—it was an exposure. A magical ceremony designed to bring one's deepest fear to the surface and mark it, not as a weakness, but as a tool. The ritual was meant to refine a Slytherin’s magical essence, sharpen their instincts, and temper their resolve. Fear, after all, was only dangerous when hidden. Exposed, it became powerful.

The magic was old and not entirely sanctioned by the school. It wasn’t something professors mentioned in classes. But it lived on—passed from prefect to prefect, whispered through dorm corridors, and performed in the bowels of the dungeon where the school’s gaze could not follow.

When Bletchley concluded her speech, her gaze flicked to Evander—the real authority in the room, even if she wore the same badge.

He turned his eyes to the far left corner, where the seventh-year prefects stood, cloaked in dark green, their expressions unreadable.

“Is the Circle ready?” Evander asked, his voice calm and deliberate.

A tall girl stepped forward from the shadows. Eurydice Selwyn—impeccably dressed, with a voice like a knife wrapped in velvet. “Ready and waiting,” she said with a cold smile. “The lake breathes slowly tonight. The magic will respond.”

Behind Eurydice, the other seventh-years stood tall—some cloaked in elegant stillness, others in quiet malice. Their expressions were masks honed by years of scrutiny and whispered ambition. As they stepped into formation, the room shifted. A change not felt by sound or light, but in the weight of the air, thickening, charged.

Evander stepped forward, wand already drawn. His stride was measured, purposeful, as if the ground recognized him. With every footfall, the circle behind him followed. Not out of fear, but reverence.

The ritual chamber, hidden behind a warded arch of green-veined obsidian, was already prepared. Courtesy of the house-elves, yes—but guided by ancient instructions passed down in hushed tones over the years. The torches lining the stone walls flickered with unnatural flame—silver and emerald, casting rippling shadows across etched runes that had not been touched by daylight in centuries.

They entered in silence. Each participant took their place, forming a perfect ring around a sunken stone basin carved directly into the floor—its edges adorned with serpentine symbols and old Latin phrases that hissed softly when touched by magic.

This was the Vallis Veritas—the Hollow of Truth. And tonight, it would demand an offering.

Evander moved to the apex of the circle, directly opposite Eurydice. He raised his wand and, in a low, commanding voice that seemed to echo off the stones themselves, spoke,

“Per lucem timoris, revelare quid lateat.”

One by one, the others raised their wands and echoed the incantation, their voices weaving into an eerie chant that made the room pulse with sentient energy. The basin flared to life, filling not with water, but with a silvery vapor—misty and reflective, as if spun from memories and moonlight. The torches dimmed, and for a breathless moment, the only illumination was the basin itself.

Then it began.

Each witch and wizard, starting at the eastern point of the circle, stepped forward and lowered their wand to the mist. The vapor responded, rising to meet them like a question—and with it came visions. Not illusions, but raw truth. The deepest fear each participant carried surfaced into shimmering form above the basin: shapeless for some, agonizingly vivid for others. Betrayal. Loneliness. Death. Shame. Powerlessness.

None spoke. No one laughed. This was not a spectacle. It was exposure. A reminder that even among serpents, survival was born from vulnerability made into armor.

When it was Evander’s turn, the circle seemed to tighten, as if the very room leaned in.

He stepped forward, wand steady.

The vapor rose to meet him—and then recoiled, twisting violently as if resisting. A deep, cold flood filled the chamber, and the silver mist turned almost black at the edges. For a moment, the basin showed nothing. Then—slowly—it began to take shape.

Not a monster. Not death. But something far more haunting: a faceless figure standing behind a throne meant for him. A shadow that bore his family name, but none of his will. A rival. An heir displaced. A legacy stolen.

The room darkened further, and runes along the walls glowed green with eerie resonance. Evander’s breath caught—not in fear, but in fury. The basin knew. It had seen past ambition, past charm, straight to the truth: his greatest fear was not being chosen. Not being enough. Not being Black enough.

But he didn’t flinch. He stared at it—at the dark, silent specter of unfulfilled inheritance—and raised his wand higher.

“Ego sum,” he whispered.

The image dissipated in a rush of air and vanished into mist.

Silence returned, thick and reverent. The basin stilled. The magic settled like ash.

No one dared speak. What they had seen would not be discussed. That was the unspoken rule of the Unveiling. No matter what the basin showed, it remained in the stone and shadow. But everyone felt the shift, the weight of Evander’s presence growing colder, sharper. The ritual had peeled him open—and he had not bled. He had stared down his terror and claimed it as his own.

When the circle finally broke, and they filed out in silence, something lingered in the chamber.

A presence. A promise.

Evander did not look back.

He didn’t need to.

Above them, the lake stirred, disturbed by something deeper. And far beneath prophecy and bloodlines, fate shifted—because Evander Black had seen the truth, and now, it had seen him back.

Chapter 4: Whispers and Wands

Summary:

Evander navigates daily life in Slytherin—classes, subtle alliances, and quiet power plays that define who thrives… and who survives.

Chapter Text

4. Whispers and Wands

Even in stillness, the serpent watches—friendships forged in whispers, rivalries sharpened in silence.

The next morning broke over Hogwarts with the soft hush of mist curling through the windows, the castle stirring awake beneath a veil of pale light. At precisely seven-thirty, Evander Black stepped into the Great Hall, his gait calm and composed, his uniform immaculate. The vast chamber still echoed with emptiness—only a handful of early risers sat scattered at their house tables, some yawning into goblets of pumpkin juice, others reading The Daily Prophet with bleary eyes.

Evander moved with silent confidence to the Slytherin table and took his usual seat, as though the hall had been waiting for him. The morning air held the scent of toasted bread, sharp citrus, and something vaguely floral—fresh polish from the enchanted floor, perhaps. He poured himself tea, unsweetened, and calmly began arranging his plate with surgical precision.

Minutes passed. Slowly, the hall began to fill—house by house, voice by voice. The golden light from the enchanted ceiling spilled across rows of robes and faces, igniting another school year into motion. Soon, Octavian Avery slid into the seat beside him, his expression as composed as always, though his eyes sparkled with sharp curiosity.

“Morning, Evander,” he said, his voice low and polished.

Evander offered a faint nod. “Avery.”

Their conversation—if it could be called that—drifted idly toward summer vacations, speculative timetables, and the early rumors about new professors. It was all surface-level talk, the kind that filled time rather than minds. Evander answered where necessary, listened where useful, and ignored what he deemed irrelevant.

Then, as the last of the sausages vanished from silver platters and tea cups drained to the dregs, the distant flutter of wings echoed above.

Owls.

A flurry of feathers burst into the Great Hall as dozens of post owls soared through the air, some elegant, others ungainly, bearing letters, parcels, and the occasional Howler. But one owl broke the pattern.

A sleek, coal-black owl with piercing amber eyes descended with quiet authority—no wild flapping, no noise, just grace. It swooped down and landed before Evander with a dignified click of talons against the polished table.

Evander reached for the letter without a word, his fingers brushing against the thick parchment sealed in deep obsidian wax, pressed with the ancient crest of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. His eyes lingered for a moment on the mark—a familiar sigil, a familiar weight.

“From the old lord?” Octavian asked, offering a strip of bacon to the bird, who accepted it with a pleased ruffle of feathers.

Evander didn’t answer immediately. He studied the seal, its edges perfectly molded, as though even wax obeyed the discipline of his family. Then he tucked the letter into the inner pocket of his robes with careful precision, untouched and unread—for now.

He didn’t need to open it yet to know what it would contain.

Praise, perhaps. Instructions, most certainly. A test hidden between lines, undoubtedly.

Legacy never arrived unaccompanied.

And so he folded his napkin, rose from the table, and strode from the hall.

The day unfolded beneath the weight of lectures and parchment, each class layered with warnings and sharp reminders of the looming O.W.L. examinations. Professors spoke with clipped precision, their tones edged with expectation. Every lesson was no longer just about magic—it was about readiness, about futures already decided by bloodlines and family names.

By late afternoon, as the sun poured golden slants through the castle’s stained-glass windows, Evander moved through the shadowed corridors with his usual quiet elegance. He was not alone. Around him gathered the sons and daughters of the most powerful bloodlines in wizarding Britain—names that echoed like spells: Rosier, Avery, Travers, Mulciber, Selwyn, Nott. Each one an heir. Each one was raised not just to lead, but to preserve their legacy.

Their meeting place was as old as their traditions—a hidden alcove behind the restricted section of the library, protected by wards and sealed with old magic. Only the chosen knew its entrance, and none ever spoke of it aloud. Within the space, candles floated, and dark velvet drapes muffled their conversations from curious ears.

Here, titles carried more weight than grades. The air was thick with politics and polished restraint.

The conversation moved like chess—measured and strategic. Discussions ranged from Ministry appointments and the shifting alliances among Wizengamot families to upcoming heirship or lordship ceremonies that would mark the next generation of power. They spoke of ancestral vaults, gala invitations, estate consolidations, and the whispered negotiations of betrothal contracts—marriage as transaction, alliance, and reinforcement of blood.

It was a ritual, unspoken yet absolute: every heir shared the information their family allowed them to know, updates on internal politics, names rising or falling, secrets whispered at drawing-room walls. It was both exchange and test—a subtle contest of who knew more, who held more cards, who was worthy of being called a future lord.

Evander, as always, sat with quiet command. He didn’t speak often, but when he did, his words carried weight. He didn’t need to raise his voice. The others leaned in when he chose to speak.

Because in a room full of heirs, Evander Black was not just another name. He was the benchmark.

When the castle finally began to still and the weight of prefect duties and subtle house politics lifted from his shoulders, Evander retired to the solitude of his private quarters. The hour was late, the moon spilling cold silver light across the stone floor as he loosened his tie and sat beside the flickering candlelight on his desk. His uniform still clung with the scent of castle stone and parchment ink, and a faint tension lingered in his jaw from too many carefully measured conversations.

With practiced fingers, he retrieved the letter he had tucked into his robes that morning—a folded piece of heavy parchment sealed in black wax, embossed with the proud crest of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. He didn’t need to read the seal to know who it was from. The letter was an annual ritual, one he had come to expect with unerring precision. For the past five years, on the second day of every new term, he had received the same message from his grandfather: words veiled in elegant calligraphy, gently reminding him of his duty, the expectations tied to the Black name, and the chessboard of wizarding politics through which he must learn to move.

It was always the same—asking after his arrival, inquiring whether the Slytherin dormitories were satisfactory this year, commenting vaguely on family affairs, and reminding him, in soft but pointed prose, that he carried the legacy of generations on his shoulders.

But tonight’s letter was different.

Tonight, buried in the familiar lines and refined language, was a name that did not belong in this tradition.

Harry Potter.

Evander’s fingers tightened around the parchment, his brow furrowing. The name stood out like a red slash across cream. His grandfather’s tone, though restrained as always, carried an unmistakable undercurrent of interest—perhaps even calculation. He had merely asked if Evander had seen the boy yet, what his impressions were, and whether the son of Lily and James Potter showed promise. An innocuous question on the surface… but Evander knew Lord Arcturus Black far too well to mistake it for curiosity.

There had always been a strange, unspoken thread connecting his grandfather to Harry Potter. He had overheard it in whispers echoing through the cold, portrait-lined halls of Grimmauld Place—his grandfather’s voice, sometimes filled with unknown emotions when recalling Lily and James, whom he had once admired for their bravery. Other times, the name came up alongside memories of Sirius—his fallen, disgraced grandson, the one who had laughed in the face of blood tradition and paid dearly for it.

And sometimes, the mention of Harry was softer, almost wistful, as though Arcturus saw something in the boy he could never bring himself to say aloud.

Evander had long learned not to ask questions when it came to Lord Black’s schemes. Whatever his grandfather was plotting, it was always layered in silence and strategy, and Evander, though trusted, was rarely offered the full picture.

He reread the line.

“And do let me know your thoughts on young Mr. Potter. The boy bears watching.”

It wasn’t a request.

It was a command.

And Evander knew better than to ignore it.

The days began to blur, melting one into the next with the quiet rhythm of routine and rising expectations. September drifted by like a cold wind through the castle’s ancient halls—unremarkable to most, but heavy for Evander. His birthday passed on the 19th, as it always did, cloaked in understated silence. There was no grand celebration, no gathering of warmth or laughter. He received gifts, of course—elegantly wrapped parcels from distant relatives, esteemed allies, and family friends, all bearing tokens of politeness rather than affection. Every ribbon-tied box was a subtle reminder of duty fulfilled, of the legacy he and his grandfather had dragged back from the ashes.

The Black name, once tarnished and teetering on the edge of disgrace, had found its footing again—largely due to them. And everyone knew it.

Still, the gestures felt hollow.

They were not tokens of love, but acknowledgments of status.

Even as the weather cooled and the leaves outside turned amber and gold, the pressure within the castle grew. Professors began invoking the coming OWL examinations like an approaching storm, while whispers of family ambition and inter-house rivalry stirred like wind beneath the surface. The weight of expectation, already a familiar companion, settled more firmly on Evander’s shoulders.

Among the letters that arrived regularly by owl post, those bearing the Black family seal remained the most frequent and unsettling. His grandfather wrote with the same careful elegance as always—his words laced with layered meaning, laced with veiled commands. And nearly every letter, without fail, contained a line or two asking about Harry Potter.

The questions were subtle, but insistent. Had he spoken to the boy? Observed him? What did he think of his manner, his magic, his bearing? It was clear that Lord Arcturus Black had developed an unusual, almost obsessive curiosity about the child who had survived the Dark Lord—and that curiosity had now become Evander’s responsibility.

So Evander watched him.

He watched Harry Potter move through the corridors with hesitant steps and wide, searching eyes—eyes too large for his small frame, as if the world demanded more of him than he was ready to give. He stayed close to his new friends, as though unsure of his place among these ancient stones and louder voices. And yet, there was something in the way he carried himself—subtle, almost imperceptible. A quiet defiance in the way he lifted his chin, the silent resilience etched into his spine. Not arrogance. Not pride. Just the determined will of a boy who had survived far too much in far too little time.

Evander noticed everything. He always did. Especially the strange familiarity in the boy—how those startling green eyes, vivid and otherworldly, held the same gentle fire as Lily Potter’s. And how every line of his face mirrored James Potter—yes, the angular jaw, the unruly brow, the boyish set of his mouth—but all of it softened, as though the echo of war had passed through him and left mercy in its place.

It was like looking at someone assembled from memory and myth—stitched together by the hands of grief and legacy. A boy born from legends, but carrying none of their weight visibly. Not yet.

“Was he part Veela?” Octavian had asked once, in passing, barely glancing at the boy seated beside the Sixth Weasley—the one with freckles and too much laughter.

Evander hadn’t replied, but the question lingered. There was something unplaceable about him. Not magical in the traditional sense, but in the way he existed, as though the world had been forced to shape itself around his presence. He had wondered, privately, if the Potters had creature blood in their line. Some long-diluted enchantment. Because Harry Potter was beautiful. Not in a polished, princely way—but in the way dusk is beautiful. In the way a dying star outshines the rest of the sky.

He had James Potter’s face, certainly—but on Harry, those familiar features felt... rewritten. The sharp angles had been softened with a poet’s precision. That stubborn, reckless energy was tempered by Lily’s quieter strength, a grace like moonlight over broken glass.

His skin held the glow of wheat in high summer—too soft, too pure for the shadows that haunted him. His lips were a faded blush, like bruised rose petals, delicate in a way boys weren’t allowed to be. And his hair—Merlin, that hair—it was a chaotic masterpiece. Not wild in rebellion, but alive. Silken waves, black as ink, unruly in the way rivers break past dams. It caught light like raven feathers, glinting blue and violet in the torches of the dungeons.

And those eyes… those eyes.

They weren’t just his mother's. They were something else entirely. Wilder. Sharper. The green of freshly cut peridot under stormlight. They didn’t invite you in—they ensnared you. They saw too much and gave nothing back. Looking into them felt like opening a door and realizing the room on the other side was too vast to cross.

They were the kind of eyes that didn’t ask to be seen. They commanded it.

And for far too long, Evander had let himself look.

Evander wrote back, offering measured observations, careful not to reveal too much of his intrigue. He didn’t understand why his grandfather’s interest in the boy ran so deep, and truthfully, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. But he knew better than to dismiss it.

For in-house Black, curiosity was never idle.

It was always a prelude to a move.

Chapter 5: Beneath the Gilded Silence

Summary:

A troll breaks Halloween peace, exams loom near, his grandfather weakens—and behind silk and silver, the legacy begins to fracture.

Chapter Text

5. Beneath the Gilded Silence

Not all shadows howl in the dark—some whisper behind golden curtains, where duty weighs heavier than any beast’s roar.

October had crept into Hogwarts with all the subtlety of a wet cloak—grey skies, endless drizzle, and a cold that clung to the bones like an over-attached ghost. Scottish autumn, as Evander had come to accept, wasn’t so much a season as it was a mood—miserable, misty, and perpetually damp.

The once-regular heir meetings had dwindled as coursework began to drown even the most ambitious of legacies. The library now resembled a war camp more than a place of learning, with O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. students entrenched behind towering stacks of parchment, muttering incantations and curses—some academic, others entirely personal.

Quidditch season loomed on the horizon, and with it came a fresh wave of house rivalry, sharpened to near-blood-feud levels. Bet money, pride, and centuries-old vendettas were already on the line—and the matches hadn’t even started. Slytherins were sharpening their brooms. Gryffindors were sharpening their egos.

And, as if the castle needed more drama, the news that Harry Potter had been recruited to the Gryffindor Quidditch team spread faster than Fiendfyre through a dry forest. The boy hadn’t even signed the roster, yet half the school was already calling him the “Seeker Savior” or “Golden Snitch Whisperer,” depending on their flair for melodrama.

Evander wasn’t particularly surprised. What did surprise him, however, was the sheer speed with which Draco Malfoy completely unraveled.

It was… impressive.

A week ago, Draco had been merely obsessed. Now, he had gone full Shakespearean tragedy. His sighs echoed down the Slytherin corridors like tragic sonatas. He brooded in alcoves. He drafted love letters in elaborate cursive and then dramatically burned them in the Common Room fireplace while muttering lines like, “What cruel fate binds us apart?”

And all of this, mind you, for someone who hadn’t so much as looked at him for more than five seconds—two of which were to confirm Draco was, indeed, breathing.

“Do you think he prefers Gryffindors because of the danger?” Draco had asked once, lying sideways on the Slytherin couch like some kind of tragic Regency debutante. “Maybe it’s the reckless courage. Or the windswept hair.”

“He likes breathing, Cousin. Try starting there,” Evander had replied dryly, turning a page of Advanced Magical Theory without looking up.

Draco, of course, ignored this advice in favor of buying seven new hair tonics—none of which improved his already feather-duster-esque hair. The boy had taken to gliding down hallways like a dramatic ghost, trailing his robes behind him like a court mourner. Evander had half a mind to hand him a black veil.

It had become something of a time-honored ritual in the sixth-year Slytherin dormitory—placing bets on what grand, misguided gesture Draco Malfoy would attempt next in his increasingly unhinged courtship of the Boy Who Lived. The ideas grew more absurd by the day, each more flamboyant than the last. There had been whispers of a moonlit serenade atop the Astronomy Tower—complete with a self-playing lute and enchanted rose petals that spelled out “Yours in Suffering.”

Then came the suspiciously choreographed “chance” encounter in the library, where Draco had just so happened to be reading a thick anthology of wizarding poetry, opened—naturally—to a page featuring a soul-wrenching sonnet titled To the One Who Scarred My Heart (and Forehead).

The most unhinged theory, and the one currently leading the betting pool, was that Draco might soon invoke some obscure, wildly outdated blood rite of marriage—something dredged from the vaults of pure-blood nonsense that involved sacred rings, moonlit vows, and possibly a goat. No one quite knew whether the law existed, but knowing Draco, that minor detail wouldn't stand in his way.

Evander didn’t get involved. He merely watched, and wondered—vaguely, wearily—if they’d all survive until Halloween without a duel, a scandal, or Malfoy attempting interpretive dance in the Great Hall.

Frankly, the last one felt alarmingly plausible.

Halloween arrived faster than Evander anticipated, slipping past the haze of study sessions, prefect patrols, and endless heir meetings. One moment, the castle was still basking in the amber hues of early autumn, and the next, jack-o’-lanterns floated through the Great Hall and whispers of heroism slithered through the corridors like enchanted smoke.

The tale—Potter’s tale—had spread like Fiendfyre.

By the time Evander returned from the brief reprieve of the Christmas gala, it had evolved from a strange incident involving a rogue mountain troll to a full-blown legend. A first-year. Barely eleven. Defeating a creature most fifth-years would struggle to stun. And saving not one, but two students in the process. The story had only grown more embellished as it passed through eager mouths: in some retellings, Potter had ridden the troll like a battle steed; in others, he’d slain it single-handedly with a broken wand and sheer willpower.

Evander hadn’t believed most of it, naturally. But even after separating the facts from the fantasy, one truth remained: Harry Potter had defeated a mountain troll. That alone was enough to silence even the most skeptical.

And, strangely, Evander found himself unbothered by the shift in attention. For the first time since he’d arrived at Hogwarts, he wasn’t at the center of whispers and admiration. It was Potter now—naïve, stammering, unpredictable Potter. And despite everything, Evander wasn’t unhappy with the change.

One evening in the Slytherin common room, as the fire cast long shadows across the green-stoned walls and rain painted the lake outside, the sixth-years were sprawled across armchairs and hearth-rugs, indulging in a rare moment of idleness.

“He doesn’t look like someone who could defeat a troll,” drawled Cassia Rosier, her voice airy but sharp. She twirled the stem of her goblet between two fingers, gaze fixed on the hearth. “I mean—judging by how fragile he is. Beautiful, yes, in a way. Like something sculpted rather than grown. But not... powerful.”

There was a murmur of agreement, followed by a groan from Marcus Flint, who was half-draped across a settee, annoyingly close to a very uninterested Teress Higgs.

“Well, he’s the defender of the Dark Lord, isn’t he?” Flint offered a bit too eagerly. “I read in Harry Potter and the Mountain Troll—he's got ancient magic running in his veins. Saved a girl with one hand and stabbed the beast with a toothpick in the other, or something like that.”

Teress rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle he didn’t sprain something.

Octavian Avery didn’t even look up from his book, the spine titled Advanced Runic Wards and Creation glinting gold in the firelight. “Only you would take those ridiculous serialized novels seriously, Flint,” he said flatly. “They’re written by half-literate housewives with no magical theory to back their plots.”

He turned a page with an audible flick. “Potter’s not a prodigy. He’s barely literate in wizarding etiquette. Anyone with half a brain can tell he wasn’t raised in our world. He flinches at owl post and says ‘wicked’ like a common alley brat.”

There was a pause before he added, almost lazily, “His mother was a Mudblood. That much is common knowledge. And the Potters, for all their old money, weren’t exactly known for holding the line.”

Cassia arched a brow. “You’d think the boy who lived would’ve been raised among his kind. At least taught proper wand posture. But the way he casts—he waves it around like he's swatting flies.”

“Raised by Muggles, most likely,” said Nott quietly from his corner, where she was oiling her wand with clinical precision. “That sort of upbringing shows. They don’t understand legacy. Or silence. They speak too loudly, touch things they shouldn’t.”

There was a collective hum of agreement—soft, almost musical, like the lull of snakes before a strike. Not hostile, but coldly curious. Detached. These were the sons and daughters of lineages older than the Ministry itself. Their opinions were formed not from petty schoolyard cruelty, but from centuries of ingrained ideology—quietly passed down in gilded drawing rooms and ancestral libraries.

“But I must admit,” drawled a seventh-year lounging at the far end of the couch—Balthazar Shafiq, if Evander recalled correctly, “the boy is quite the beauty. Delicate in that tragic sort of way. No wonder even Lord Black seems eager to bind him to his house. At least, if the whispers floating through the Wizengamot and upper circles are to be believed.”

There was a sharp pause.

Evander didn't look up at first. He remained as he was—leaning forward, fingers steepled, the firelight glinting off the silver of his signet ring. Then, slowly, he turned his gaze toward Shafiq.

“Careful, Shafiq,” he said, voice low and smooth, like velvet hiding a blade. “The affairs of House Black are not for idle tongues to wag. Especially not from houses that have long since fallen from grace.”

His smile was polite. His eyes were anything but.

The silence that followed was thick enough to cut. Shafiq looked away first, his smirk faltering just enough to be noticed. Around them, the rest of the common room held its collective breath, thriving, as always, on the razor’s edge between insult and intrigue.

Evander leaned back in his chair, unbothered. The conversation drifted on, but the line had been drawn.

And no one crossed it again.

But inside Evander’s mind, a storm had long since begun to churn, dark and relentless.

His grandfather, Aractrus Black, had taken ill. Dragon Pox, the diagnosis read—an ancient curse of an illness that was often more insult than ailment to wizards of pure lineage. And yet, the bitter old man, every bit as iron-willed and unyielding as his first and most favored grandson, Sirius Black, had refused treatment outright. He claimed he was ready, welcoming death like an old adversary he had long kept at bay.

What unsettled Evander more than the sickness, however, was the inevitable scheme that came with it. Aractrus had begun murmuring of the old alliance, drafted centuries ago, when the Black and Potter names held equal weight in both power and prestige. An ancient betrothal contract from the 1600s, buried under layers of dust, family politics, and broken promises, was now being unearthed. Aractrus seemed determined to revive it—to tie House Black to Harry Potter, sealing one final political victory before his last breath.

And Evander knew, with terrifying clarity, that he was the intended seal.

The thought turned his blood to ice.

If the contract was finalized, the backlash would be catastrophic. The Potters had every reason to despise the Black name. His elder brother, Sirius, was rotting in Azkaban, branded a traitor to the Potters for reasons the family never dared speak aloud. Bellatrix—mad, loyal, unrepentant—was there too, imprisoned for torturing two Aurors into madness. Narcissa, his other cousin, had married into the Malfoys, whose patriarch conveniently claimed the Imperius Curse to mask his loyalty to Voldemort—yet no one truly believed it. And Regulus, sweet, quiet Regulus, had taken the Dark Mark, betrayed the Dark Lord, and vanished—presumed dead, if not worse.

And now, the same boy—Harry Potter, orphaned by a war the Blacks helped ignite—was being offered a place within that very house. Within his house.

Evander could hardly imagine a world where such a bond would not set fire to both of them.

And yet, the fire had already been lit.

Chapter 6: A Legacy Sealed

Summary:

Evander is going to inherit the Black legacy after his grandfather's death, binding himself to duty, power, and an ancient contract he cannot escape.

Chapter Text

6. A Legacy Sealed

Death crowns him not in glory, but in silence—where grief becomes law, and legacy a burden written in blood.

The months bled into each other like ink in water—January turned to February, and soon March had arrived with the soft but pressing footsteps of the O.W.L. examinations. Hogwarts was no longer a school but a storm of parchment, potion fumes, and whispered rivalries. Every corridor echoed with stress: late-night cramming sessions in the common rooms, sudden outbursts in the library, the ever-looming presence of professors with sharp eyes and stricter expectations. Even Quidditch, once a welcome distraction, now felt like another weight on Evander’s already heavy shoulders.

Among the whirlwind of obligations came Career Guidance Week—a Hogwarts tradition filled with false hopes, tired ambition, and forced dreams, guided by professors who knew too well the limitations of the world beyond these stone walls.

Evander's appointment fell on a grey Friday afternoon in March, tucked into the end of the day when most students were already packing for the weekend. He stepped into Professor Snape’s office in the dungeons, where the air smelled faintly of crushed asphodel and something old—maybe bitterness.

Snape looked up from his desk, quill poised mid-air. His black eyes assessed Evander coolly, sharply, as though attempting to read not just the boy's intentions, but the mark of his bloodline behind them.

"Mr. Black," he drawled, setting the quill down. "Sit."

Evander obeyed, legs crossed, spine straight—aristocratic even in posture. His school robes were immaculate, his tie pinned with a modest Black family sigil. He said nothing at first. Neither did Snape. The silence between them was not uncomfortable, but measured, like a weighing of scales.

“I trust your preparation for the O.W.L.s is proceeding without incident?”

“As well as it can,” Evander replied. “The distractions are persistent, but manageable.”

Snape gave the ghost of a smirk. “A diplomatic answer. Your academic record is consistent, though you lean heavily toward the theoretical branches—Arithmancy, Runes, Potions, and Defense. No surprise, given your… upbringing.”

The pause wasn’t weighted. It was a quiet nod toward what both of them understood: ancient families bred for legacy, not careers.

Snape leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Have you given thought to post-Hogwarts plans? Or shall I assume your path is already… prearranged?”

Evander tilted his head slightly, the faintest curve of a smile brushing his lips.

“With respect, Professor,” he said evenly, “my path was charted long before I received my Hogwarts letter.”

Snape inclined his head. He did not ask further.

There was an understanding between them, one layered in subtlety. Snape may have been half-blood by lineage, but his intellect and loyalty to Slytherin House had earned him a certain standing. He knew when to push, and more importantly, when not to.

“You would make a formidable Enchanter,” Snape offered after a moment. “Or a Curse-Breaker. Your work in ward theory is among the best I’ve seen in a decade.”

Evander nodded, thoughtful. “If I were to choose freely, perhaps. But the world I’m expected to inherit does not leave much room for... indulgence.”

There was a pause. Neither of them looked away.

Snape reached for his quill again, making a note on the parchment before him. “I suspect you’ll find that the world expects much from a Black. Particularly now.”

Evander didn’t flinch. “Then let it expect. It always has.”

For a moment, there was only the crackle of fire and the low hum of the dungeons. Then Snape looked up once more, voice quieter.

“Legacy is a cage that dresses like a crown. Be sure, Mr. Black, that you know how to carry both.”

Evander stood, gathering the folds of his cloak as he did. “I never had a choice, sir. But thank you.”

Snape gave the faintest of nods. “Dismissed.”

And with that, Evander left the office—his footfalls echoing down the cold stone corridor. Behind him, the door clicked shut, leaving behind a man who understood more than he let on, and a boy who was no longer just a student, but an heir stepping into shadow.

After his Career Guidance session, the days once again began to bleed together in a monotonous rhythm of ink-stained fingertips, sleepless nights, and murmured incantations echoing through castle corridors. June arrived with the heavy weight of inevitability, bringing with it the long-dreaded O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. examinations. The castle grew tense, cloaked in a collective anxiety that even the walls seemed to absorb. For most students, the exams were the culmination of years of effort. For Evander Black, they were merely another ceremonial checkpoint on a path far more predetermined than he liked to admit.

Yet, the examinations were not the only herald of change that June carried with it.

Whispers rippled through the corridors like a silken thread tugged by unseen hands—the kind of whispers that made portraits lean in and goblets tremble on polished tables. Cassiopeia Black had returned to Britain. After decades spent in reclusive self-exile across the European continent, the sister of Aractrus Black, the last living scion of an older, colder generation of Blacks, was once again walking English soil.

Her arrival was not marked with fanfare or a Ministry escort. That was not the way of the Blacks. But those who mattered, those who watched, who listened, who played the long game, knew what it meant. The end was near. Aractrus, the formidable patriarch whose will had shaped generations of their bloodline, was counting his final days. And where one era prepared to take its last breath, another was being fitted for the mask and mantle of legacy.

Evander had not seen his great-aunt since he was a child, too young to remember anything but the faintest perfume of frost and the way people bowed slightly in her presence, even if she never asked them to. But he remembered her letters. Her warnings. Her sharp, inked observations in delicate script, laced with both affection and cruelty. She had always known he would one day stand at the threshold of inheritance.

And now, that threshold had arrived.

The House of Black was preparing to shift its weight, to breathe again, but in a voice entirely its own. Soon, the ancient family ring would no longer sit cold in a velvet box beside a dying man’s bed. It would find its rightful place in the hands of a boy who was never really allowed to be one.

Lord Black was not a title Evander desired. But it was one the world expected him to become.

And the world, as he had long since learned, did not care much for desire.

Chapter 7: Inheritance and Intrigue

Summary:

As the final breath leaves Aractrus Black, the ancient House of Black mourns the loss of its iron-willed patriarch. But grief allows little time for rest. With his grandfather gone, Evander is thrust into the heart of legacy, now wearing the title of Lord Black—ready or not. Amid veiled condolences and whispered ambitions, the ancestral seat of the Black family stirs once more. Old oaths resurface, sealed contracts cast long shadows, and political vultures begin to circle. Evander must navigate a world where grief is a mask and power is a dangerous game. The lordship is his—but so is the burden of everything it once promised.

Chapter Text

7. Inheritance and Intrigue

When an old legacy dies, a new power must rise—whether he is ready or not.

When Evander left Hogwarts after completing his O.W.L.s, the air was heavy with more than just summer’s breath. He carried with him not the lightness of youth nor the typical relief of examinations concluded, but the pressing awareness that his life—his legacy—was about to transform irrevocably. The mantle of Lord Black awaited him, a title gilded in ancient power, but forged equally in tragedy and relentless expectation. Whether he felt ready or not had never been part of the equation; in the world of old blood and older names, readiness was a luxury few heirs could afford.

He had long understood that his birth was not merely a continuation of the Black line—it was a calculated rebirth of its political relevance. His arrival had drawn Aractrus Black, his grandfather and the House’s last unyielding pillar, back into the tempest of wizarding politics. It was Aractrus who reclaimed their ancestral seat in the Wizengamot and brokered fragile alliances—equal parts tradition and cunning—to ensure the House of Black did not fade into obscurity after the First War.

Together, grandfather and grandson had orchestrated a quiet restoration, steering the House through a treacherous balance of modern diplomacy and ancestral pride. Now, with Aractrus gone, Evander stood alone before a legacy shaped in both their names.

Sometimes, in the quiet hours between duty and thought, Evander allowed himself to wonder: What if Sirius had never turned traitor to their name? What if Regulus had survived, his death not tangled in betrayal and secrets? Would the House have remained fractured, or could it have weathered the storm of war intact? Perhaps, in another world, the Black name would have retained its glory without his birth ever being necessary. But this was the world he had inherited—splintered, politicized, and poisoned by the past.

And in this world, he was now the last son of Black who could still wield its power.

It had been only days since his return to London, but already the corridors of Grimmauld Place echoed with the quiet tension of a crumbling dynasty. Lord Aractrus Black’s health was deteriorating at a pace that left no room for false hope—his departure from this world was not a matter of if, but when. The healers spoke in hushed tones, and the Black family crest above the ancestral hearth burned lower than usual, as though mourning in advance.

Evander, though still mourning in silence, had little time to dwell in sentiment. The machinery of legacy waited for no grief. One by one, he began invoking ancient oaths and rekindling long-dormant alliances under his own name, wearing the mantle of his inheritance like iron armor. In the shadows, however, the old rivalries slithered back into the open.

Lucius Malfoy—ever the silver-tongued opportunist—was once again playing his familiar game of entitlement cloaked in civility. With veiled claims upon ancestral holdings and whispered intentions regarding the Black vaults, he sought to extend his influence, using blood ties as leverage. It was no surprise, then, that even on his deathbed, Lord Aractrus was preparing to formally sever those ties. The disownment of Narcissa Malfoy née Black—his own brother's granddaughter—had been drafted, sealed, and awaited only his final breath.

Narcissa, in turn, fought the decree with the quiet desperation of a woman who had long known the precariousness of her position. Evander, for all his political acuity, found himself torn. He understood the necessity of protecting the House’s autonomy from Lucius’s serpentine grasp, but to lose another Black—especially one so deeply ingrained in the bloodline—was a wound the family could ill afford.

It was Cassiopeia Black, Aractrus’s elder sister and the matriarchal ghost from a bygone era, who entered the fray like a thunderclap. Returned from self-imposed exile in France, she carried the weight of ancient magic and unchallenged reputation. A former disciple of Gellert Grindelwald and a formidable mind in her own right, Cassiopeia did not simply speak—she was ready to declare. Her threats of invoking a blood feud against the Malfoys and the lesser families who supported them were not idle. In a society built on blood and legacy, such a challenge was no different from open war.

And no one, not even Dumbledore himself, had ever dared meet her on the battlefield.

Evander had always known the Black family was woven from darker, sharper threads than most. But only now, standing in the eye of its unraveling storm, did he understand the full depth of that truth. The Blacks did not fade quietly into irrelevance. They were fury in velvet, fire cloaked in tradition—and he, whether ready or not, had become their flamebearer.

It was late in the evening when Evander returned to the ancestral townhouse, the ink still drying on the new alliance contract with the House of Dimitri—an ancient and fiercely independent pure-blood family rooted in the colder reaches of Russian magical society. The negotiations had been delicate, demanding a balance of diplomacy, subtle power plays, and promises carefully phrased. But he had succeeded. With the weight of Dimitri’s support behind him, the Black legacy no longer teetered on the brink of collapse. Even if death came swiftly for Lord Aractrus, the House would not fall. Not under Evander’s watch.

He was only sixteen, but already he had proven himself to be more than a placeholder heir. In the span of mere weeks, he had walked into courtrooms older than most nations, secured blood-bound oaths, and brought rivals to heel with little more than well-placed words. And now, standing in the dim corridor just outside his grandfather’s chamber, he could breathe—for a moment—with the rare satisfaction of having done something not for the Blacks, but as one.

Aractrus Black, frail beneath heavy tapestries and surrounded by the murmuring hum of enchanted machines, looked up as Evander entered. The old man, skeletal and iron-willed to the end, waited as his grandson laid out the day’s successes—every meeting, every signature, every symbolic gesture of power reasserted. For a long moment, the old patriarch said nothing.

Then, he smiled.

And that was how Evander knew something irrevocable had changed.

"You’ve done well, boy," Aractrus said hoarsely, his voice as brittle as dried parchment. "For the first time, you stood not as my heir, but as your own man. And for once… I won’t compare you to Sirius."

That, more than any contract or political victory, struck Evander to the core. Because for all his life, he had lived in the long, blinding shadow of the prodigal son—the one who bore the same grey eyes, the same name etched in the ancestral tapestry now burned away. Sirius Black, the rebel star, the heir-turned-traitor. Even Regulus, who had taken the Dark Mark at sixteen and perished in quiet, futile defiance at eighteen, had spent his short life trying to outshine Sirius and failed.

Aractrus's voice dropped to a low murmur, confessional and grim.

“Sirius… was the heir I was never allowed to shape. He was chaos given a name, born to lead but never to obey. I hated him for his choices. For abandoning our name. But even in exile, he was everything I feared and respected. A natural leader. A Black in heart, if not in conviction. And the world believed he betrayed the Potters...”

He paused, a breath rattling in his chest like dying wind.

“But let me tell you this, Evander—Sirius would have murdered his own mother without blinking. But he would never have betrayed that Potter boy. Not James. Not the child. That friendship…” Aractrus's faded eyes glinted with something old and broken. “It was the only thing he ever held sacred. And perhaps the only thing I ever envied.”

Evander stood still, absorbing the weight of words unsaid—the grudging regret of a patriarch, the buried sorrow of a family sundered by blood and war, and the ghost of a man who, even from prison, had never stopped haunting them all.

In that moment, Evander understood something more painful than any rite of inheritance: he was not simply building a legacy. He was burying a lineage.

Lord Aractrus Black’s voice had grown softer with each passing hour, but his words still held the unmistakable steel of command—the voice of a man who had led his House through decades of political turmoil and blood-soaked legacy. As he lay propped against the high pillows of his carved obsidian bed, his faded grey eyes locked on his grandson’s, sharp and resolute even as death loomed near.

“I know I am placing a heavy responsibility upon your shoulders, my boy,” he rasped, breath shallow, “but I also know you will bear it—not because you have to, but because you must. There is no one else now. No one left.”

Evander remained silent, poised but taut, like a bowstring waiting to snap.

Aractrus gave a faint, bitter smile, one that curled with both pride and the weariness of a life lived through too many wars—some political, others deeply personal.

“You should know,” he continued, “that this isn’t the first time our bloodline attempted to bind with the Potters. My great-grandfather—Sirius Black the Second—entered negotiations with a formidable witch of their house, Charlus Potter’s mother, Euphemia, a born Rosier by blood, and perhaps the last true matriarch in their line. She commanded both the Potters and half the Wizengamot with little more than her voice and quill.”

The old lord’s voice faltered for a second, caught between memory and mortality.

“A marriage alliance was drafted between the lines of war and blood... but it was never fulfilled. Too much pride. Too much loss. Too many ghosts in the room. But I have reopened that contract, Evander. I invoked it—legally, magically, irrevocably. And I did so because I believe it is the only way to restore what was lost, to give the Potters what was stolen and to give you... what you lack but so desperately need.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, before opening them again—clear, deliberate.

“I know what they say. That we, the Blacks, were architects of the war. That we aided the madman who shattered that boy’s life. That the blood on our hands can never be washed away. But I have faith in you, Evander. Faith that you will give that boy the family he never had. And he—” Aractrus exhaled, the sound thin as parchment tearing. “He will be your anchor. Your shield. Perhaps even your redemption.”

His hand, once capable of dueling ten men in his youth, trembled as he reached for Evander’s.

“I am proud of you, my boy,” he whispered, voice almost lost to the stillness of the room. “And I know... I know you will make me proud long after I am gone.”

And with that final breath, the iron-willed patriarch of the House of Black—who had weathered wars, rebuilt alliances, and ruled with unflinching discipline—closed his eyes forever.

Evander did not move. He didn’t weep. Not at first.

Only when a pair of arms—cool, scented faintly of old roses and storm magic—wrapped around his shoulders, did he realize he was no longer alone. His great-aunt, Cassiopeia Black, had entered silently, her presence ethereal and commanding as always. She held him without a word.

And for the first time since his mother’s funeral, Evander allowed himself to feel it—not just the loss of a grandfather, but the weight of legacy settling around his neck like a crown of iron.

He was sixteen.

And now, he was Lord Black.

Chapter 8: The Sealing of Power

Summary:

The ancient halls of Black Manor echo with grief as the funeral of Lord Aractrus Black draws together allies, rivals, and ghosts of the past. In the shadow of mourning, Evander steps into the mantle of Lord Black, bearing not only the family name, but its debts, expectations, and buried secrets. As he is formally invested with his title, he is granted access to the ancestral vault—where the long-forgotten marriage contract with House Potter reveals itself, laced with old magics, binding clauses, and intentions far more complex than he ever anticipated. The path ahead is no longer his alone; fate has been written, and Evander must decide whether to walk it or rewrite it entirely.

Chapter Text

8. The Sealing of Power

A legacy laid to rest. A name inherited. A future bound in ink and ancient magic

The funeral of Lord Aractrus Black was held on the third day after his passing—a day shrouded in mist and mourning, as though even the skies above had dressed in grief. The ancient Black family graveyard, hidden behind wards older than the Ministry itself, stood still in reverence, its iron gates groaning open only for those who bore the weight of legacy in their blood.

Beneath a vaulted canopy of black-veined stone, the ancestral mausoleum had been prepared with exquisite detail. Rare obsidian lilies and enchanted silver roses, flowers of mourning long lost to common wizarding knowledge, adorned the arched alcoves. At the center of the ceremonial altar lay the casket of Lord Black, carved from blackthorn wood, inlaid with runes representing every triumph and sacrifice of his life. Magic hung heavy in the air—old, noble, and unyielding.

The ceremony drew together more than just mourners. Representatives from every prominent family once aligned with House Black arrived in solemn procession: the regal Matriarch of House Selwyn, cloaked in midnight-blue velvet; the stoic elder of House Nott, leaning heavily on a serpent-headed cane; even the elusive Lord Dimitri of the Russian pureblood council, whose silent nod to Evander carried the weight of international alliance. From within the Ministry, Minister of Magic and his senior Under Secretory, Department heads from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Department of International Magical Cooperation attended, their presence a quiet testament to the power Aractrus had once wielded.

Among the mourners stood Cassiopeia Black, his sister, draped in ancient mourning robes that shimmered like spilled ink. Her presence alone stilled murmurs and turned heads. Narcissa Malfoy arrived with a face carved in marble, standing apart from her son Draco and husband Lucius, whose attendance seemed more political than familial.

Evander stood alone at the front, a dark silhouette in tailored mourning attire, the weight of centuries pressing against his spine. As heir, and now Lord Apparent, every glance measured his composure, every whisper questioned his readiness. But his face betrayed no falter—only the steely silence of a boy who had already seen too much.

And as the final rites were whispered in the old tongue, and the ancestral flames rose to receive Aractrus Black into the halls of his forefathers, it became undeniably clear to all in attendance: the age of the former Lord had ended. A new era had begun.

One week after the funeral, Evander stood before the hallowed halls of the Wizengamot. The House of Black had held a seat on this august body since its inception—indeed, the Blacks were not merely participants in magical governance, but among the founding families who had shaped the very framework of the Ministry and its ruling council. The Wizengamot, oldest and most exalted of magical institutions, served as both the supreme legislative assembly and the highest court of law in wizarding Britain. It bore the weight of justice, policy, bloodline preservation, and the binding laws of magical society.

It was a mandate—etched in both magical statute and ancient tradition—that every heir who inherited a noble title must take a public oath of duty and allegiance, proving their lineage upon the Stone of Judgement, an ancient, rune-engraved slab forged in the era of Merlin himself. The stone was not merely ceremonial; it was the primary ward-stone of the entire Wizengamot chamber, humming with centuries of enchantments to detect lies, forged blood, or false claims to lordship.

Evander, not yet sixteen, had arrived at this moment younger than most Lords had ever been summoned to power. But Aractrus Black, with his usual foresight and political precision, had long ago submitted the Emancipation Decree under the High Magical Guardianship Act, legally declaring Evander an adult in the eyes of magical law. As such, there were no barriers to his ascension.

Now, he would walk in the footsteps of giants—his ancestors, who once authored laws, commanded wars, and shaped international alliances. He would be recorded in the Book of Lords as the youngest sitting Lord in more than a century, second only to Lord Selwyn, who ascended to his title at twelve following the extinction of his family line. Like Selwyn, Evander was now the last direct scion of a dynasty both feared and revered. And unlike any who had come before him, he was stepping into a seat still warm from legacy, bearing not only the name of Black—but the burden of all it was yet to reclaim.

Evander stepped into the great chamber of the Wizengamot with the precision of a king entering his court. His robes, dyed a deep, midnight blue, shimmered faintly under the hovering torches, the silver-stitched constellations upon them glowing like embers come to life. They were not mere decoration—they were the celestial map of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, a tapestry of stars from which their children took their names. The belief that the Black bloodline was drawn from the stars themselves was a creed older than the Ministry, older than the castle of Hogwarts. And as he walked forward, the constellations on his back seemed to shimmer in approval.

Upon his middle finger, the Onyx Ring of Dominion, carved from obsidian mined beneath the Isle of Skye and set with the Black family crest, caught the light like a shard of night. It was the same ring once worn by Pollux, Arcturus, and the formidable Phineas Nigellus before them. Its presence alone was a declaration of power.

His spine was unyieldingly straight, his chin lifted in quiet defiance, and his expression was a flawless mask of stillness—emotionless, unreadable, but undeniably commanding. The youngest Lord to enter this chamber in over a century had arrived, and his name was Evander Phoenix Black.

The chamber itself hushed. Conversations faded mid-sentence. The murmurs of clerks and assistants fell away like autumn leaves caught in a windless spell.

The members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, robed in house colors, observed him with various expressions—curiosity, respect, envy. Augusta Longbottom’s lips tightened, her hat nodding slightly. Others—Greengrass, Selwyn, Rosier, Nott—watched with expressions of careful calculation. Their heirs sat beside them, many of whom exchanged hushed words or lingering glances toward Evander.

From the dais at the head of the chamber, Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock and eternal enigma, paused his quiet conversation with Minister Cornelius Fudge, who looked vaguely flustered by the stillness in the room. Dumbledore’s blue eyes, behind half-moon spectacles, settled on Evander with something that hovered between interest and wariness.

The Keeper of Records stepped forward and unrolled a scroll.

“Evander Phoenix Black, Heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black,” the Keeper announced. “By the passing of Lord Arcturus Perseus Black, you now come before this body to assume the Lordship and seat of your House within the Wizengamot. Do you come willingly to swear oath and bind yourself by blood and name to the ancient laws of this council?”

“I do,” Evander replied, his voice calm, steady, and aristocratic—Black to the bone.

“Then place your hand upon the Stone of Judgement, and let your magic speak your truth.”

He stepped onto the elevated platform at the center of the chamber, approaching the dark, ancient slab etched with runes and veins of silver light. It pulsed faintly as he approached, sensing old blood returning to old duty.

Evander placed his right hand on the Stone.

A glow spread beneath his fingers, slow and deliberate, reading the truth of his lineage, the inheritance of his magic, the integrity of his claim. Runes ignited around the edge of the slab—Black, Noble, Justified, Unbroken.

“I, Evander Phoenix Black,” he spoke clearly, his voice echoing, “swear upon my magic and my name, upon the honor of my blood and the bones of my house, that I shall serve the interests of wizarding Britain with clarity, cunning, and loyalty to its ancient laws. I shall guard the legacy of House Black and wield its power not in vanity, but in vigilance. As the Lords before me walked, so shall I walk—with purpose and without fear.”

The Stone flared once—bright, searing—and then quieted.

“Lineage confirmed. Magic accepted. Oath bound,” the Keeper declared.

The chamber stirred again, this time with restrained applause and nods of acknowledgment. There was no pomp here, only weight. Political weight.

The seal of Black had returned.

Evander descended from the platform, his expression as composed as it had been at entry. But now, he was no longer just a young heir. He was a sitting Lord of the Wizengamot, bound to its duties, armed with a vote, an ancestral power, and the ghost of a thousand years walking at his back.

Across the chamber, Dumbledore’s gaze remained fixed on him. And Evander, for the briefest moment, met the old man's eyes—and did not blink.

The murmurs of the chamber quieted as Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore rose to his full, towering height, the tip of his wand glowing a steady, faint blue—an ancient tradition that signified the invocation of official proceedings.

With a voice that had shaped legislation and guided wizarding Britain for over half a century, he asked,
“Does Lord Evander Black have any declaration to place before this council?”
The words echoed with formal weight, reverberating through the chamber like a bell of judgment. Even the marble beneath their feet seemed to still.

Evander remained poised, standing tall upon the Stone of Judgement, the sacred ward-stone that had confirmed his lineage moments prior. His eyes—cold, clear, and unreadable—met Dumbledore’s across the chamber. Then, with a subtle dip of his chin, he acknowledged the question.

The silence tightened.

From the folds of his robes, he summoned an object—not with flourish, but with gravitas. A long, ancient scroll, bound in midnight velvet and sealed with wax bearing the intertwined sigils of House Black and House Potter.

Gasps, restrained and controlled, whispered through the chamber. Eyes widened—some in recognition, others in alarm. Nobles leaned forward. Ministers froze mid-quill. The heads of several Sacred Twenty-Eight families sat up with straightened backs and thinned lips.

Even Dumbledore’s gaze sharpened.

The scroll shimmered faintly, its vellum aglow with a subtle golden light, pulsing not with ink, but with ancient enchantment—Mother Magic’s seal, as old as the universe's starting themselves. That light could not be forged, tampered with, or nullified. It was a sign that the bethrothal contract had been accepted by both Houses’ ancestral wards and sanctioned by the fundamental forces of magical law.

No parchment bore such power unless recognized by the very blood of the signatories.

There were only a handful of such contracts still acknowledged by the Magical Accord of 1286—most were lost, broken, or invalidated. This was not a relic. It was a living document, awakened, sealed, and enforced.

Whispers swirled through the air like smoke:

“Is that the Potter-Black Accord…?”

“But the Potters are nearly extinct…”

“Didn’t the last of them die with the boy’s parents?”

“He invoked the contract? That would mean…”

Dumbledore’s expression, though schooled into perfect neutrality, betrayed the slightest furrow of concern. His eyes flickered toward the scroll—toward the promise of a bond between the most rebellious of pureblood lines and the house whose legacy once stood for resistance and reform.

Evander spoke at last, his voice smooth as silk yet sharp as tempered steel.

“I, Lord Black, do hereby bring to the floor the reactivation of the ancestral alliance forged between the Most Noble House of Black and the Ancient House of Potter—initiated under the authority of Sirius Black II and Rosamund Potter, ratified by magical contract, and sealed under oath to Mother Magic. The contract lay dormant—its terms unfulfilled through the fires of war and the ashes of treachery. My grandfather, Lord Arcturus Black, in his final days, sought its return.”

He lifted the scroll slightly, the golden light intensifying.

“Today, the magic has accepted the bond. The contract is sealed. The heir of House Potter lives. And thus, the alliance lives.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

If the contract stood—if Harry Potter, the so-called Boy Who Lived, was the other named party—then what Evander held in his hand was not just a marriage bond. It was a declaration of unification between legacy and revolution, pureblood supremacy and the chosen exception, past sins and future redemptions.

It was political war wrapped in parchment.

It meant that House Black did not intend to isolate, but to absorb—to entangle itself in the fate of the Potter boy, and perhaps reclaim its place not only as a bastion of blood purity, but as a central player in the shaping of Britain’s magical future.

Eyes turned toward Dumbledore, then back to Evander, who stood unwavering.

In that moment, it was not the wand-light that illuminated the chamber, but the presence of a sixteen-year-old boy who carried the weight of a dynasty, the ghost of his grandfather’s ambition, and the eyes of history all upon his shoulders.

The contract was sealed—sealed by ancient magic, lineage, and law—and there wasn’t a soul in the chamber reckless enough to challenge its legitimacy.

No one, of course, except perhaps Albus Dumbledore.

The Chief Warlock’s composure, legendary as it was, had begun to unravel at the edges. His fingers twitched ever so slightly on the armrest of his high-backed chair, his throat bobbed once—twice—betraying a storm of thoughts behind those infamous half-moon spectacles. And though his smile remained intact, it was thin. Too thin.

It was almost admirable, really—the way he persisted in pretending to hold neutrality while his every breath reeked of righteous defiance and uninvited reform.

Among the Lords and Ladies of the older bloodlines, amusement flickered like shadows dancing along old stone walls. They had seen this before—Dumbledore, the eternal meddler, opposing rites older than the castle itself. He had built a career, after all, on challenging every law, tradition, and magical rite the ancient families held dear. One might think he was trying to erase centuries of custom with little more than wit and whimsy.

And yet, he failed. Repeatedly.

It was almost a tradition of its own—Dumbledore's resistance, followed inevitably by his quiet defeat. He had tried to abolish blood oaths, to nullify ward-bound inheritances, to rewrite ancestral contracts “for the greater good.” His intentions, no doubt, sparkled with moral clarity. His success, however, remained a phantom tale told to gullible Gryffindors.

Now, here he sat, twitching at the sight of a scroll older than his own family tree—a contract blessed by Mother Magic herself, glowing with the light of divine accord. There would be no breaking it. Not by wand, not by word, and certainly not by the passive-aggressive protests of a half-senile idealist with too many titles.

If the great Albus Dumbledore wished to stand against the alliance of Black and Potter, well… let him.

The dark and neutral factions had long since stopped fearing him. They had started, quite frankly, to enjoy watching him lose.

It came as no surprise to anyone in the chamber that Albus Dumbledore harbored an unusual—some might say obsessive—interest in the life of the Boy-Who-Lived. And though placing that very boy into the care of the same house whose banners once flew beside his family’s murderers might have once sparked outcry, no one now dared to challenge the sealed contract. It shimmered with ancient authority, recognized by magic older than the Ministry itself.

Legally, Party A—Evander Phoenix Black—was of age through formal emancipation, ratified by the Wizengamot and reinforced by his inheritance. Party B—Harry James Potter, still underage—was thus bound to the protections and prerogatives granted by the pact. And it would surprise no one that Lord Black, in his poised and methodical manner, was about to make his first decisive move.

He stepped forward, every inch the scion of an ancient house, his voice carrying the clarity of command and the resonance of legacy.

“Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot,” he began, his words falling like weighty stones into the chamber’s silence, “I, Evander Phoenix Black, heir and Lord of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, the bethrothed Dominant as named in the Pact of Concord, and recognized under magical and legislative law, hereby declare the following.”

He paused, the scroll glowing faintly in his hand, the chamber holding its breath.

“Harry James Potter, son of James Fleamont Potter and rightful heir to the Ancient House of Potter, shall henceforth reside under the aegis and formal protection of House Black.”

A murmur stirred through the seats, but none interrupted. Not even Dumbledore.

Evander's eyes, cold and unwavering, swept across the chamber as he continued, “Should any among you wish to raise protest, let them now lift their wands and declare themselves enemies of House Black and of the house magics bound in this union.”

Silence. Unbroken. Unchallenged.

The weight of those words—of that promise, of that threat—hung like a blade above them all. In that moment, it became clear: Evander Black was not merely filling the shoes of his predecessors—he was carving new ones in stone.

And House Black had just claimed the Boy-Who-Lived.

Chapter 9: In the Shadow of Legacy

Summary:

Opposition strikes from the heart of the Wizengamot as Albus Dumbledore stands against the ancient contract binding House Black and House Potter. But Evander Phoenix Black, newly seated Lord and product of centuries of political mastery, does not falter. With the ironclad support of the Sacred Twenty-Eight—even those quietly aligned with Dumbledore—Evander asserts the unbreakable power of legacy, law, and magic. As political tensions simmer beneath the surface, Evander makes his next move: visiting the home of Harry James Potter, the boy fate has bound to him… and the storm they are about to weather together.

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.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

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.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

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.

Chapter 10: A Stranger Wreathed in Stars

Summary:

Harry Potter thought he’d finally grown used to the strangeness of his life—cupboard under the stairs, Dudley’s fists, whispered names he wasn’t allowed to hear. But nothing could prepare him for the arrival of Evander Black: a stranger cloaked in midnight, radiating power and promise. With one knock on Number Four’s pristine door, everything Harry knew about himself begins to unravel.
As their eyes meet for the first time, something ancient stirs between them—subtle, silent, and unsettling. Neither understands it. Neither is ready. But destiny, it seems, has no patience for timing.

Chapter Text

10. A Stranger Wreathed in Stars

Not all bonds are forged in light—some are sealed in silence and magic older than time.

The summer of this year had been, without a doubt, the worst Harry Potter had ever endured—and considering his history, that was saying something. Number Four, Privet Drive, with its manicured hedges and painfully beige walls, might have seemed the picture of middle-class perfection, but to Harry, it was a cage gilded in dullness and disdain.

Magic, the thing that had brought light to his world just a year ago, had become a forbidden word once more. The Dursleys—his aunt, uncle, and cousin—pretended Hogwarts didn’t exist. They pretended he didn’t exist. And when that failed, they reminded him with locked room, cold meals, and too many chores that he was nothing more than an unwanted shadow in their pristine life.

His wand, his books, even Hedwig—everything that belonged to his world—was locked away beneath the stairs, a bitter reminder of the cupboard that had once been his only room. He'd counted the days until letters arrived from Ron or Hermione. He’d waited at the window, night after night. But no owls came. No messages. Just silence.

So he mowed the lawn. Cleaned the windows. Watered the petunias. Endured Dudley’s taunts and Aunt Petunia’s shrill voice. And prayed for school to start again.

Maybe someone heard him. Maybe someone listened.

Because change was coming—just not the kind he expected.

It was the morning of his birthday, though calling it his felt like a stretch. The Dursleys had done a brilliant job of making him feel invisible all summer, and today was no different—just an extra helping of chores and fewer slices of toast. He had already trimmed the hedges, scrubbed the patio, and weeded half the garden by the time he found himself slumped under the half-hearted shade of a spindly bush. His T-shirt clung to him with sweat, and there was dirt under his fingernails.

Dudley was waddling around the lawn, tossing insults like confetti. Something about Harry smelling like fertilizer and being a "lazy lump of magical waste." Harry wasn’t even listening. He was too busy brooding over the real ache in his chest—not one birthday card. Not from Ron. Not from Hermione. Not even from Hagrid. The silence from the magical world stung more than Dudley’s latest snort.

That was when it happened.

With a low, impossibly smooth hum that didn’t belong in the bland suburbia of Privet Drive, a sleek, obsidian-black Rolls-Royce Phantom glided to a stop in front of Number Four. Its finish gleamed like onyx under the morning sun, and its silver embellishments shimmered with something that almost looked... enchanted. Even the air around it felt different, like the car didn’t quite belong to this world—and it knew it.

Dudley gaped so wide Harry briefly wondered if he might unhinge his jaw like a python. He scrambled to the window, knocking over a lawn chair as he stumbled backward in awe. Inside, Aunt Petunia let out a high-pitched shriek as she yanked the floral curtains back and screeched for Uncle Vernon. Harry was still blinking at the car when the driver’s side door opened with a silent sweep.

And he stepped out.

Tall, poised, dressed in charcoal-black robes stitched with faint silver constellations that caught the light like stars—Evander Black. Ice Prince of Hogwarts. Untouchable, unreadable, admired from every corridor and whispered about behind every enchanted tapestry.

Harry’s jaw nearly joined Dudley’s on the ground.

"That’s Evander Black," he muttered aloud to no one. "Slytherin’s Crown Jewel... Hermione practically sighs when he walks by, and Ron glares at his back like it personally insulted his mum."

Harry stood frozen, watching as Evander adjusted his sleeves with all the casual grace of royalty stepping onto a battlefield. And then—for reasons Harry couldn’t yet fathom—those storm-grey eyes landed on him.

Evander stepped out of the Nocturne Phantom with the fluidity of someone bred on etiquette and old magic. The moment his boots touched the cement of Privet Drive, a wave of offense crept up his spine. Merlin’s mercy. The neighborhood was offensively plain—trimmed lawns, painfully beige houses, and nosy curtains twitching in synchronized nosiness. It reeked of mundanity and desperation to be important.

This was the street where Harry Potter—the Boy-Who-Lived, his intended, the future Consort of House Black—had been raised?

It took effort not to wrinkle his nose.

He scanned the lawn for some sign of the boy. For a moment, he feared he’d need to knock on the door of that laughable square house. Then his eyes found him—standing awkwardly beside an atrocity of a cousin, a swollen boy with a piggish face, whose clothes clung to him like sausage casing.

But it wasn’t the cousin that held Evander’s gaze.

It was the boy.

Harry Potter stood small and slim, shoulders tense under oversized, sun-faded rags that passed for clothing. The shirt hung off him like a secondhand curtain, and the jeans were cinched tight with a bit of rope. His frame was delicate, barely filled out, and the skin on his arms looked a shade too pale, a touch too thin. But it was his face—his eyes—that made Evander pause mid-step.

Those eyes were green as fresh basilisk venom, impossibly large on his face and filled with a cocktail of confusion, wonder, and deep-rooted weariness. His hair was a black halo of chaos, sticking in every direction. Beautiful. Unmistakably magical. Utterly out of place in a world this grey.

He was staring at Evander like he wasn’t real.

And for a moment, Evander wasn’t entirely sure he was.

He could feel the eyes of the neighbours burning into his robes. Muggles—curious, clueless, and intrusive. His wand itched against his palm, whispering curses it would love to throw. He exhaled through his nose, controlled the impulse, and reminded himself who he was. A Black. A Lord. And a guest, unfortunately, in the territory of idiots.

With long, effortless strides, he crossed the distance to Harry.

Ten steps. That was all it took to tower over him.

Evander looked down, and for the first time in months—perhaps years—his composure wavered. There was something disturbingly stirring in seeing Harry like this. Vulnerable. Unprepared. Soil-stained fingers. Haunted eyes. And yet, there was a softness that twisted something uncomfortable and foreign in Evander’s chest.

He quelled it quickly.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter," he said, voice smooth and cool like black velvet. He inclined his chin just slightly—the gesture was aristocratic, not condescending—and reached for Harry’s right hand.

So small. So warm. So terribly rough from too much scrubbing and not enough care.

Evander didn’t flinch. He simply lifted it, bowed slightly, and pressed his lips not to the skin, but to the air above it—an old gesture of magical courtesy.

And all the while, he did not break eye contact.

It was tradition. It was ritual.

But the way Harry looked at him—as if he were dream and danger both—it felt like the beginning of something far older than either of them understood.

It was, quite officially, the most confusing morning of Harry’s entire life. His hand still rested in Evander Black’s gloved grip, and for some strange, inexplicable reason, he could feel a traitorous warmth blooming in his cheeks.

Dudley let out a horrified squeal—like someone had stomped on his tail—and stumbled backward with all the grace of an upended pudding bowl. Harry blinked, looked at his cousin, then at Evander, and for a wild, wonderful moment, he honestly wondered if the elegant boy had just transfigured Dudley into an actual pig.

The grin tugging at his lips was impossible to stop.

Evander turned towards the pig-boy with a cool glance that could have frozen butterbeer. His brows lifted slightly, lips curling into the faintest smirk, as if he found the idea of Dudley’s existence personally offensive. Then, still not letting go of Harry’s hand, he turned back toward him.

“Your maternal family, I presume,” Evander said silkily, gesturing ever so faintly toward the front door with his cane-hand.

Harry nodded. Not because he knew what else to do—but because his brain had left the premises.

He was about to blurt something—anything, really—maybe even why is the Ice Prince of Hogwarts standing in my front yard?—when chaos spilled out of the Dursley house.

His aunt and uncle practically tumbled out the door, wearing expressions so violently sweet Harry thought they might curdle the air. Petunia’s face was stretched into a tight, strained smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and Vernon’s moustache twitched like it was preparing for battle.

"You must be Petunia Evans," Evander said in that same even, refined tone—but this time, there was a distinct edge to it. Sharp as a scalpel.

Harry watched his aunt’s face stiffen. She flinched like someone had slapped her with a wet newspaper. No one called her by her maiden name. No one. Not in years. Not in this neighborhood. And certainly not with that particular disdain that made it sound like she was some sort of stain on a family tapestry.

“Harry’s last of blood kin. His maternal aunt. And his guardian in this world,” Evander added, voice clipped, icy with civility.

That did it. Harry saw it—both of them stiffening. Petunia looked like she was chewing thorns and Vernon’s face was going the color of raw ham. They wanted to call Evander a freak. He knew they did. But they didn’t. Because half the neighborhood had appeared behind curtains, peering from windows, mouths agape at the sight of the obsidian Rolls-Royce parked on the street like a magical panther.

“Yes, I am,” Petunia finally said, though her smile was strained and her voice laced with a sharp bitterness she couldn’t quite hide. “Why don’t we go inside and discuss… things?”

That was when everything shifted.

Harry felt it before he heard it—something changing in the air around Evander. It dropped five degrees in the garden, like someone had poured ice water over the sun. Evander's expression didn’t change, not really, but the atmosphere around him snapped taut.

“No,” Evander said.

Just that. One word. But it landed like a slap.

And then—his voice. Sharp, imperious, and for the first time, raised just enough to make Harry’s heart skip.

“Very gracious of you, Miss Evans,” he said, with a sneer so polite it felt like polished daggers. “But I would not step foot in that house—your house—where the likes of you think yourselves worthy of raising a child of magical heritage.”

Petunia flinched. Vernon’s moustache twitched with fury.

“I am Lord Evander Phoenix Black, his legal and magical guardian as of last evening. As you can see,” he gestured calmly to Harry’s hand still in his, “I am here to take him from your… care.”

Harry blinked. Still gripping Evander’s hand. Still stuck between giddy, horrified, and entirely confused.

What is happening.

He watched his aunt’s eyes twitch. Vernon opened his mouth, but for once, found no words. Dudley had long since retreated into the doorway, still staring at Evander like he was about to grow horns and breathe fire.

Harry finally looked back up at the boy beside him.

Evander wasn’t even paying attention to the Dursleys anymore. His gaze was fixed on him. And there was something strange—something soft but unreadable—in those silver eyes. Harry didn’t know what it meant, but it sent a strange flutter across his stomach.

“Would you like to come with me, Mr. Potter?” Evander asked, voice lower now. Gentler, somehow.

Harry swallowed. Looked at the Dursleys. At the ugly house. At the dusty garden tools and the ancient hose and the front door that still had a crack from where Dudley once slammed it during a tantrum.

Then he looked back at Evander Black.

“I’d like that,” he said simply.

And as Evander led him to the sleek, magical Rolls-Royce, Harry thought—somewhere between the thrill and the terror—that perhaps his life had just taken a turn he would never recover from.

And he wasn't sure if that was a good thing or the most dangerous thing of all. And still he wanted to leave this house for good.

Harry had never seen the inside of a Rolls-Royce before—let alone this one. As Evander opened the door and gently guided him inside, the first thing Harry noticed was the scent: something like fresh parchment and cold rain, mixed with a warm hint of sandalwood that made him feel oddly calm. The leather seats were black, but not dull—shimmering, almost like starlight was woven into the stitching. Tiny constellations sparkled in the ceiling above, twinkling like real stars, and when the door closed behind him with a soft click, the outside world vanished, swallowed in a peaceful silence. The floor was charmed to adjust to his feet, the air inside smelled expensive and ancient, and there were buttons and runes he couldn’t even begin to understand lining the doors and panels. For a moment, Harry didn’t even remember to breathe. This wasn’t just a car. This was a carriage fit for kings—or at least, someone like Evander Black. He sat with his hands in his lap, afraid to touch anything, wide-eyed and certain that even blinking too loudly might get him ejected from the seat. But when he glanced at Evander—who merely raised an elegant brow and passed him a silver-glass bottle of chilled pumpkin juice—Harry grinned, small and shy. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he had stepped into a different world. And maybe, just maybe, it was a world where he belonged.

The ride was nearly silent—not awkward, but weighted with something Harry couldn't name. Outside the tinted glass, the world blurred into a soft rush of grey skies and trimmed hedgerows, but inside the car, everything felt too smooth, too quiet, too... grand. Harry had never known such stillness, as though the very air had manners.

When the car slowed at the edge of Magnolia Crescent, he sat up straighter, half-thinking they might’ve taken a wrong turn. He turned to ask Evander, but before a word could leave his lips—bam—it felt like his entire body had been yanked through a garden hose. The air vanished, the world twisted, and Harry barely had a second to panic before they were elsewhere.

He stumbled, gasping, his stomach doing somersaults, and his throat clenching tight. His knees threatened mutiny, and he very nearly doubled over—until a gloved hand slid something cool beneath his nose. A crystal bottle, elegant and ancient, hovered in front of him. Evander didn’t say a word. He merely raised one perfect eyebrow in a way that was far too regal for someone their age.

Harry drank without thinking, the liquid sharp and citrusy, fizzing down his throat like magic itself. In seconds, the nausea vanished, replaced by a soothing warmth that spread to his fingertips. He blinked at Evander, dazed. "Thanks," he mumbled.

“No trouble,” Evander replied smoothly, as if ferrying woozy twelve-year-olds through magical wormholes was just part of his Tuesday.

And then the door beside him opened—and Harry forgot to breathe.

Black Manor stood like a living monument. Towering spires reached for the sky, carved from dark stone that shimmered in the light like obsidian threaded with silver veins. Ivy climbed its grand façades like green lace, and stained-glass windows glowed with soft enchantments. Winged serpents curled in iron along the gates, and two stone thestrals flanked the massive entrance doors, their eyes glowing faintly blue.

Harry had never seen anything like it. It wasn’t just a house—it was history and magic and power forged into a castle. A heartbeat passed before he realized Evander had stepped out and was waiting, not impatiently, but quietly—like he understood Harry needed a moment.

"You live here?" Harry finally whispered, wide-eyed as he climbed out, the gravel crunching beneath his oversized shoes.

Evander gave a faint smile, not unkind. "It’s home. And now, it’s yours too."

Harry didn't know what to say to that. But as the gates of Black Manor creaked open and the warm golden light of the entrance spilled across the drive like a welcome, something inside his chest bloomed—nervous, but strangely... safe.

Maybe, just maybe, this wasn't going to be a terrible summer after all.

Chapter 11: Of Velvet Halls and Blood-Bound Promises

Summary:

Harry steps into the Black Manor—a place stitched with legacy, whispers, and luxury he never imagined for himself. Greeted not just with grandeur, but with an unsettling warmth, he begins to understand the weight of the contract that binds him to Evander. In a private moment beneath the ancient chandeliers, truths are shared, doubts are voiced, and the strange spark between them begins to flicker. Yet even amid cake and candlelight, Harry can’t shake the feeling that his life has changed forever—and not just because of the velvet sheets and golden goblets.

Chapter Text

11. Of Velvet Halls and Blood-Bound Promises

A birthday wrapped in silk, shadows, and the slow unraveling of fate.

Harry, who had been utterly stunned just by the exterior of Black Manor—its soaring spires, looming iron gates, and walls dressed in ivy like a crown of old magic—was wholly unprepared for what awaited inside.

The moment he stepped through the grand arched doors, he froze.

The entrance hall alone could swallow the entire Dursley house twice over. Polished obsidian floors gleamed so perfectly they mirrored the vaulted ceilings above, which were enchanted to resemble a twilight sky with stars that shimmered and slowly moved across like the heavens themselves were watching. The chandelier—no, not a chandelier, a celestial sculpture of black diamond and smoky crystal—hung above like a constellation, dripping light that looked like melted moonlight.

His trainers squeaked softly against the ancient floors, and he winced, feeling like a muddy child stumbling into a sacred temple. Dark mahogany pillars rose like sentinels along the hall, carved with serpents, winged beasts, and arcane runes that shifted ever so slightly when he wasn’t quite looking at them.

Everywhere he turned, there were signs of a bloodline older than Britain itself—paintings of proud, regal witches and wizards watched from gilded frames with eyes that followed movement; ancestral tapestries hung like royal banners, threads of silver and emerald glinting under the spell-wrought lights. There were suits of armor charmed to bow slightly as they passed, and portraits that whispered behind their hands as Evander walked beside Harry, spine straight and expression carved from marble.

Even the scent in the air was strange—warm oak, old parchment, dark spices, and something like winter—faint and sharp, as if the house carried its own memory of the centuries it had survived.

“It’s… it’s like a palace,” Harry breathed out before he could stop himself, staring up in awe as they passed an enormous staircase that split in two directions like a great serpent’s tongue. He could swear the railings were inlaid with serpentine emeralds.

Evander tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching as if amused by Harry’s wonder. “A palace would blush,” he said, voice cool but not unkind. “This is the ancestral heart of House Black. Everything you see here was built not for royalty—but for power.”

Harry barely registered the words. His fingers itched to touch things he shouldn’t—the velvet-draped chairs, the gleaming sconces that lit themselves as they moved, the intricately inlaid floor mosaics that told stories in silver and stone. Even the air felt heavier here, like magic was pressed into the very walls.

It was terrifying. And beautiful. And nothing like Number Four.

For the first time in his life, Harry felt… small in a way that wasn’t entirely bad. Small like a boy who had just stumbled into the pages of an ancient legend and wasn’t sure if he was the hero or a footnote.

Evander, who had been gliding ahead like some sort of smug royal specter, finally came to a halt near the fireplace. He gestured gracefully toward a luxurious armchair, its fabric so rich it looked like it could whisper family secrets.

Harry plopped down awkwardly, sinking far too deep into the cushions and feeling very much like a scruffy garden gnome in the throne room of a king.

Then Evander called, in that same smooth, aristocratic tone, “Rex.”

With a sharp pop, something strange appeared in the room—definitely not creature he has read in books. No, this one had unnervingly large yellow eyes, skin like wax paper left in the rain, and wore what looked like a tea towel-turned-toga, proudly embroidered with a swirling silver crest Harry didn’t recognize.

Rex bowed low to Evander, and then again to Harry. “Master is calling for Rex, and Rex is coming, sir!” the creature squeaked, voice high and gravelly with age.

And that’s when it happened.

Evander, completely unaware of the social equivalent of detonating a magical landmine, gestured toward Harry and said smoothly, “Rex, I would like to introduce you to your future madam. House Black’s consort, my intended, and the Lady of the House.”

Harry blinked.

Then blinked again.

Did he—? Did he just—?

Did that pompous, insufferable, too-handsome-for-his-own-good peacock just call him madam?

His face flushed with heat—not the nice kind. The red alert, you're about to explode kind.

"Lady?" Harry muttered under his breath, voice sharp enough to cut steel. "Lady? I am not a lady, you arrogant twit."

Evander didn’t hear him. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care, which was possibly worse. He turned back to Rex, completely composed. “Make sure the items retrieved from his former residence are placed properly. Prepare the bath and the east wing room. Consort Black will be arriving shortly.”

Rex gave a delighted squeak and bowed again. “Rex is doing what young Master asks! Consort Harry’s room is already being polished and blessed, yes it is! Oh, Mistress Cassiopeia will be dancing when she hears!”

Harry shot out of the chair, fists balled at his sides. “Okay, hold on. Hold on.”

Evander turned toward him slowly, one brow raised like he’d just been interrupted in the middle of a Latin opera.

Harry glared. “Let’s make one thing clear, Ice Prince. I am not your madam. I am not your lady. And I am not some parcel being shipped around and unpacked!”

There was a silence. Even Rex looked mildly alarmed and took a cautious step back.

“Harry Potter is shouting at young Master?” Rex whispered in awe. “But—but young Master Evander is being very kind to be choosing pretty Consort...”

“I am not his bloody consort!” Harry barked.

“I may be small,” he continued, chest puffed with righteous twelve-year-old fury, “but I’m not some helpless flower you can toss into a fancy bath and drape in silk robes. I have questions. Lots of them. Like why you showed up in a bloody Rolls-Royce and announced I’m your what? Intended? What does that even mean? Who signed me up for this? And more importantly—why wasn’t I asked?!”

Evander, to his credit, blinked. Once.

Then sighed softly, like someone forced to explain to a toddler why gravity exists.

“Mr. Potter,” he began, in the tone of a diplomat who’s just realized they’ve stepped in dragon dung, “perhaps we should begin our discussion regarding the contract now—preferably with tea.”

“Tea won’t fix the fact you called me a madam,” Harry snapped.

Evander looked him up and down, then turned away with the faintest of smirks. “You didn’t seem to mind when I kissed your hand.”

Rex squeaked in glee. “Young Master Evander is being so romantical! Rex will fetch tea and calming biscuits for future Mistress!”

Pop! Rex wisely vanished with a pop before the first pillow could be thrown.

It took three pillows, two mugs of tea and lots of coxing and interference of wise great-aunt when the twelve years old Consort of House Black was somewhat calmed and was ready to listen what the master of house wanted to speak.

Evander leaned back slightly in his carved ebony armchair, fingers resting on the gold-inlaid arms like some young monarch preparing for a royal decree. Across from him, Harry sat curled up in a massive tufted armchair that looked like it could swallow him whole, clutching a cup of hot cocoa with both hands like it was the last surviving comfort in a very confusing world.

Between them sat Cassiopeia Black, wrapped in midnight-green robes that shimmered like ink in candlelight. She looked disturbingly entertained, sipping her tea as if she were at a particularly juicy opera.

Evander cleared his throat. Once. Twice. Like he was bracing himself for the emotional storm of explaining magical law to a child raised by literal trolls.

“Mr. Potter,” he began, voice as calm and measured as a history textbook. “As I stated earlier, I was named your magical and legal guardian just yesterday. The arrangement stems from a magical alliance—”

“A what alliance?” Harry asked, brow furrowed. He had cocoa on his upper lip.

Evander blinked, already regretting his life choices.

“A magical alliance,” he said again, slower, as though that would somehow help. “It’s a binding contract formed generations ago between House Potter and House Black. The terms were sealed magically—”

“Wait, wait,” Harry interrupted, waving a hand. “People can... make deals with babies before they’re even born?”

“Technically, yes,” Evander replied coolly. “In this case, the contract was designed so that if both houses were ever reduced to a single heir, and one was... neglected or endangered—”

“You mean left with the Dursleys?” Harry asked flatly.

Cassiopeia snorted into her tea.

Evander gave a slight, diplomatic nod. “Yes. The contract would trigger. And thus, custody would be transferred to the stronger magical house.”

Harry blinked. “So you just... got me? Like a weird prize?”

“Well, not got you. Acquired custodial rights over your welfare and magical development,” Evander said, with a little too much dignity.

Harry squinted at him. “Still sounds like you got me.”

Evander sighed and sipped his tea like he needed whiskey instead. “The contract also contains a... matrimonial clause.”

Harry choked on his cocoa. “A what?”

Cassiopeia cackled, absolutely no help whatsoever.

“It’s not uncommon,” Evander said, rubbing his temples. “In ancient wizarding families, inter-house magical alliances are solidified through bloodline bonds—”

“You mean marriage?!”

“Yes.”

Harry stared at him. “I’m twelve. You’re, like, sixteen. This is weird. This is very weird.”

“I never said we’d be married now,” Evander said with forced calm. “It is simply... a betrothal. An engagement. You are my intended.”

Harry’s mouth opened and closed like a stunned goldfish. “So... that’s why you called me Lady. And Consort. And had a room made for me.”

“Yes.”

“And why your elf called me Mistress.”

Evander winced. “Yes.”

Harry blinked several times. Then muttered, “Brilliant. Just brilliant. I go from a cupboard under the stairs to being someone’s future husband in less than a week.”

Cassiopeia set down her teacup and clapped once, delighted. “Oh, this is much more entertaining than the last arranged marriage in the family. That one ended in three hexes and a kneazle bite.”

Harry turned to her. “Do I even get to say no?”

Evander looked almost pained now. “You do, yes. Technically. But it would dissolve the alliance and possibly trigger magical backlash. You might also lose access to the protections and wealth of House Black.”

“So... basically no,” Harry muttered.

“Let’s think of it as a strong magical suggestion,” Cassiopeia offered helpfully.

Harry narrowed his eyes at Evander. “You could’ve just explained all this at the beginning, instead of going around calling me Lady of the House like some tragic Victorian bride.”

Evander gave a long-suffering sigh. “I tried. But then you started yelling about hand-kissing and silk robes.”

Harry muttered, “You kissed my hand without warning. Of course I yelled.”

There was a pause.

Then, quietly, Harry added, “Does this mean I get my own room? Like... with windows?”

Evander blinked. “You have the east wing.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “Cool. Still weird. But cool.”

Cassiopeia raised her teacup in salute. “To young love, ancient contracts, and traumatized orphans.”

Evander and Harry both groaned.

The hallways of Black Manor were a maze of gilded portraits, shifting tapestries, and enchanted chandeliers that lit up in whispering blues and golds with each step Harry took. The floor beneath his feet felt warmer than expected, the thick obsidian tiles veined with soft threads of magic that shimmered faintly under the candlelight.

Rex, the strange little elf with sunken eyes and an overly solemn voice, led the way with his hands politely folded in front of him. “Master Evander is saying it is being made perfect for young Master Potter, yes he is,” Rex croaked with something like pride. “Rex is making sure of that. Rex is not letting Mistress Cassiopeia choose pink wallpaper again, no-no!”

Harry, still not used to being called “Master” anything, mumbled, “Er... thanks, Rex.”

When the door to the east wing finally opened, Harry blinked rapidly and took two full steps back.

It wasn’t a bedroom.

It was an entire miniature palace.

The bed alone could have easily housed the entire Dursley family—with a separate corner for Aunt Petunia’s guilt. Four tall carved posts of obsidian wood rose into graceful arches overhead, shimmering with hanging silks enchanted to resemble star-strewn skies. Curtains embroidered with runes in silver thread fluttered slightly despite the lack of breeze.

Soft rugs sprawled across the floor like cloud-pelt. There were bookshelves enchanted to rotate at a touch, a balcony that overlooked the rose garden and hidden aviary, and a fireplace with a crackling lavender-blue flame.

“Is... is this my room?” Harry asked faintly.

“Yes, young Master,” Rex said with a polite bow. “Designed for comfort and magical growth. Includes warded trunks, wardrobe charms, and a personal owl perch, should young Master wish to adopt one.”

Harry barely heard the last bit. He was too busy gawking at the enchanted ceiling that now displayed a drifting constellation shaped suspiciously like a winged lion.

“Would young Master be ready for the cleansing rituals now?” Rex added gently.

“Uh. Cleansing what?”

Before Harry could properly panic, two other elves popped in—identical in size, both wearing neat little waistcoats. One held a long wand-like stick that gave off a gentle mist; the other held what looked like a floating tray of glittering potions, oils, and towels that smelled like warm rain and lavender.

Rex gave a sage nod. “First magical cleansing is tradition for new Lords and Consorts of Ancient Houses. Removes lingering muggle grime, magic-blocking impurities, and unacceptable hair patterns.”

Harry blinked. “Wait—what?”

He didn’t get to say more before he was very politely levitated by magic (with great gentleness, at least), and ushered into a bathing chamber that would’ve made even the mermaids cry.

The bath was a sunken pool of steaming, shimmering water laced with pale golden magic. The walls were carved marble with soft lighting, the ceiling a dome of enchanted glass showing a gentle night sky. A dozen taps shaped like mythical creatures waited silently, each dispensing a different potion or magical essence.

The moment Harry dipped in, the water wrapped around him like silk.

And then—things got interesting.

One of the elf assistants waved a misting wand, releasing a perfume of citrus and mint. As Harry sat blinking, dozens of microbubbles danced across his skin, slipping into pores he didn’t even know existed. There was no scrubbing, no tugging—just a surreal sense of his skin being gently polished cell by cell.

Another elf hummed while applying a pale cream to Harry’s arms, legs, and—well, everywhere else. The cream tingled for a moment and then, with the smallest shimmer, every speck of body hair vanished.

Permanently.

“Wait, permanently?!” Harry squeaked, arms flying to cover... well, everything.

Rex tutted from the doorway. “Of course, young Master. Smooth skin befits Consort Black. Hair is for wild wizards and unfortunate werewolves.”

Harry gave an undignified squawk.

A final rinse soaked through him with a pearlescent shimmer, and then a thick cream that smelled like vanilla and something warm and safe was massaged onto his skin. All the scars—every knick from the Dursleys, every hidden scratch from under the stairs—vanished in quiet sparkles, like they had never existed.

When Harry stepped out, he felt lighter, cleaner, and almost unnaturally soft. Like a sentient silk pillow.

One of the elves handed him a mirror.

“Oh my Godric,” Harry whispered.

His skin glowed faintly, as if lit from within. His curls looked shinier than ever. His face was no longer grimy or tired-looking—he looked like the cover model of some Wizarding teen magazine Evander probably mocked in his spare time.

“I’m a boiled egg,” Harry mumbled. “A very clean, very smooth, fancy boiled egg.”

Rex beamed. “You are being glorious, young Master.”

Chapter 12: Of Stolen Birthdays and Gilded Nights

Summary:

Harry’s twelfth birthday begins not with neglect, but with grandeur. Under the stern yet indulgent eye of Cassiopeia Black, he is showered with rare gifts, fine food, and affection he has never known. As etiquette lessons begin, Harry struggles hilariously to balance soup spoons and wizarding titles—but Evander watches every stumble with an unreadable gaze.

Chapter Text

12. Of Stolen Birthdays and Gilded Nights

A candlelit cake, a courtly bow, and a boy slipping quietly into the world he was always meant to rule.

When Harry emerged from the bath, skin soft as satin and glowing like he’d swallowed a star, he felt… surreal. The silk robes Rex had chosen draped over his frame like they’d been spun by moonlight itself—lightweight, flowing, impossibly soft. A thin golden embroidery curled at the hems in ancient, curling runes he couldn't read but somehow felt. The mirror in his suite, enchanted to offer honest appraisals, had gone silent for three whole seconds before whispering, “Exquisite.”

His messy hair—always a wild halo of defiance—now fell in artful waves, brushed and coaxed by elven magic into something that framed his face with elegant rebellion. The curls behind his ears refused to obey, and honestly, he liked them that way. His old, bent glasses were gone—replaced by delicate, gleaming gold-rimmed ones that adjusted themselves every time he blinked. His eyes looked greener, brighter. Sharper. For the first time in forever, Harry didn’t mind looking at himself. He looked like a storybook prince pretending to be a commoner. Or maybe the other way around.

He followed the soft-padded steps of a house elf through corridors of intimidating luxury—walls lined with ancient tapestries that shimmered in candlelight, portraits with moving, whispering faces, and a ceiling enchanted to mimic the star-strewn night above the Black estate. The heavy double doors to the dining hall opened, and Harry stepped into a scene straight from an old pureblood fairytale.

The Black dining hall was magnificent. The ceiling rose high in arched stone curves, glittering with softly glowing chandeliers. Long black banners lined with silver thread fluttered gently, even though there was no wind. The table was carved obsidian, polished until it reflected the firelight like glass. The silverware was engraved with the Black crest, and the plates—fine bone china—glimmered with runes too faint to read but thrumming with magic. At the far end, beneath a mantle of black marble and enchanted fire, Evander sat like he belonged to the very stones that built this place.

Evander Black was already in his seat when Harry entered, speaking lowly to his great-aunt Cassiopeia. But the moment Harry stepped through the threshold, Evander’s words faltered. It was barely noticeable—his voice caught midsentence, breath paused, and then slowly exhaled like he’d forgotten there was someone listening. His gaze swept across the hall and settled on Harry with unnerving intensity. For a few seconds, he didn’t blink. His pale eyes trailed from Harry’s face to the silk draping his form and stopped at the green glint of his glasses—his jaw tightened for just a second before he masked it, giving only a formal nod. But Harry saw it. He felt it.

It made his stomach twist in the strangest way.

Across the table, Cassiopeia Black, regal in deep violet robes trimmed with silver thread, turned and took him in with a long, appraising gaze. Unlike Evander, she allowed a small smile to bloom at the edges of her mouth. There was something fierce in her eyes—like she was seeing more than just a boy. She inclined her head, a gesture of approval Harry didn’t quite know how to respond to.

An elf pulled out the chair across from Evander, and Harry took it with quiet grace, though every inch of him wanted to fidget. The seat was plush, the armrests cold with polished stone, and for a dizzy second, he thought—I don’t belong here.

But then he remembered the way his reflection looked at him earlier, the way Evander’s words had faltered, and how this chair had been pulled for him. He straightened his back just a little.

No, maybe he didn’t belong yet—but he was here.

And he was going to make damn sure they all remembered it.

As Harry settled onto the plush chair across from Evander, the table before him sprang to life. Dishes shimmered into existence, steaming with fragrant enchantments—roasted meats, glazed vegetables, delicate pastries, and sauces that glowed with faint magical auras. For a wild moment, Harry felt like he was back at Hogwarts, seated at the Gryffindor table under the enchanted ceiling, surrounded by laughter and comfort. Only this time, it wasn’t a school feast. This was… something else. This was for him.

The food seemed too much for just the three of them. Plates kept arriving in elegant rhythm—bowls of sugared fruits, floating tureens of golden soup, pitchers pouring themselves into crystal goblets. It was decadent, overwhelming, and oddly warm.

But it was the cake that stunned him into stillness.

It appeared in a soft burst of golden light, dead center on the table. A towering confection of impossibly rich chocolate, wrapped in silk-thin layers of fondant, topped with delicate gold-scripted lettering that read: Happy Birthday, Harry James Potter. It looked like it belonged in a royal banquet. Harry simply stared at it.

He hadn’t realized his hands had stopped moving. He hadn’t even noticed the weight of breath that caught in his chest until—

“Happy Birthday, Mr. Potter,” said Evander.

The voice was low, smooth, and soft in a way that didn’t quite match the sharp precision of his usual tone. And Harry—Merlin help him—blurted without thinking, “Just call me Harry.”

The words were out before his mind could even process them. Across the table, something subtle shifted. Evander didn’t smile—he was too composed for that—but a flicker of amusement touched his eyes like starlight behind glass.

“So be it,” Evander said. “Happy Birthday, Harry.”

And gods, that did something strange to his chest. It had been so long since anyone had said that name—his name—with softness. With weight.

Harry blinked once. Then again. His throat tightened in a way he hadn’t expected. He hadn’t even remembered it was his birthday until just now. Not after everything—the ride, the Manor, the bath, the endless swirl of new information and strange rules and the constant urge to not look out of place.

“I thought… everyone forgot,” he admitted softly.

From her seat, Cassiopeia raised a goblet filled with rich red liquid and regarded him with eyes as ancient as magic itself. “Happy Birthday, Consort Black,” she said clearly, her voice formal and firm with tradition. “May your new year bring clarity, power, and recognition.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “C-Consort Black…?”

He looked from her to Evander, who was already holding his glass loosely, tilted slightly in Harry’s direction.

“She’s not teasing,” Evander said mildly. “And neither am I.”

Harry flushed crimson. He keeps saying that word, he thought wildly. And still, beneath the confusion and embarrassment, his chest ached with something oddly warm. Not even the Dursleys had ever done something like this. No one had.

“I—thank you,” Harry said, trying to make his voice sound normal, but it cracked anyway. He cleared his throat. “Really. Thank you.”

Evander nodded once, and then, as if sensing the perfect timing, added with serene detachment, “Also, the gifts have been placed in your room. The elves followed traditional protocol. You’ll find parcels and letters from several members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, as well as certain allied families under House Black’s sphere. Some of your school friends have sent things too.”

Harry stared at him, utterly blank.

“Sacred what?” he asked.

Cassiopeia made a sharp, amused hum behind her goblet.

Evander blinked once, slowly. “You truly have no understanding of wizarding society, do you?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Charming,” Cassiopeia said.

Evander ignored her. “The Sacred Twenty-Eight are the oldest pureblood families in Britain,” he said, as though explaining something to a child—which, technically, he was. “You’ll understand in time. For now, suffice it to say, they do not give gifts lightly. And certainly not to someone they don’t consider politically significant.”

“But I haven’t done anything—”

“You exist,” Evander interrupted, voice suddenly more steel than silk. “You are.”

Harry blinked again, staring down at the cake. The flickering candlelight danced across the tablecloth, and somewhere deep in his chest, something cracked open—quietly, gently. For the first time, he wasn’t just allowed to be present. He was meant to be here.

He looked up and gave a small smile—timid, but real. “Do I get to eat it?”

Evander leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers. “You’re the guest of honor, aren’t you?”

Harry reached for the knife, his heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with sugar and everything to do with belonging.

The rest of the dinner unfolded in a stately rhythm that left Harry feeling as if he were watching a well-rehearsed play—one where he had accidentally wandered onto the stage without a script.

He sat quietly, hands folded in his lap, occasionally sipping at his hot cocoa while trying not to look too bewildered. The conversation between Cassiopeia and Evander flowed around him like water he couldn’t quite grasp. Their words were sharp, polished, deliberate. Topics shifted from estate holdings to family alliances, ongoing Ministry disputes, and ancestral feuds with the kind of detached ease only those born into power could manage.

Harry caught snatches—names he didn’t know, words like “economic leverage,” “marriage contracts,” “continental alliances,” and “ministerial influence.” It felt like he was in a very elegant game of gobstones, only instead of goo in the eyes, the stakes were ancient bloodlines and political power. And honestly? He didn’t care. He was full. He was warm. And for once, no one was glaring at him for breathing too loudly.

Just as he finished the last of his cocoa, the plates vanished with a whisper of magic.

Cassiopeia turned to him then, her wine glass still elegantly poised between her fingers. She had the kind of beauty that didn’t fade with age—sharp cheekbones, ink-black eyes that glittered like obsidian, and a presence that demanded attention without ever raising her voice. Even in silence, she wore her history like a crown.

“Mr. Potter,” she said, her tone crisp, each syllable gliding like a dagger in silk, “tomorrow morning, your formal training will begin.”

Harry blinked. “Training?”

“Indeed,” she said, as if he had asked whether the sun would rise. “You are no longer a child lost in the margins. You are the future consort of the Ancient and Noble House of Black. As such, you will be expected to act, speak, walk, and carry yourself accordingly.”

Harry opened his mouth, thought better of it, and took another sip of cocoa.

Cassiopeia’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “Two instructors will arrive after breakfast. One for classical wizarding etiquette. The other will focus on formal dancing. You will learn our customs, courtly behavior, and public presentation.”

“Wait,” Harry said, “dancing?”

Evander raised a single brow but didn’t comment. Cassiopeia did not smile, but the edge of her voice turned dry.

“You are to attend the Ministry’s Summer Gala in two weeks,” she said. “Not as the Boy-Who-Lived. Not as a wayward orphan from a Muggle suburb. But as the betrothed of the Black heir. As the future Consort of House Black.”

She let the words settle like heavy dust over velvet. Harry stared at her.

“But—I—I didn’t agree to—”

“No,” she interrupted smoothly, “but your ancestors did. Magic remembers. And so do we.”

Harry sank back slightly in his chair, utterly floored. Betrothed? Dance lessons? Consort?

It was too much. Too formal. Too surreal. It felt like he had stumbled into someone else’s fairytale—and somehow become the prince’s mysterious, unwanted bride.

He looked to Evander, hoping for some kind of reprieve. But the older boy merely watched him with a calm, unreadable expression—one hand resting on the armrest, the other still holding his glass. He looked like someone who had expected this silence from Harry.

“I… I don’t even know what that means,” Harry admitted finally, voice small but honest. “What does a consort do?”

Cassiopeia took a sip of her wine and gave him a look that was both indulgent and unyielding.

“You represent legacy,” she said. “You stand beside power without ever bowing to it. And you will learn. That is all that matters.”

Harry swallowed hard. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a small, rebellious voice muttered that he was probably going to end up hexing someone before this was all over.

The dinner had been delicious—far beyond anything Harry had ever tasted in his life. But it was the conversation afterward that left a tight knot in his stomach.

Cassiopeia Black had gone on with her quiet, cool authority, painting a picture of what it meant to be a Consort of House Black. With every passing sentence, Harry had felt the invisible chains of expectation loop tighter around his shoulders. Titles. Traditions. Appearances. Responsibilities. Duties. The weight of it all sat heavier than a dragonhide cloak soaked in rain.

By the time he was allowed to leave the dining room, Harry’s head was spinning.

Mippy, the newly appointed personal elf—whose voice was even more squeaky and excitable than Dobby’s—popped beside him and eagerly offered to escort him back to his chambers. Harry followed her numbly, only half-listening as she bounced ahead, rattling off everything prepared for "young master Consort."

His room, when the door opened, had dimmed slightly to a warm candlelight glow—but that wasn’t what caught Harry's eye.

It was the pile.

Correction: the mountain of gifts.

The entire sitting area in front of the hearth had disappeared beneath towers of brightly wrapped boxes. Some shimmered with charmwork. Some glowed. Some had moving illustrations on the wrappings. One particularly large box had sleek, inky paper that hummed with runes. Harry blinked. Dudley would have cried out of pure envy.

He approached slowly, as though the presents might explode if he stepped too fast. His silk pajamas whispered against the marble floor. He hadn't expected this—any of this. He hadn’t even remembered it was his birthday until Evander had wished him at dinner.

“Master Consort, sir!” chirped Mippy, practically vibrating beside him. “These is all for young Master—House Black’s allies sent these, yes, yes! And friends of young Master too—though most were vetted by Lady Cassiopeia, of course, to ensure proper intentions. Elves did the sorting, yes!”

Harry opened the first gift in reach—a golden snitch motif wrapping paper with silver ribbon. Inside was a robe. Not a plain one either. This was something that probably cost more than every outfit he’d ever owned. The fabric felt like it was woven from moonlight. His name was stitched into the collar. There was a note, written in curling gold ink: “To the Consort of House Black—Welcome to your rightful place. — Mr. Patrick Twiffling.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Twiffling…?” he muttered, turning the tag over like it would explain more. Mippy popped in helpfully, “Master Twiffling is a very wealthy fashion lord, sir! Sells robes to half the Wizengamot!”

He sat down on the floor, cross-legged, trying to make sense of the avalanche of luxuries around him.

Box after box revealed more—elegant seasonal cloaks embroidered with subtle runes, dragonhide boots soft as butter, a custom wand holster stitched with Black family crests, bottles of perfume with enchanted scents, antique potion vials, healing salves from Healer families, and books—real, rare books—some so old they were written in faded runic ink with protective charms laced into the spine.

Another box revealed a gleaming silver hairbrush set with emeralds. Harry stared at it for a good minute. He wasn’t even sure he brushed his hair properly.

More gifts. Jewelry inlaid with lapis and onyx. Pocket-sized mirrors that whispered compliments in French. Bottles of skin elixirs and beauty potions promising to “preserve ethereal youth.” A note from someone named Lady Selwyn read: “A consort must dazzle at first glance. Do not disappoint.”

He let out a breath that turned into a bewildered laugh.

All this for him?

He was still the same boy who used to sleep in a cupboard and wear Dudley’s cast-offs. Who had once been thrilled just to find a broken toy soldier in the rubbish. This… this felt like he had stepped into someone else’s life.

And it wasn’t just overwhelming. It was uncomfortable.

The extravagance wasn’t the problem—it was what it represented. Every gift, every perfect box, every engraved note reminded him of one thing: they all expected something from him.

“You must remember,” Cassiopeia had told him earlier, eyes sharp and spine straight, “this house carries ancient blood, ancient power, and ancient duty. Those who enter it do not belong to themselves alone. You are no longer just Harry Potter.”

He didn't know what bothered him more—that she was wrong, or that she might be right.

Still, as he sat on the plush rug, silk pajamas soft against his skin, surrounded by gold and silver and magic that no one had ever offered him before… Harry smiled.

Not because he wanted any of this. But because for the first time in his life, he could choose what to do with it. It was very first and very best birthday in his life after his eleventh birthday.

That night, Harry slept better than he had in years.

The bed was absurdly soft—so soft, in fact, that it felt like being swallowed whole by clouds. He wouldn’t know what clouds actually felt like, of course, but if they were magically warmed, smelled faintly of lavender and silk, and adjusted to cradle every curve of his body like a sentient marshmallow—this was probably it. Hogwarts dorm beds didn’t even come close, and the Dursleys? They’d never given him anything with stuffing in it, let alone embroidered linen with floating charmwork.

For the first time, Harry didn't dream Quirrell burning or Voldemort laughing. Just weightless silence and velvety warmth.

When morning arrived, sunlight streamed in through charmed windows that adjusted their glow depending on his sleep cycle. A breakfast tray appeared with a soft pop, hovering beside his bed—fluffy toast, spiced pumpkin tea, poached eggs, and fruit arranged like art. It was wildly indulgent, but he wasn’t complaining. He ate in stunned silence, savoring every bite like someone expecting it to vanish.

Later, Mippy guided him down a familiar set of marble stairs to a smaller, elegant receiving room on the east wing of the manor—the one shown to him last night as his “instructional chamber.” Harry had expected a dusty room with stiff chairs and boring scrolls.

Instead, he found an elderly witch seated in a high-backed silver chair beside the fireplace, already sipping tea.

She was dignified, tall, with iron-grey hair swept into a bun that could probably injure someone. Robes of deep plum shimmered faintly with runes sewn in gold thread. She looked like someone who never missed a detail—and never allowed anyone else to either.

“Mr. Potter,” she greeted crisply, rising just enough to nod. “I am Lady Cedrella Fawley. I have been instructing generations of purebloods in etiquette, comportment, and formal tradition for over sixty years. You may call me Lady Fawley or Ma’am. Never ‘miss,’ ‘lady,’ or ‘hey you.’ Understood?”

Harry blinked, his mouth half-open.

“Er—yes, ma’am.”

Her eyes swept him head to toe. “We have much work to do.”

Much turned out to be an understatement.

The next hour was filled with what Harry could only describe as wizarding boot camp for the socially doomed. There were rules for everything. How to sit (spine straight, knees level, ankles precisely crossed). How to walk (glide, don’t stomp—one foot in front of the other, chin high, back aligned). Where to look (never dart around like a nervous Hippogriff). How to place your wand when dining. How to enter a room as a consort. How to bow. How to nod.

And worst of all—how to smile without showing teeth.

Harry tried. He really did.

But after tripping over an enchanted chalk line on the carpet for the fourth time and getting his posture corrected with a ruler enchanted to whack ankles gently, he slumped into the nearest velvet chair and groaned, “This is torture. I’m being turned into Malfoy.”

Lady Fawley arched a single, frostbitten brow. “If the Malfoys had half your natural charm, I would have retired decades ago.”

Harry snorted despite himself.

Still, the thought nagged at him as he corrected his posture for the fifth time—what would Ron and Hermione say?

He could already imagine Ron choking on a sausage, red in the face, screeching something about ‘Bloody pureblood robes!’ Hermione would probably go into full research mode—send him a list of rules with annotations and maybe a footnote on how problematic wizarding aristocracy was.

And what would they think if they saw him now—draped in imported silk robes, chin high like a pompous prat, practicing his diplomatic nods?

Would they even recognize him anymore?

It was a question that lingered heavier than his dinner last night.

Still, for all his discomfort, Harry didn't quit.

He listened. He repeated. He adjusted. He tried again, again, again—until Lady Fawley gave a small, approving nod at the angle of his shoulders and said, “Passable. Almost regal. You may sit.”

He flopped into the chair with a dramatic sigh.

“Well done, Mr. Potter,” she added, “for someone raised outside of our world, your instincts are surprisingly... disciplined. There’s potential beneath the mess.”

Harry muttered, “That’s the most Slytherin compliment I’ve ever heard.”

Lady Fawley smiled, just slightly. “You’ll find the world favors those who learn quickly. Especially those who hold power—and you, Mr. Potter, will soon hold more than you realize.”

The words settled in his chest like a pebble dropped in deep water. He wasn’t just Harry anymore. And maybe—just maybe—it was time he learned what that really meant.

To say Harry’s dance lessons were a disaster would be an insult to disasters everywhere.

It was catastrophic.

His instructor, the unfortunate Mr. Thorne—a veteran ballroom master who had once taught Veela diplomats and stiff-kneed centaurs with equal success—was reduced to near tears within the first half hour.

“Never,” Mr. Thorne gasped, clutching his pearl-buttoned waistcoat as if shielding his heart, “never in my fifty years have I met a student so... creatively disconnected from rhythm! He moves like a flobberworm in a hailstorm!”

Harry, who had somehow tripped over his own foot, the hem of his robe, and thin air all in one sequence, was too busy nursing his pride (and his elbow) to argue.

“I'm trying, okay!” he shouted, half-panicked, half-winded. “My feet just don’t listen when there’s music!”

“It’s not a duel, Mr. Potter!” Thorne cried as Harry accidentally twirled into a chair.

“I panicked!”

By day two, Cassiopeia Black had stopped pretending to hide her amusement. She sat regally in a velvet chair in the corner, sipping her redcurrant tea and making absolutely no effort to stifle the ghost of a smirk on her painted lips.

“I daresay,” she murmured once, watching Harry attempt a waltz that looked more like a war, “if dancing were a Dark Art, you’d be undefeated.”

Mippy and Rex, on the other hand, were in full-on crisis mode.

Mippy had charmed the entire floor with glowing footprint patterns—left, right, glide—which Harry still somehow managed to ignore completely.

“Master Harry must not stomp!” Rex wailed, shielding his large eyes with one hand as Harry thundered down the floor like a baby troll. “Master Harry must float! House Black must not be shamed!”

“It’s not stomping, it’s called dramatic flair!” Harry argued, arms flailing.

Mippy gave him a look of such pity that Harry felt personally insulted.

For three days, the manor echoed with phrases like “Merlin’s beard, not the curtains again!” and “That was supposed to be a dip, not a dragon roll!” and “Rex is too young to witness such horrors!”

By the end of it, Mr. Thorne had developed a permanent eye twitch and a tendency to mutter “waltz, not war” under his breath like a mantra.

It took Cassiopeia's intervention—graceful, gloved hands settling on Harry’s shoulders, paired with a rare, genuine softness in her tone—for him to try again.

“You are not meant to master perfection, Harry. You are meant to carry yourself with enough grace to be remembered.”

That, along with Mippy and Rex throwing him impromptu midnight dance drills to “catch the rhythm when no one’s watching,” finally began to help.

By the end of the week, Harry could stumble through a slow waltz without injuring himself—or anyone else.

Victory never looked so uncoordinated.

Chapter 13: Masks, Monsters, and Murmurs

Summary:

As the Ministry’s opulent Summer Gala unfolds in a glittering display of wealth and political finesse, Evander finds himself navigating treacherous waters—facing both the veiled threats of pureblood politics and the darker shadows of his own making. With every graceful step, every raised goblet, he is reminded that power is never freely given, only taken in silence.
Meanwhile, Harry, glowing in elegance yet unsure in purpose, becomes the center of every whispered conversation. Letters from his friends arrive like thunderclouds, demanding answers. Are the rumors true? Are you really marrying the Boy-Who-Lived? Between the clink of crystal glasses and the venom of noble smiles, the truth begins to blur.
And in the quiet corners of Black Manor that night, Evander must reckon with the one thing he cannot control—his growing obsession… and fear of losing what was never meant to be his.

Chapter Text

13. Masks, Monsters, and Murmurs

Behind every composed smile lies a blade sharpened in silence.

From the moment Harry Potter stepped foot into his life, Evander Black’s world had derailed with the quiet devastation of a hurricane cloaked in silk.

Evander had always been a creature of precision—sharp suits, sharper plans, and a soul honed like the blade of an heir. He cared not for distractions, certainly not for aesthetics or frivolities like beauty or charm. But Harry... Harry was not beauty. He was bewitchment, distilled into skin and soul.

There was something otherworldly about him, something maddening. Those moss-green eyes, wide and curious, carried a storm no seer could predict. His voice, light and soft with hesitant questions, wrapped itself around Evander’s mind like a whisper he couldn’t ignore. And his smile—rare and unguarded—was dangerous. It carved itself into the quiet corners of Evander’s mind, uninvited and unrelenting.

He’d combed through the Potter lineage obsessively, looking—hoping—for something to blame. A trace of Veela blood? Siren heritage? Fae blessing? Anything that might explain why he couldn’t look at the boy without his thoughts turning darker, stranger. But the answer, infuriatingly, was always the same: the Potters were as human as humans came. No creature blood. No magical seduction.

And still, Evander burned.

He remembered the first time Harry entered the drawing room after his bath—a transformation wrought by House Elves and ancient magic. His skin glowed like porcelain kissed by moonlight, hair curling behind his ears in elegant disarray, golden-rimmed glasses framing a face too delicate for his age, and a softness to him that felt far too dangerous to touch.

Evander had frozen mid-sentence, something primal clawing beneath his ribcage. That boy—that boy—should not have had such power over him. It was infuriating. It was unbearable. And it was unstoppable.

He had tried—Merlin, he had tried—to remain distant. Cold. Professional. He had built walls, miles high and carved from stone. But Harry had come in, messy and curious and utterly unaware of the chaos he trailed in his wake, and shattered them all with a glance and a question like, “Why do you always look like you want to scold the air, Evander?”

Evander, who once stood unshaken in front of Ministers and mercenaries, had no answer. And perhaps that was the beginning of the end.

The Ministry Summer Gala was more than just a gathering; it was the social battlefield of the season. An annual spectacle that brought together the elite of the wizarding world—Ministry dignitaries, international delegates, ancient Houses, and ruthless power players cloaked in brocade and politics. It was a place where fortunes were flaunted, alliances were brokered with champagne smiles, and reputations rose or fell based on a single glance too long—or a bow too shallow.

Evander Black had attended the gala every year since he was five, his tiny hand once clutched in the firm grip of Arcturus Black, his grandfather and mentor. But this year, he stood alone—no, not alone. This year, he would be accompanied by his intended. His consort. Harry Potter.

He was already dressed, standing still as a statue in the marbled vestibule of Black Manor. His robes were tailored perfection—midnight blue, simple yet impossibly elegant, made of the finest silk that shimmered like starlight with every movement. Crisp white gloves covered his hands, while his boots, made of polished Norwegian Ridgeback hide, gleamed beneath the hem of his robe. On his right hand sat the Black signet ring, a symbol of legacy and power. But on his left, above it, was the engagement ring—a refined band engraved with the Potter family crest, newly merged with the Black’s own.

Around his neck hung a phoenix pendant—minimalist, golden, beautiful. A gift from Harry, selected just last week while the boy debated between a dozen options and had finally slipped it into Evander’s hand with an uncertain, “I think this suits you.”

It did.

Evander adjusted the pendant absentmindedly as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the hall. Then he saw them.

Cassiopeia Black emerged first in a deep plum robe threaded with silver constellations, her white hair twisted into a regal updo, a look of composed indifference draped around her like a second cloak. Her presence alone could still a room.

Behind her came Rex, Mippy, and Tubby, nearly vibrating with pride, fussing over the last invisible details of the boy walking in the center of their chaos like a comet crossing the sky.

And Harry—

Evander felt the breath catch in his throat for half a second too long.

Harry Potter was ethereal.

He wore layered silk robes in shimmering silver and soft jade green, the fabric charmed to subtly shift hue under different light—like dewdrops catching dawn. His raven hair had been styled into soft, neat curls that framed his delicate features and curled slightly behind his ears. His glasses—now gold-rimmed and charmed not to slip—sat elegantly on the bridge of his nose, framing eyes that glowed like wildfire behind sea glass.

His skin looked nearly luminous, thanks to a careful magical polish and potion bath, and a barely-there scent of some rare flower trailed behind him. The engagement ring on his hand gleamed under the chandelier's light. He looked... untouched by the world. Untouchable. Timeless.

Evander's jaw tensed once before he quickly composed himself, letting years of aristocratic training mask the heat curling in his chest.

“You’re late,” he said flatly, though his voice betrayed nothing. His eyes lingered just a fraction too long on the boy’s form, and he quickly looked away.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Blame the three elves and one pureblood witch trying to braid my soul.”

Cassiopeia gave an elegant hum. “Perfection takes time, my dear.”

She looked every inch the war-born matriarch—ageless and formidable—and she took her place at Evander’s left without another word.

Evander extended his hand toward Harry. "Shall we?"

Harry slipped his fingers into his with surprising ease. “Let’s go survive this weird aristocrat ritual.”

And just like that, the heir to the House of Black and the world’s most unpredictable boy stepped into the night, toward the heart of wizarding power and scrutiny—and perhaps toward something neither of them truly understood yet.

The golden-plated carriage waiting outside Black Manor gleamed under the twilight like a fallen star. It was majestic—gilded, rune-etched wheels, floating effortlessly through the air, pulled by two towering Thestrals with shadow-slick wings and luminous eyes. Evander and Cassiopeia could see the creatures clearly, their skeletal forms regal and still. To Harry, however, the carriage simply appeared to fly with no visible aid—another quirk of a world that refused to stop astonishing him.

Inside, the interior was lined with rich velvet and floating lanterns that adjusted their glow with each bump, the warmth of polished walnut panels giving the illusion of a moving drawing room. Evander sat across from Harry, his posture immaculate, his presence silently commanding. Cassiopeia rested beside her great-nephew, adorned in a gown of black and burnished silver, her wand tucked into a holster carved with the Black family crest.

They arrived precisely at eight.

The Ministry Atrium—repurposed tonight for the Summer Gala—was unrecognizable.

Transfigured for the evening, the cavernous marble hall had been expanded with spatial magic, opening into a sprawling ballroom filled with golden chandeliers suspended mid-air, floating glass fountains pouring glittering light into enchanted pools, and tapestries of every major magical house glimmering along the walls, charmed to move with slow grace.

Witches and wizards of the highest echelons glided across the floor in glittering silks and charmed jewels. The night pulsed with soft music—harps and violins echoing off the enchanted glass ceiling that now showed a star-strewn night sky in motion, as if the entire universe danced above them.

The moment the Black carriage touched down on the entry landing, a hush swept the crowd like a ripple in still water.

Evander Black, in his midnight robes and heirloom signet, stepped out first—stoic, regal, and unapproachable. On his arm was Harry Potter, glowing in silver-green silk, wide-eyed but composed. Behind them glided Cassiopeia Black, her chin lifted high, eyes like polished steel.

The moment their feet touched the ballroom floor, every head turned.

Whispers bloomed like wildfire.

“That’s Harry Potter—”

“He looks like a veela.”

“Is that the Black heir with him?”

“They’re engaged, haven’t you heard?”

“He’s more beautiful than I imagined.”

A beat passed—then the music resumed, though the undercurrent of stares did not wane.

Harry's hand trembled where it curled around Evander’s arm. He looked utterly out of place, as though he had stumbled into someone else's dream. Evander felt the hitch in his breath and, with quiet precision, patted the back of his hand. No one noticed—but Harry did.

The small comfort steadied him. Just barely.

The first to approach—like a beetle sensing opportunity—was, of course, Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge.

His emerald green robes were more flamboyant than fashionable, his ridiculous bowler hat perched at an odd angle. His eyes gleamed—not with warmth, but calculation—as he zeroed in on Evander and, more importantly, Harry.

“Lord Black!” he exclaimed with forced joviality, bowing just enough to be respectful without appearing subordinate. “And dear Mr. Potter! What an honor—what an honor to have you both here. The Gala feels far grander with your presence!”

He reached out to shake hands but paused awkwardly when neither Evander nor Harry extended theirs immediately.

Behind Fudge stood his wife—elegant and cold, her tight smile barely concealing disdain—and next to her, the toad-faced Dolores Umbridge, unclaimed mistress and Ministry parasite, adorned in sickly pink lace. She curtsied with exaggerated sweetness, her eyes calculating every detail of Harry's face like he was a ministry asset rather than a boy.

“Such a delight to see you again, Mr. Potter,” she said in a syrupy tone, “You look… almost unreal tonight.”

Harry blinked, trying not to recoil. “Thanks,” he muttered.

Cassiopeia’s eyes sharpened like daggers behind them. She didn’t speak—but she didn’t need to. Her presence alone froze the air.

Evander’s voice cut in, as polished and cold as diamond, “Minister. I trust the seating arrangements for tonight are as previously agreed?”

“Ah! Yes, yes—of course,” Fudge stammered, bowing again. “Right at the Minister’s table, naturally. For the Black heir and his... betrothed. Everyone is quite eager to meet young Mr. Potter.” His smile twitched with something darker. “So many expect great things.”

Harry didn’t answer. He just tightened his grip on Evander’s arm and allowed himself to be led further into the lion’s den of political sharks and smiling serpents.

In the heart of the golden ballroom, beneath floating constellations and music dipped in enchantments, one pair stood out like a matched constellation—Evander Black, polished to regal perfection in midnight silk, and at his side, Harry Potter, ethereal in silver and green. The crowd parted around them, conversations bending, eyes tethered to their presence like moths to flame.

But not all gazes were admiring.

Near the obsidian-columned west wall, a group of Slytherin elites stood cloaked in shadows, drinks in hand, watching in taut silence. And at the center of that group, as pale as the moonlight and ten times more wounded, stood Draco Malfoy.

His silver eyes—usually sharp with disdain or amusement—were now wide, glassy, and completely betrayed. His jaw was tight, knuckles white on his champagne flute. A thousand rehearsed scenarios had never prepared him for this one: watching his cousin—Evander bloody Black—escorting the boy he’d dreamed of, openly, proudly, and with a claim sealed in politics and magic.

“Merlin,” whispered Pansy Parkinson, practically draped across Draco like a concerned duchess. “If anyone in this room looks like an angel among greedy buzzards, it’s Potter. Honestly, it should be illegal to look that delicate and still breathe.”

“Is he part-Veela?” asked Blaise Zabini, brow arched, his voice dry as ever. He was playing distracted host to Susan Bones, who had been openly gaping at Harry for the past ten minutes. “There’s something unnatural about that glow. Even the chandelier dimmed when he walked in.”

“No,” said Theodore Nott, tone clipped and slightly defensive, as if correcting a classroom essay. “Potters are notoriously... boring. Never interbred with creatures, not even a stray selkie. Their bloodline’s as human as it gets. Even when they dipped into Muggleborns, it was always for love, not… allure.”

Across the room, Harry sat poised beside Evander, hands resting carefully in his lap, back straight thanks to days of Cassiopeia’s merciless tutoring. He laughed—lightly, just once—and the sound turned every nearby head. The silver threading in his robes caught the chandeliers above and made him shimmer like moonlit water.

“I think I just saw Malfoy die inside,” said Marcus Flint, cradling his goblet like a prophecy orb. “Poor sod. Evander must’ve made the proposal while Draco was still planning his hair flip.”

“Not even his best smirk could’ve helped,” said Blaise with a lazy grin. “Evander Black is a chessmaster, not some Hogsmeade daydream. He saw what Potter could be before any of us did.”

Draco flinched at that, barely audible to himself.

He had told Evander.
He had actually confessed—last winter, in the quiet of Black Manor’s east wing—that he had plans for Harry Potter. Plans to charm, to court, to claim. Evander had nodded, said nothing, and three months later had returned with Potter on his arm and a contract signed in ancient ink.

Now here he stood—Draco Malfoy, heir of a crumbling name—watching the world fall in love with a boy he couldn’t even speak to anymore.

“Draco, darling,” cooed Pansy, petting his shoulder like a stray cat. “You look like someone’s cursed your mirror.”

He didn’t answer.

He was still watching Evander, who leaned down to whisper something into Harry’s ear, and Harry, who flushed pink and gave a bashful, enchanting smile.

Around them, the powerful gathered. Lords of old bloodlines. Ambassadors of foreign wizarding courts. The very pillars of magical society. And they were all gravitating to that single table, not because of the Blacks—but because of Harry Potter.

And for the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy felt replaceable. And that was pleasant feeling.

While the heartbreak opera of Draco Malfoy played out quietly in the far-left corner of the ballroom—complete with flaring nostrils, crushed dreams, and an audience of half-sympathetic Slytherins—another, far more complex drama was beginning to unfold near the high dais.

The opening waltz had just concluded. Harry, cheeks still faintly pink from the dance, was seated beside Cassiopeia Black at a table draped in Black family colors. She was engrossed in a hushed, pointed conversation with a regal, silver-haired witch from the Rosier family. Evander, meanwhile, had been cornered in the center of the room by an ambitious Lord from the Avery line, discussing trade routes and foreign magical embargos.

That was when arrived. Albus Dumbledore. Clad in theatrical purple robes embroidered with floating, glittering golden Snitches, he glided across the floor with an air of timeless serenity—and the faintest hint of theatrical entrance, as though the music itself made way for his presence. His beard, tucked neatly into a silver clasp, shimmered faintly in the candlelight. His blue eyes, always twinkling, were fixed squarely on Harry.

Harry looked up, a flicker of warmth blooming in his chest—old, familiar, and tainted by confusion. He still respected the headmaster, still remembered him offering lemon drops and quiet wisdom. But after last year—after what had nearly happened, after Cassiopeia had shown him the hidden strings Dumbledore had been pulling—trust had become a fragile, fading thing.

Still, politeness won over. He gave a small smile. “Hello, Professor Dumbledore.”

Dumbledore’s entire face lit up with grandfatherly warmth. “Harry, my boy!” he said, his voice the perfect blend of affectionate and dramatic. “It is wonderful—truly wonderful—to see you here, flourishing as you are. You look… quite radiant this evening.”

Before Harry could reply, another voice, smooth and cold as enchanted steel, cut across the moment.

“Good evening to you as well, Albus,” said Cassiopeia Black.

She didn’t rise. She didn’t smile. She merely turned her head and regarded the headmaster with the thin-lipped expression of someone spotting a particularly annoying boggart in an otherwise pristine drawing room.

Dumbledore’s smile wavered, only briefly, before he turned to her and bowed slightly. “Ah, Lady Cassiopeia. It has been far too long. You are as formidable as ever, I see.”

He reached for her gloved hand, intending to offer a chivalrous air-kiss. Cassiopeia allowed it—barely—but her spine straightened like a drawn wand. Her eyes never left his face.

“I would say it is always a pleasure, but I’ve found myself unwilling to lie in public these days,” she replied, voice cutting like a finely sharpened blade. “Especially in the presence of impressionable young minds.”

Harry blinked.

Dumbledore chuckled softly, the sound almost airy. “Ah, ever the keeper of traditions. I was simply greeting young Mr. Potter.”

“You were addressing Consort-Designate Black,” Cassiopeia corrected, arching an elegant brow. “Who, as you’re surely aware, is currently under bond and chaperonage. In proper circles, a man—even one as… seasoned as yourself—approaching an engaged youth without either his partner or his appointed guardian present is considered something of a social slight.”

The surrounding air turned cold. A few heads had turned. The Rosier witch leaned back ever so slightly, eyes glittering with interest.

Harry’s face was now burning, and he opened his mouth to defuse the situation, but Cassiopeia’s hand rested lightly over his, a subtle press of reassurance.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, but there was a sudden tightness around them. “My apologies,” he said smoothly. “I did not mean to offend. I merely wished to see how Harry was adjusting. After all, the changes in his life have been… quite monumental.”

“As monumental as the changes you once orchestrated behind his back?” Cassiopeia murmured with a brittle smile. “Ah, forgive me. That was uncharitable. I forget how… delicate such conversations are in public.”

“I assure you,” Dumbledore replied, “my intentions for Harry have always been out of love and protection.”

“A convenient motto,” she said, sipping her wine. “So often used to justify war, manipulation, and child endangerment.”

Harry felt like he was stuck between two very powerful magical forces, neither of whom he wanted to provoke. He cast a nervous glance toward the center of the room, where Evander had just broken away from his conversation and was now striding toward them with the deadly precision of a trained predator sensing discomfort.

“Professor Dumbledore.” Evander’s voice was calm, measured—but something about the way he said it made even Dumbledore still. “Is there a matter requiring attention?”

“None at all, Lord Black,” Dumbledore said, ever cordial. “I was simply extending my regards to your intended. But I fear I may have interrupted. My apologies.”

“You did,” Evander said, with a polite nod that somehow carried the weight of an expulsion order.

Dumbledore bowed, gave Harry one final look—soft, meaningful, and perhaps a touch too lingering—then turned and melted back into the crowd.

When he was gone, Harry let out a long, shaky breath. Cassiopeia took another sip of her wine, the picture of perfect triumph.

“You handled that well,” Evander murmured, taking the seat beside him again. “But next time, if he tries that again, feel free to scream.”

Harry looked between them, bewildered. “What just happened?”

Cassiopeia smiled thinly. “Nothing, darling. Just an old man learning that even legends must knock before entering Black territory.”

The rest of the gala evening passed with deceptive smoothness.

Evander remained firmly at Harry’s side, never once straying too far—his presence was a quiet barrier against the probing gazes of Ministry officials and socialites alike. Cassiopeia, regal as ever, stayed close as well, wielding her fan like a dagger in political conversations. It was a protective triangle—Black shields raised high around a boy who had no idea how many wanted to wound him.

But the calm ended the moment they returned to Black Manor.

By dawn, the avalanche had begun.

Letters poured in like a tidal wave—notes of congratulations, curt demands for clarification, political inquiries, veiled threats, open outrage. The floo network buzzed with rumors, and every owl that screeched through the warded windows carried more fire than parchment.

And at the heart of the storm, glistening with poison, was Rita Skeeter’s latest Scalaclus headline:

“Boy Who Lived or Boy Who Surrendered? The Curious Rise of Consort Potter and the Shadow Games of House Black.”

The article dripped venom. It painted Harry as a political pawn, a naïve flower plucked too early by a power-hungry heir to a dark legacy. It speculated obscenely on their betrothal contract, quoted unnamed sources about Harry’s time in Australia, and even went as far as to call the engagement “the Ministry’s greatest scandal since the fall of Voldemort.”

Worse, it had a picture—one from the gala, of Harry in his sapphire robes, smiling, oblivious. The caption read: “A Lamb Among Wolves?”

Evander read the article once. Then burned it. The manor’s mail wards, set up overnight by Cassiopeia herself, were the only reason Harry remained untouched by the incoming hate.

In the stillness of an overcast afternoon, a letter arrived, bearing the immaculate seal of House Avery. It was from Octavin, Evander's oldest friend—sharp-tongued, calculating, and never one to veil his thoughts behind courtesy. Evander read the letter twice and still found his pulse ringing in his ears. He had no defense. No clever retort. Because somewhere between the elegant chaos of green eyes and the way Harry bit his lip when focusing too hard on table etiquette—something inside him had shifted.

He, who once viewed vulnerability as a liability, now found himself leaning into it, quietly undoing the very walls he had built. He’d instructed the house-elves to stock treacle tarts. after noticing Harry’s fondness for them. He had switched the house crest on Harry’s room from Black to a hand-drawn blend of Potter and Black, claiming it was for “symbolic balance.” He had turned away three international delegations just to sit quietly by Harry’s side during a late-night tea lesson.

Every smile Harry gave him was a victory. Every accidental touch, every moment the boy leaned unconsciously into his side during readings or stargazing walks, felt like a thread stitching Evander together in places he never knew were torn. He knew the danger. Obsession was not love. It was not protection. And yet, Harry was becoming the only light that did not hurt his eyes in this dark and rotting world.

Chapter 14: The Boy Behind the Curtain

Summary:

As summer fades, Harry stands at the threshold of a new school year—but everything feels different. Gone is the boy who once stared at Hogwarts with wide-eyed wonder. In his place is a boy dressed in silk, taught to bow, and whisper in the language of politics. Through Harry’s eyes, we explore the bewildering world of pureblood etiquette, his conflicted emotions about returning to Hogwarts, and the strange sense of safety he finds in the shadow of House Black. With the castle awaiting him, and the whispers of the wizarding world chasing after his name, Harry begins his second year not as a hero—but as a mystery wrapped in silk robes and unanswered questions.

Chapter Text

14. The Boy Behind the Curtain

He was no longer just Harry Potter. But who was he now?

Harry's life had transformed completely in the span of a single month. Everything—his world, his name, even his place in it—was unrecognizable from the boy who had first stepped into Hogwarts just last year. Then, he had been wide-eyed, a gawky child with messy hair and oversized robes, a living legend who didn’t even know why he was famous. But this year... this year he wasn’t returning as the Boy Who Lived.

He was returning as the future Consort of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Black.

A house older than Hogwarts itself. A house cloaked in power, scandal, and ruthless prestige. A house once brought to its knees by disgrace and betrayal, and now—rising from the ashes like a phoenix—soaring again with terrifying grace.

It was a house that had given the world brilliant politicians, feared Dark witches and wizards, and even a man who had once been rotting in Azkaban for betraying his best friends—Sirius Black, his godfather. A name Harry hadn’t know a year ago now lived etched in his heart with complicated reverence.

When he’d arrived at Black Manor, he hadn’t even known the history of Hogwarts, let alone the pureblood world. Now, with just days to go before his return to school, he could recite the lineage of House Potter and House Black alike, knew the ebb and flow of wizarding politics, the weight of old names, and the subtle power of a well-placed glance. He’d been taught how to carry fame not as a burden—but as a blade, to be wielded when necessary. And Merlin help him… he was starting to understand how to use it.

Harry was, at his core, a simple child. A boy who had grown up starved of love, and so the moment he was given even a sliver of affection, his heart latched on with the fierce desperation of someone who’d never been held before. Love, to him, didn’t need grand declarations. It lived in small things—quiet acts, subtle gestures. Great Aunt Cassiopeia was not warm in the way most people understood love. She was regal, sharp-tongued, and often spoke in riddles that made Harry’s head spin. But he saw her care in the little things. In the way she would sometimes slip into his room late at night to gently tuck the blanket around his shoulders. In the way she would insist—sternly, with no room for argument—that he eat when he was too anxious to take a bite. In the encouraging words she offered when he doubted himself. In the hours she spent teaching him not just etiquette, but dueling—telling him, quite matter-of-factly, that even future consorts must know how to hex a man properly.

And then there was Evander.

Evander Black, all ice and iron, who barely showed emotion, yet somehow… Harry had seen through him. Seen the gentleness hidden beneath the Lord's stern exterior. The way Evander’s eyes would soften—just barely—whenever Harry asked a silly question. The quiet curve of his lips when Harry made him laugh without meaning to. The moments he would explain something for the third time, unbothered, simply because Harry was too distracted by a portrait blinking at him from the wall. Evander was a Lord, with more responsibilities than Harry could even imagine, and yet he always made time for him. And Harry noticed. He always noticed.

He had once stumbled upon Evander’s O.W.L. results—twelve Outstandings in twelve subjects—and nearly fainted. He could barely imagine getting twelve O's even if he set himself on fire and studied all day and night. And yet Evander had done it—and still had room in his life for a boy like Harry. That, in itself, made Harry feel like he was worth something. And for a boy who had spent his entire life feeling like nothing… that meant everything.

The 1st of September arrived with all the quiet grandeur of a new beginning. The sun streamed gently through the manor’s tall, enchanted windows, casting golden light over the polished floors and velvet drapery. Harry's trunk had been packed the night before by Mippy, his ever-efficient personal elf, who had folded his robes with the care of someone handling royal garments. Nothing he owned now was ordinary—not the set of ink pots with self-refilling charms, nor the velvet-lined potion kit, nor the silk-lined school cloaks with his initials embroidered in silver thread. Even his beloved ‘Nimbus 2000’ had been quietly replaced by a gleaming ‘Nimbus 2001’—a birthday gift from Evander, who had admitted, with a faint scoff, that he had little love for Quidditch or brooms, but had noticed Harry's eyes lingering on the newer model during a shop window stroll.

He had a practice Snitch now, one that zipped around his room in lazy spirals and hid in the oddest places. Harry adored it. Hedwig, radiant and content after a summer away from the Dursleys, had delivered a few letters at dawn to the acquaintances he'd made at the Summer Gala—he still flushed thinking about some of them. And now, dressed neatly in his travel robes, his hair combed and tied back with a thin black ribbon (Great Aunt Cass's idea), Harry stood at the threshold of another year at Hogwarts—with a heart fuller than he’d ever known.

"Did you pack everything, love?" asked Cassiopeia from her armchair near the hearth, the fire casting amber shadows across her elegant features. She wore plum-coloured robes trimmed with fine lace and held a steaming cup of spiced tea in one hand, her other hand turning the pages of Witch Weekly—a tabloid Harry had come to enjoy far more than he ever expected. (He now had a lifetime subscription. Perks, apparently, of being the Boy-Who-Lived.)

"Yes, Great Aunt," Harry said as he moved to sit beside her, the fabric of his new robes whispering softly against the upholstery. He glanced around the drawing room—so vast, so grand, and yet… it felt like home. A real home.

Cassiopeia’s sharp eyes never missed a thing.

“Evander won’t be travelling with you,” she said lightly, sipping her tea. “There’s a late morning ICW conference in Paris he’s expected at. He’ll join you for the Sorting Feast. You can see him there.”

Harry blinked, lips parting just slightly before he spoke.

“I wasn’t looking for Evander,” he said quickly, though the soft blush blooming on his cheeks betrayed him entirely. He looked down at his lap, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve.

Cassiopeia chuckled into her cup. “Of course not, darling.”

He didn’t reply. But he leaned gently against her shoulder, just for a moment, and she let him.

A month ago, he’d been the untidy, overlooked boy. Now… he was seated beside one of the most formidable witches of the age, bathed in silk and starlight, with a phoenix-feather quill tucked behind his ear, a future already being written for him—one inked in power, in legacy, and in something far more dangerous: affection. And Harry Potter, for the first time in his young life, felt ready for it.

Harry was nearly bouncing in his seat as the enchanted black Rolls-Royce glided through the London streets. The same car that had once rescued him from the dull cruelty of Privet Drive now ferried him toward a new chapter of his life—one paved in velvet and veiled in ancient expectations. Great Aunt Cassiopeia sat beside him, impossibly elegant in her charcoal traveling robes, gloved hands folded neatly in her lap. She didn’t speak much on the ride, but her eyes often flickered to him—soft, proud, a little too bright.

This would be the first time anyone had dropped Harry off at school. Not just anyone—a guardian, an adult, someone who cared. And it was Cassiopeia’s first time too. She’d confessed the night before, in a rare moment of shared vulnerability, that she’d been rehearsing her farewell since breakfast.

Harry wore formal Hogwarts travel robes, not the plain black wool from last year, but custom-tailored navy ones with silver threading that caught light when he moved. His hair, usually a wild, windswept halo, was neatly combed back and tied with a slim black ribbon—a Black family tradition. His shoes were dragonhide, polished to a mirror shine. At his chest, just visible beneath his open robe collar, was a silver pin: the seal of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, a discreet but unmistakable marker of his betrothal.

When the car came to a halt at King’s Cross, it was already 10:30 a.m. The platform was buzzing with families, trunks, and trolleys. Owls hooted from their cages. Children clung to parents. Witches fussed with collars and handed out final sweets.

Cassiopeia stepped out first and held out her hand to Harry. He took it, his own gloved fingers small but firm in hers. For a long moment, she just looked at him. Her lips were pressed tight, as if holding back a thousand words.

Then she knelt slightly, not enough to wrinkle her robes, but enough to gather him in a hug. Her arms were cold with magic and perfume, but her embrace was strong. Real.

"You look just like your great aunt, my sister Dorea today," she whispered against his ear. “If she were here… she would be proud.”

Harry’s eyes stung with sudden emotion, and he buried his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling lavender and old parchment. She was fussing with his hair again, though it was already perfect, and smoothing nonexistent wrinkles in his robes.

“You must remember the rules, darling,” she said, her voice brisk even as her fingers lingered on his cheek. “You are no longer just Harry Potter. You are the Consort-Designate to Lord Black, Head of a Most Ancient House. That comes with expectations.”

He nodded, cheeks warm.

“Do not hug anyone casually. Not even your little friends. Certainly not boys. Especially not Weasley, unless he earns the privilege.”

“Yes, Aunt Cass,” he mumbled into her shoulder.

“Do not linger with unmarried witches or wizards. You must never be seen behind closed doors with one—certainly not in any compromising position.”

“I know.”

“You are not to kiss anyone but Evander, even on the cheek. Not unless sanctioned by ceremony.”

“I know,” Harry whispered, laughing through the tears that had gathered again.

She took a steadying breath, then held his face in both gloved hands. “You will act with dignity. You will speak with restraint. You are the future Consort of House Black, not a common schoolboy. You will remember who you are.”

He nodded again, lower lip wobbling.

“But,” she added, eyes suddenly soft, “you will also have fun. Make friends. Learn. Laugh. Write to me every week. Eat properly. And… don’t let anyone dull that light in your eyes, do you hear me?”

“I will,” Harry promised, voice thick.

They stood like that for a heartbeat more, suspended in a moment neither wanted to end.

Then the clock struck a quarter to eleven.

Cassiopeia smoothed down her robes, straightened her back, and kissed Harry once, reverently, on the crown of his head.

“Go now, my boy,” she said gently. “And show the world what a Potter raised by a Black can do.”

Harry turned, trunk trailing behind him with a flick of his wand, and walked toward the barrier. He glanced over his shoulder once—she was still there, hand raised, chin high, looking like the regal specter of old magic herself.

He stepped through the wall and onto Platform 9¾, the Hogwarts Express gleaming crimson and gold before him. He could already spot Ron’s flame-red hair and Hermione’s bushy curls in the distance.

Harry found an empty compartment near the front of the train and slid inside, carefully lifting his trunk onto the rack with a quiet grunt. Hedwig’s cage, already settled on the seat, gave a soft hoot as if sensing his mood. He sank down beside the window and peered out through the glass, forehead lightly touching the cool pane.

Great Aunt Cassiopeia stood amidst the bustling platform crowd like a monolith of dignity and tradition. She didn’t wave—of course she wouldn’t—but her eyes were unmistakably on him, glistening faintly with unshed tears. Pride radiated from her posture, sharp and unyielding, the kind only ancient bloodlines wore like armor. She hadn’t noticed the curious glances cast her way, or perhaps she had and simply deemed them unworthy of acknowledgment. Wizards and witches nearby parted for her like tides retreating from stone.

Harry’s gaze shifted and caught a mop of unmistakable red hair. The Weasley clan stood clustered just a few yards away, chatting with the ease of a family used to chaos. Ron’s back was turned to him, but then, as if sensing something, he looked over—and his face lit up.

Ron grinned, eyes wide at the sight of Harry, and waved enthusiastically. He turned quickly to his family, clearly saying something, and a ripple passed through the group as their eyes turned toward Harry’s compartment window. Arthur Weasley gave a small nod of polite recognition. Molly looked confused for a beat—then seemed to catch sight of the House Black crest pinned discreetly to Harry’s robes and gave a frown laced with concern.

Feeling suddenly self-conscious, Harry pulled back from the window, drawing the curtain partway closed.

A few minutes later, the compartment door slid open.

“Oi—there you are!” Ron burst in, slightly breathless and wide-eyed. His gaze landed on Harry, and for a full beat, he just stared. “Blimey, Harry. You look—uh—different.”

His voice wasn’t exactly judgmental, but there was a tightness in it, like the kind someone might get after accidentally stepping into a wizard tailor’s shop and knocking over a display of robes that cost more than their house.

Hermione followed close behind, her arms already full of textbooks, parchment, and a newly inked timetable. Ginny trailed in last, hesitating in the doorway. Her gaze settled on Harry and didn’t budge.

“Hello, Harry,” Hermione said, eyes scanning him like she wasn’t sure where to land. “We were looking everywhere. Ron thought he saw you through the window, but I told him, ‘That can’t be Harry—he looked far too polished.’ But here you are.”

Harry chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah… I guess I’ve changed a bit.”

“A bit?” Ron dropped into the seat opposite him, brows raised. “You’ve got shinier boots than Percy on promotion day. Are those dragonhide?”

Harry glanced down, blinking at the glossy finish. “Um… maybe? They were a gift.”

“Figures,” Ron muttered, leaning back with a look that wasn’t quite impressed. “Even your luggage looked expensive.”

“You’re practically gleaming,” Hermione added, more curious than critical as she sat beside Ron. “And what’s that crest on your robe? That’s not your family, is it?”

Harry fingered the polished silver pin. “It’s the House Black crest. I—I’ve been staying with them this summer. With my great-aunt.”

Ron stiffened slightly. “Black? Like Sirius Black? Bloody hell, Harry. They’re all nutters.”

“She’s not like that,” Harry said quickly. “Cassiopeia Black. She’s old school, yeah, but she’s been good to me. Really good. Different, but kind.”

Ron snorted. “Kind? From a Black? That’s new.”

Hermione elbowed him with a warning glare.

“She raised him, Ronald. You could at least pretend to be polite,” she said before turning to Harry. “She’s the one they’ve been writing about in the Prophet, isn’t she? There’s been a lot of talk. About you, too.”

Harry’s smile faded slightly.

“So… is it true?” Hermione asked, her voice lowering. “About the betrothal?”

Harry hesitated. “Yeah. To Lord Evander Black.”

“You’re twelve,” Hermione said, her brow furrowing deeply. “That’s not even legal under Muggle law. Is that normal in the wizarding world?”

“It’s not unheard of in old bloodlines,” Harry murmured. “It’s… more like a contract. Nothing’s happening now.”

Ron’s eyes bulged. “You’re going to marry a Black?!”

“It’s complicated.”

“Sounds like you were bought,” Ron said, half under his breath.

Harry flinched.

“That’s not fair,” Hermione snapped. “Harry’s not just some pawn. And if it’s political, it’s not his fault.”

Ginny still hadn’t said a word. She was sitting in the corner, hands folded in her lap, her gaze locked on Harry with a quiet intensity that made his stomach twist. Her eyes weren’t angry—just… hurt. Distant. Like she was watching something precious slip out of reach.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” he said quietly. “It just… did. I’m still figuring it out.”

There was a beat of silence. The noise of the station faded as the train began to lurch forward.

“Well,” Hermione said gently, “we’re glad you’re back. It’s still us, you know. Whatever house crest you’re wearing.”

“Yeah,” Ron muttered, relaxing just a little. “Still Harry, I guess. Even if you’ve gone all posh.”

Harry let out a soft laugh. “Still me.”

But as he leaned back, he felt the weight of the silver crest on his chest like a brand. Something had changed. He wasn’t quite sure what—but the air felt thinner between them, like one step had placed him just a bit out of reach. And Ginny still hadn’t looked away.

The train ride was, in a word, agonizing.

Ron oscillated between bouts of forced cheerfulness and cold silence, as if Harry had personally offended him by daring to breathe purer air or wear robes that didn’t look second-hand. He spoke about Quidditch, sweets, and classes—but each word had an edge, as though he were waiting for Harry to break character and go back to being “his Harry.”

Ginny, on the other hand, didn’t speak a word. But her eyes said enough. She looked at Harry like a tragic heroine in a romantic tragedy—betrayed, abandoned, bitter. It made Harry's skin crawl in discomfort, the weight of her stare burning through even the layers of enchanted fabric he now wore.

Hermione tried to keep things civil, her voice cool but clipped. While she still offered to help revise or reminded him about homework, the moment any topic touched on old wizarding customs, she turned rigid.

“I can’t believe they can just betroth children like that,” she had muttered, arms crossed tightly. “It’s barbaric, archaic—an actual twelve-year-old being promised like a commodity—”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Harry had replied, his voice low but firm. “There’s structure. Power. Legacy. Not everything in our world fits your Muggle morality.”

The compartment had gone silent after that, and the tension only grew heavier. Hermione turned to the window, Ron bit into a Chocolate Frog like it had personally wronged him, and Ginny… continued to stare.

By the time the compartment door opened and Cassia Rossier called his name, Harry had never been more grateful for a social interruption in his life.

“Mr. Potter,” she said with clipped grace. “Do you have a moment?”

Cassia Rossier was everything old bloodlines admired—a picture of quiet power, polished elegance, and ruthless efficiency. She was tall, pale, with long black curls pinned into a precise chignon, and eyes like chipped ice. Heiress of the Ancient House of Rossier, she was the first to write to him after the announcement of his betrothal. And Harry… liked her.

She didn’t treat him like a child. Or a savior. Or a fraud.

“Of course,” Harry said, standing swiftly. He didn’t bother saying goodbye to the trio behind him.

As they walked the length of the train corridor, she glanced sideways at him. “The Weasley boy looks like he swallowed a lemon,” she remarked coolly. “And the Granger girl… debates like she’s on trial for war crimes.”

Harry chuckled, tension bleeding from his shoulders. “It’s been a long ride.”

Cassia nodded. “You’re learning quickly. There’s a reason the circles we walk in speak of power, not feelings. You won’t survive otherwise.”

They reached her compartment, and he was ushered inside—greeted by familiar faces from the Summer Gala: Daphne Greengrass, Blaise Zabini, Theo Nott, and a few others. All from influential families. All elegantly dressed, impeccably mannered.

Unlike Ron and Hermione, they didn’t bombard him with questions or challenge his reality. Instead, they acknowledged his presence, nodded to his title, and offered him a seat with quiet respect. The conversation drifted effortlessly between discussions of ancient magical practices, vacation estates in the Pyrenees, recent Wizengamot scandals, and the newest whispers from Gringotts.

And Harry… fit.

He spoke less, listened more, but every now and then, someone turned to him with a question or shared a joke about a pureblood quirk, and he responded as if he'd been raised in such circles all his life. He found himself laughing once, and Blaise smiled, murmuring, “Black’s influence looks good on you.”

When the train began to slow, the group moved together. Harry rode in a carriage with Theo, Daphne, and Blaise. Ginny, Ron, and Hermione had long vanished into the crowd.

And then… they arrived.

The thestral-drawn carriages halted, and students began spilling out in their robes, eyes drawn to the towering castle ahead. But Harry’s gaze was already caught—by the figure waiting at the Great Hall’s doors.

Evander Black.

He stood like a sentinel at the threshold of Hogwarts, dressed in finely tailored Slytherin robes, deep green trimmed in black velvet, the House Black crest embroidered in silver thread over his heart. A thin silver serpent curled subtly across his collar, a quiet testament to legacy and bloodline. The torchlight made the shadows flicker along his sharp cheekbones, highlighting the aristocratic lines of his face. His expression remained unreadable—cool, composed—but when his eyes met Harry’s across the sea of students, something shifted. The edges of that impassive mask softened, barely perceptible, but enough to make Harry’s chest tighten with the strange and unfamiliar comfort of being seen.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed him—how cold the train had been until now, how heavy his shoulders had felt under expectation and silence. But here was Evander, waiting for him, just as promised.

A dozen things stirred in Harry at once—relief, pride, comfort… and a warmth he couldn’t quite name. He didn’t run. He didn’t smile too wide. But his steps carried confidence, his chin tilted just slightly, and when he passed through the Great Hall doors, he did so as Harry Potter, Consort of the House of Black.

Chapter 15: Crowns and Classrooms

Summary:

Evander Black returns to Hogwarts not as just another seventh-year Slytherin, but as Lord of a resurging Noble House—and the betrothed guardian of the Boy Who Lived. Struggling to reconcile his political responsibilities, the demands of the ICW and Ministry, and his growing obsession with a boy far too young for the weight he now carries, Evander begins to crack under the pressure. Whispers follow him in corridors. Professors treat him like a colleague. Peers treat him like a threat. And all the while, Harry remains achingly unaware of just how much Evander is giving up to protect him from the world, from scrutiny, and himself.

Chapter Text

15. Crowns and Classrooms

In the echo of ancient halls and whispered rumors, the Lord of House Black walks the thin line between duty and desire.

The beginning of sixth year arrived not with excitement, but with the weight of iron-clad responsibility. For Evander Black—newly crowned Lord of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black—Hogwarts was no longer a sanctuary of childhood or discovery. It was a chessboard. And he, both player and piece, bound by the expectations of a legacy too old and heavy for sixteen-year shoulders.

Though his great-aunt, Cassiopeia Black, bore the public burden of political appearances and council seats in his stead, every contract, every alliance, every flame-flicker of House Black’s reputation passed through his quill. His nights were rarely restful; the ink on his fingers never seemed to dry. And still, he was expected to rise each morning and walk the halls of Hogwarts like a student, when he had long since stopped being one.

But nothing—nothing—was more complex than the role he had not chosen, but accepted willingly: guardian and betrothed of Harry Potter. The boy whose name stirred headlines, prophecy, and reverence. The boy who smiled at him like he was more than a Black, more than a Lord. A smile that made everything Evander was taught—duty, pride, restraint—tremble at its edges.

He had trained his entire life to lead a house. He had not trained to care. And yet, here he was: learning diplomacy by day, writing decrees by night, and losing himself in the inexplicable, rising ache of watching Harry laugh across the Great Hall. A soft ache that threatened to shatter him, if he dared give it a name.

Evander’s quarters were nestled deep within the stone veins of the castle, just off the Slytherin dormitory halls—an ancestral suite sealed for nearly a century, last opened during the dismal tenure of Phineas Nigellus Black, Hogwarts’ most unpopular Headmaster. It had remained untouched since, left to gather dust and memory, until its wards stirred once more for the newly instated Lord Black. Crafted centuries ago by the Founders themselves, the chambers were a gift for those rare few who inherited titles while still students. A mark of old bloodlines and solemn duty.

The quarters were quiet, austere, and practical—meant for study and diplomacy, not comfort. Every scroll, book, and object inside was recent, curated, and monitored. No heirlooms were ever foolishly stored in a school full of teenage Gryffindors. But the space still held a kind of weight—a silence that reminded Evander of his duties more than his youth. It was a place for strategy, solitude, and power.

Though Evander sat in lessons alongside his peers, the life of a student was more formality than function. He signed decrees at midnight, responded to Wizengamot inquiries during lunch breaks, and juggled bloodline politics with exams. Yet, even amid this frenzy, one rivalry kept him grounded: Percy Weasley.

If the name “Weasley” was an affront to Black tradition, Percy was its irritating exception. Priggish, precise, and deeply ambitious, Percy saw Evander not as a noble to be awed by—but as competition. The feeling had become mutual. From third year onward, their silent duels of intellect became something of a spectacle. Both prided themselves on excellence; both despised mediocrity. Percy followed rules like gospel. Evander rewrote them. Or it had been, until Harry arrived.

Evander had never once stepped foot inside the Gryffindor dormitories, but somehow Harry had made Evander’s private chambers his own personal sanctuary. It had become a ritual: every weekend, Harry would appear, uninvited yet expected, and sprawl across Evander’s furniture like a cat who had claimed territory. Sometimes curled up under a fur throw on the velvet chaise, sometimes draped like ivy over his study table, babbling half-thoughts and stories with no clear beginning or end.

Evander let him. Always.

He told himself it was indulgence—something temporary. But the truth was far more dangerous. He waited for those visits. For the way Harry made the cold chambers feel less like a relic and more like a home.

And nothing proved Harry’s utter disregard for decorum quite like the morning he marched to the Slytherin table during breakfast, haloed in golden morning light. The Great Hall buzzed with the low hum of breakfast. Evander sat at the Slytherin table, flanked by his fellow sixth-years. The Slytherins, like always, sat according to the silent code of hierarchy. Older years toward the front, younger years trickled behind.

Evander was in the middle of an engaging discussion on ancient lineage inheritance clauses with Imelda Warrington—unfortunately, newly betrothed to the ever-boorish Marcus Flint—when it happened.

To his right, Octavian Avery, his oldest friend and closest confidant, was entangled in a heated debate with Annika Nott about the properties of experimental blood wards—specifically one allegedly crafted by Dorian Mulciber, whose existence was a trial in itself. For the sake of Slytherin peace, Mulciber had been temporarily redirected into a conversation about Quidditch with Marcus Flint, who was, as usual, bargaining leverage over Lucius Malfoy’s “generous” donation of Nimbus 2001s to the Slytherin team.

The morning was ordinary, as ordinary as a Monday could be for the political elite of Hogwarts.

Until it wasn’t.

Harry Potter, wrapped in Gryffindor-red and blithe defiance, strode toward the Slytherin table.

It was not Saturday, nor Sunday. It was not a leisurely afternoon where he slipped unnoticed into Evander’s private quarters to curl like a contented cat on the chaise. It was Monday. The beginning of the week. The sacred time of schedules, protocol, and unspoken law.

Yet there he was—shoulders square, green eyes bright, mouth curled into that dangerous, disarming half-smile—walking past stunned first-years, bewildered seconds, and slack-jawed thirds. A hush fell over the aisle as he moved. His footfalls echoed.

Evander’s group, seated in their unshaken arrangement at the head of the Slytherin hierarchy, stared in stunned silence as Potter closed the distance.

Octavian was the first to react.

He stood fluidly, brushing nonexistent lint from his emerald sleeve, and with an elegant motion stepped across Imelda’s lap to take the seat beside her. She didn’t protest—only shifted slightly, like a queen making room on her throne, and raised her cup to her lips to hide her smirk.

And into the space Octavian had left, Harry slid.

Uninvited.

Unapologetic.

Unbothered.

The table had frozen.

Annika’s fork hovered in mid-air. Imelda’s teacup paused an inch from her lips. Even Mulciber had fallen silent mid-brag, his mouth agape in a rather unflattering display of confusion. Across the bench, Blaise Zabini—ever composed—raised one languid eyebrow, like watching an opera unfold he hadn’t paid to attend.

Harry, for his part, appeared blissfully unaware of the ripple he’d sent through Slytherin society. He beamed at Evander, dragged the edge of the tablecloth a little closer to better reach the platter, and helped himself to a croissant before Evander could even lift the tongs.

Evander said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

His gaze swept over the table with all the subtle chill of frost creeping down stained glass. The message was silent, eloquent, final.

He is mine.

And the table obeyed.

Evander served him toast.

The Great Hall, however, was not so easily subdued.

Across the room, the Gryffindor table was a tempest barely contained. Ronald Weasley—red-faced and trembling—looked a breath away from exploding. His voice, though filtered by distance, could still be heard.

“—cursed—completely mental—Black of all bloody families—!”

Hermione Granger, seated beside him, had a hand clamped around his wrist and was murmuring urgently, eyes flickering between Harry and the staff table with growing distress.

Further down the Gryffindor bench, the Weasley twins leaned back with theatrical amusement, placing bets under their breath and exchanging galleons across mugs of pumpkin juice.

Ginny Weasley said nothing.

She sat silent, pale, her spoon stirring a bowl she hadn’t touched. Her eyes did not leave Harry’s face. They didn’t blink.

At the staff table, the reactions were no less theatrical.

Severus Snape looked like he’d been hexed mid-scowl—lips curled, eyes narrowed, as if watching a kneazle stroll into a dragon’s den and make itself at home.

Minerva McGonagall had gone utterly rigid. She looked, in that moment, like a woman remembering a prophecy she’d once laughed at. Her teacup trembled as she placed it back in the saucer.

And Dumbledore—

Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock and High Sorcerer, guardian of all secrets and spinner of so many threads—was frowning. Frowning, not twinkling. His eyes bore into the back of Harry’s head as if attempting to solve a riddle he had not written.

The Great Hall buzzed low, crackling with something unnamed—tension, fascination, envy.

But at the Slytherin table, it was quiet.

Evander buttered Harry’s toast with care.

Harry poured them both tea.

He looked up at Evander then, head tilted, a little grin blooming at the corner of his mouth.

“You didn’t expect me, did you?” he asked softly.

Evander’s hand stilled on the teapot. His voice, when it came, was barely a murmur.

“No. But I should have.”

And the war, if it hadn’t started already, had surely begun now.

Everything was unfolding like a carefully cast spell—precise, elegant, and dangerous if misstepped.

Harry Potter, the supposed Gryffindor golden boy, had quietly embedded himself within the inner sanctum of Slytherin House—not through conquest, but with the effortless gravity of someone born to be adored. He was not Sorted into their house, yet he moved among them like a favored cousin returned from exile. He knew no Slytherin customs, yet Evander’s companions spoke to him in the clipped, respectful tones reserved for old blood.

He laughed freely, slipped into Lord Black’s private quarters without announcement, and sometimes fell asleep draped over his study couch like a pet lion who had decided the war room was his new sunlit perch.

The only disruption to this curious peace was Draco Malfoy.

If the Slytherin table was a court, Draco had long imagined himself its dashing heir apparent—sharp of tongue, silver of hair, son of an ancient house, and God’s gift to etiquette. But Harry’s betrothal to Evander Black had shattered that illusion like crystal under wandlight.

He bore the news with the restraint of a tragic opera lead. On the first morning, he arrived to breakfast in mourning robes. Actual mourning robes. Pressed black silk, crested cufflinks, and an armband etched with his family sigil, which he claimed was "a symbol of the death of reason."

He didn’t speak directly to Harry for three days. Instead, he sulked magnificently in the company of Crabbe and Goyle, dramatically flipping through etiquette manuals in the common room and sighing heavily when Harry’s name came up.

In public, he was more calculated.

He made a show of quoting obscure wizarding courtship laws aloud in the common room, pointedly lamenting how "tragic it is that so few betrothed consorts understand the subtle art of dignified distance." He gifted Evander a rare volume on ancient Black lineages—one Harry himself had already annotated for Evander’s private archive. He took to fencing his words around Harry like a skilled duelist—offering polite, pointed compliments laced with undercurrents too finely stitched to call out.

At one point, during a quiet study session in the library, Draco Malfoy sidled up to Harry with the kind of deliberate elegance that only came from years of pureblood training and excessive mirror practice.

He hovered just close enough to make his presence known before leaning down, eyes flicking to Harry’s parchment. “Honestly, Potter,” he drawled, “your quill grip is nothing short of tragic. It’s like watching a Hippogriff attempt calligraphy. If you'd like, I could show you the proper way—pureblood etiquette and all that.”

Harry didn’t look up. He kept writing, his tone completely dry. “Thanks, Malfoy, but I’m not looking to stab anyone with it today. Maybe next time.”

Draco’s mouth twitched, the beginnings of a smirk curving before he quickly masked it with haughty disdain. “Suit yourself. Though, given your handwriting, I’m not sure it can get worse.”

“I write just fine,” Harry said without missing a beat, flipping a page. “At least people can read mine without needing a curse-breaking team.”

Draco gave a soft scoff and stepped back, posture stiff but polished. “You’re impossible.”

Harry looked up just enough to meet his eyes and gave him the smallest, most infuriating smile. “And yet, here you are.”

Draco left with a swish of his robes, pretending he hadn’t heard, though the faint flush in his ears told a different story.

What made it worse—utterly, devastatingly worse—was that no one mocked Harry. They mocked Draco.

Quietly, of course. Slytherin didn’t gossip like Hufflepuffs or giggle like Ravenclaws—they whispered with precision, laughed behind veils, and exchanged glances like knives across the table. But Draco Malfoy, son of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, scion of privilege, had become something of a theatrical figure. A cautionary tale about flirting with fire and pretending not to get burned.

Because Harry Potter wasn’t just Evander Black’s consort. He was Evander Black’s exception.

Evander ruled the social circles of Hogwarts not with threats or bravado, but with a calm, calculated dominance that came from ancient blood, exquisite breeding, and the unnerving ability to reduce a grown man’s ambition with a single look. His word was weight, his silence even heavier. Professors respected him. Students deferred to him. Even the portraits of long-dead Headmasters nodded politely when he passed.

There was only one person who could tease him, argue with him, contradict him with the outrageous freedom of someone who had never known fear.

Harry.

Harry, who strolled into Evander’s private quarters like he belonged there. Who curled on the velvet settee reading upside-down. Who threw Bertie Bott’s beans at his consort mid-policy drafting and laughed when they bounced off pure ancestral documents.

He could call Evander names. He could challenge him in debates. He could ruffle his carefully-pressed collar and mock his handwriting. And the rest of the castle watched—wide-eyed, breath held—as Evander let him.

No one else would have dared.

Not even Draco Malfoy, who had once imagined himself to be the center of the Slytherin solar system. Harry’s engagement had shattered that illusion, and rather than rage, he responded with dramatics worthy of a Shakespearean ghost.

First, he attempted subtle sabotage. He brewed a “gift” tea blend for Harry, claiming it “enhanced charisma,” only for it to stain Harry’s lips blue for an hour. Harry had grinned the whole time and declared he matched the Ravenclaws now.

Then came the handwritten poetry—anonymous, of course, though his choice of green ink was a dead giveaway. Harry pinned the note to a Slytherin bulletin board and titled it: “Peacock in Existential Crisis.”

But what truly broke him was the gift.

A wand-holster disguised as a walking stick. Ebony wood, serpent head carved with emerald inlay, custom charms woven through the grain—refined and deadly, just like the one it was made for.

Evander had received it with one brow arched, the barest twitch of his mouth betraying amusement. “I’ll use it,” he said smoothly, “when I’m old enough to need the drama. And wise enough not to draw attention.”

Harry had leaned in with that untamed Gryffindor grin. “Then I’ll enchant it to age with you.”

Draco, upon hearing of the exchange, retreated to the rose garden behind the greenhouses and was found twenty minutes later sighing into a velvet-bound notebook, sketching Harry’s profile with exaggerated cheekbones and x’s for eyes.

The worst part?

No one stopped him. But they didn’t support him either.

Because even the youngest Slytherins knew the rules. Evander Black was not a figure to challenge lightly. And Harry Potter, for all his unpredictable charm and absolute disregard for protocol, had been claimed.

Mocking Harry was out of the question.

But mocking Draco—oh, that was fashionable.

So they did.

With raised brows and polite smiles. With murmured quips in the common room and long glances over dinner. Draco bore it all with brittle dignity and grand sighs.

But never—never—did he insult Harry outright.

Because Harry Potter was Evander Black’s consort.

And in old pureblood society, that was a title more sacred than blood.

Even if it broke your heart, you bowed your head—and you respected it.

He never said it aloud.

Evander never needed to.

But one evening, long after dinner, when most of the castle had settled into the comfortable murmur of pre-curfew routines, Draco found himself alone in the Astronomy Tower. A place he came to sulk in secret, script tragic lines in his head, and rehearse glances he would never deliver.

He wasn’t surprised when Evander appeared—silent, composed, a shadow of silk and certainty in dark green robes.

“Cousin.”

Draco turned slowly. “Cousin Evander,” he replied with equal formality, straightening instinctively, his spine stiff with old etiquette. The air grew colder despite the lack of wind.

Evander didn’t step closer. He didn’t need to. His presence filled the space like storm clouds gathering over glass.

“I’ve tolerated the theatrics,” Evander said calmly, his tone so precise it could slice parchment. “The tea, the notes, the… sighing.”

Draco flushed slightly but said nothing.

Evander tilted his head. “I understand sentiment. Even misplaced hope.”

Draco swallowed, lifting his chin. “He’s not—”

“—available,” Evander interrupted, eyes like frozen obsidian. “Nor interested. And more importantly, Draco, he is under my protection.”

That landed like a falling coin in a silent room.

Draco looked away, jaw tight, pride bristling beneath his pale skin.

But Evander wasn’t cruel. Just absolute.

He stepped forward then, only slightly, voice softening into something almost cordial. “You’re a Malfoy. I expect better than passive theatrics and petty gestures.”

Draco’s eyes flicked back to his, startled at the shift.

“You’ll find your own path, I’m sure,” Evander continued. “But if you continue trying to flirt with what’s already mine, you won’t just lose respect—you’ll lose your seat at this table.”

A pause. A breath.

“And Draco… I never say anything twice.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

Evander turned and left, his footsteps echoing like closing arguments in a courtroom. The chill remained behind.

Draco stood in silence for a long time, his pride crumpling neatly between his fingers, until finally—finally—he tore out the last page of his velvet notebook and let it drift over the side of the tower. It caught the wind, spiraled like a broken feather, and disappeared into the night.

Chapter 16: Whispers Beneath the Stone

Summary:

As autumn deepens at Hogwarts, so does the unease. The first attack sends a chill through the castle—a student found petrified, eyes wide with horror, just outside the Charms corridor. But what draws attention is not the method… but the target. One by one, those who had openly respected Harry’s betrothal to Evander Black begin to fall. Whispers spread, not just of the Chamber of Secrets, but of something older, darker—of vengeance twisted with politics. Tensions mount as fear creeps into even the most secure corners of Slytherin. When one prominent figure pays the ultimate price, the entire school is shaken—and Evander realizes that what is haunting the halls may not just be after blood… but legacy.

Chapter Text

16. Whispers Beneath the Stone

When silence falls, it is not always peace—it is the warning before the scream.

Hogwarts was steadily slipping into its autumn rhythm. Golden leaves rustled outside tall castle windows, and within the stone walls, everything seemed to flow with an almost deceptive ease—especially for Evander and Harry. Harry had melted into Evander’s world like he’d always belonged there. His laughter had become a familiar echo among Evander’s companions. His opinions, once uncertain and cautious, now danced confidently in polite debate. And Evander—once cold, disciplined, untouchable—found himself more at peace in Harry’s presence than anywhere else.

For a time, it almost felt like things could stay this way. But fate, especially in Hogwarts, rarely allows such stillness for long.

It happened on Halloween. They had been away all day—Harry and Evander. The trip to Godric’s Hollow had been both solemn and surreal. It was Harry’s first time standing before the grave of his parents, the first time seeing the sleepy little village where his life had both begun and broken. Evander had stood beside him the entire time, silent, steady—offering no platitudes, only presence. That had been enough.

By the time they returned, twilight had slipped into darkness, and the castle was alight with floating pumpkins and soft candlelight. The Halloween Feast was already underway, with laughter bubbling like cauldrons and plates refilling themselves in warm bursts of magic. Despite the ornate dishes and glittering décor, Harry still looked a little pale. Evander had guided him to the Slytherin table, where he quietly sat beside him, content to simply be. Most students were already finished with their meals, and some were trailing out of the Great Hall in sleepy groups when it happened.

A scream. Not just any scream. A sound ripped from the very soul—raw, choking, and primal. It froze the air in an instant. Silverware clattered to the tables. Conversations died mid-laugh. Then came the figure—half-falling through the wide doorway of the Great Hall—his face stark white, his whole body trembling like a puppet whose strings had snapped.

“Kevin Ashworth,” Evander murmured aloud, recognizing the Gryffindor prefect with a slight frown.

The same Ashworth who often coaxed Harry back to Gryffindor Tower when he lingered too long in Evander’s quarters. A half-blood raised in the old ways, quietly respected even among Slytherins for his decorum and composure. But tonight, Kevin looked shattered. His hands fluttered uselessly in the air as if trying to shape words from the fragments of a nightmare. Madam Pomfrey, swift and efficient, appeared at his side and administered a Calming Draught, which he drank in jerky gulps. And then, just as silence had begun to settle again, he spoke.

“There’s—” Kevin’s voice cracked. “There’s a dead body in the Charms corridor. Someone’s dead. They’re—they’re not moving.”

The words fell like a guillotine blade. A ripple of shock tore through the room. Screams erupted, chairs scraped back, and some students stood too fast, knocking goblets and plates flying. Panic swept over the hall like a crashing wave.

Harry was rigid beside Evander, his hands gripping the edge of the table, knuckles white. Even the coldest Slytherins—those who sneered at weakness and mocked Muggleborns—sat pale and shaken. Evander’s gaze never left Kevin. He knew that look. That wasn’t a prank. That wasn’t a misunderstanding. That was the expression of someone who had seen death and could not unsee it.

It took several minutes for Dumbledore to restore order. He stood, eyes grave behind his half-moon spectacles, and lifted a single hand. The magic in his voice was unmistakable.

“Students!” The hall quieted instantly.

“No one will leave the Great Hall. Prefects and Head Students, you are responsible for maintaining calm. Professors Sinistra and Burbage will remain here with you.” His eyes flicked to the doors. “The rest of you—please come with me.”

Snape was already standing. McGonagall’s face was drawn and pale. Professors Flitwick, Sprout, and Vector joined them as they followed Dumbledore out, their faces grim, expressions tight with dread. The doors to the Great Hall slammed shut behind them. And just like that… Halloween wasn’t about pumpkins and sweets anymore. It was about the first whisper of something darker. Something old. Something deadly. And Evander felt it in his bones—the shift. Something had changed. The peace was over.

When the professors left the Great Hall, a tense silence settled like dust after a storm—until whispers surged back, crawling between tables, carried by anxious glances and pale faces.

Harry sat unusually quiet, shoulders stiff and gaze fixed on the now-shut doors. The visit to Godric’s Hollow had left something raw inside him—seeing the graves, the remnants of a life lost before it began. Now this. A scream. A body. Bloodless or not, the trauma scraped old wounds open.

Across the table, Avery leaned in close to Rosier, whispering too low for others to hear. His expression was unreadable, but his fingers tapped a nervous rhythm against the goblet in front of him. Even the always-aloof Imelda had stopped pretending to enjoy the remains of her pumpkin tart.

Evander, however, had eyes only for Harry.

He reached out without hesitation, slipping his hand over Harry’s cold ones beneath the table. His grip was firm, grounding. His thumb stroked soft circles against Harry’s knuckles as he murmured, “They’re handling it. You’re safe. I promise.”

Harry didn’t respond at first—just leaned slightly closer, as though drawn to that quiet assurance. His breath hitched once, then slowed.

Then, as though summoned by scent of fear, Draco Malfoy appeared from the nearby cluster of sixth-years, robes crisp and composure shaken but intact. Without invitation, he slid into the empty space beside Evander. The silence between them was brittle glass. Draco’s gaze flicked toward Harry, then away, chin held high in stubborn defiance of his own discomfort. Evander did not acknowledge him, save for the faintest nod. Whatever their tensions, Draco was family. And despite his dramatics and notorious cowardice, even Draco knew not to taunt when something real bled into their safe, structured world.

Time dragged like molasses through the tension. When the doors finally creaked open, it was not Dumbledore, nor McGonagall, nor Snape who returned—but Professor Flitwick, alone and visibly pale beneath the torchlight.

Professor Flitwick cleared his throat, his tiny form barely visible behind the staff lectern. His usually cheerful voice was pitched with a distinct tremor, but it rang out clearly through the Great Hall, magically amplified:

“E-erm—students, p-please do remain calm! Th-the situation is under c-control. The student who was found… he is not—not dead. He has been… petrified. Yes, petrified. His condition is stable, and Madam Pomfrey is already tending to him with great care.”

There was a collective exhale across the hall, the kind that doesn’t come from lungs but from the soul. Laughter didn't return—only relief. A few gasped, others reached for one another. Even Draco let out a breath, too loud in the quiet that followed.

Professor Flitwick paused, clutching the sides of the lectern as a quiet murmur rippled through the hall. Swallowing visibly, he continued, his tone still gentle but firmer now, the weight of responsibility grounding his usually excitable nature:

“All students will now return to your dormitories under the guidance of your prefects. No one—no one is to wander the corridors alone! This is very important, you see. Your Heads of House will provide further instructions come morning. Th-thank you, and—please, stay safe.”

Evander didn’t wait for instructions. He rose with silent command, gently pulled Harry to his feet, and guided him from the hall like a shadow moving through glass. No one questioned him—not even the professors. The Black heir was not to be stopped when it came to Harry Potter.

That night, Evander tucked Harry into the velvet-draped bed in his private quarters—the chambers steeped in history and warded like a fortress. Harry barely spoke, only curling into the plush covers while Evander sat beside him, fingers brushing soft, dark strands from his face.

“Do you think it’ll happen again?” Harry whispered, voice brittle.

Evander’s jaw tensed. “Don't Know,” he said, honest and unafraid. “It has happened for the first time in Hogwarts history.”

The castle slept uneasily that night. Somewhere deep in the stone and shadows, ancient secrets stirred. And though most of Hogwarts would rise tomorrow in relief, thinking the worst was over—they were wrong. This was not an isolated act. This was a beginning. A bloodless one, yes. But blood would follow soon. And war… war was already whispering its name.

The weeks that followed the first attack blurred into a cautious rhythm of forced normalcy. The initial panic faded into whispers, and the school resumed its routines, though never quite the same. The shadow remained—lingering like smoke after a fire.

Harry had, for the most part, recovered his lightness. His laughter returned in flashes, his easy presence a balm in the strained halls. Evander, ever composed, buried himself in the relentless demands of his lordship—signing documents by firelight, exchanging coded letters with Cassiopeia, all while attending N.E.W.T. classes with that same distant grace that made him untouchable.

Then came the Quidditch match—Gryffindor versus Slytherin. It should’ve been a harmless tradition, a school rivalry soaked in house pride and overblown theatrics. But when the bludger went rogue—veering straight for Harry’s head, wild and unrelenting—it nearly shattered more than bones. Evander saw it a second too late but moved in time. One spell, swift and silent, turned the iron menace into fine dust. The crowd had gasped. Madam Hooch was outraged. Gryffindor won, of course, though Draco Malfoy sulked for hours afterward, muttering about betrayal and favoritism. But Harry was alive. That was enough.

Evander didn’t sleep that night. And then, just when the castle had begun to steady itself again, it happened.

The second attack. This time, it was Penelope Clearwater—a Ravenclaw sixth-year. Intelligent, poised, and notably, a half-blood who practiced the Old Ways. She'd been found just outside the Library corridor, limbs frozen in that terrible rictus of petrification, eyes glassy and wide. It had been Hagrid who discovered her, on his way to return a borrowed volume on magical soil preservation.

The castle slipped back into chaos. Two victims. Both half-bloods. Both known for upholding pureblood traditions and adhering to the old laws. And neither fit the usual target of blood prejudice—not quite Muggleborn, not quite pure. It was a message. But who it was for—and who had sent it—remained buried in the stone walls of Hogwarts. And the whispers began again. Darker this time. Sharper. Deliberate.

The days that followed Penelope Clearwater’s petrification were riddled with unease. The air in Hogwarts grew taut with unsaid fears, every corridor heavy with tension. Students moved in clusters, glancing over their shoulders, and even the professors—normally the voices of reason—seemed caught in a frenzied, sleepless rhythm. The whispers of the Chamber of Secrets spread like a slow, creeping rot. By the time December's frost touched the windows, the theory was already alive in every common room: the Heir had returned.

But before fear could settle into something bearable, another attack shattered the illusion of control. This time, it wasn’t a half-blood. It was Izar Rowle—fifth-year Slytherin. A proud pure-blood, born and raised in one of the most rigidly traditional families. He followed the Old Ways with almost religious devotion and had been one of the more vocal supporters of the alliance between the Ancient Houses of Black and Potter. He had even gone so far as to write to The Oracle defending the engagement against whispers of impropriety.

They found him sprawled in the corridor outside Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom—body stiff as marble, mouth parted in an eternal breath of fear, wand still clutched in his unmoving fingers. Above him, in glistening, arterial red, someone—or something—had scrawled a new warning:

“Traitors of the Heir’s claim, beware.”

This time, the message cut deeper. It wasn’t about bloodlines alone. It was about loyalty. About devotion. About those who dared to support what should not have been touched. And it was just the beginning.

The Board of Governors was in turmoil. Parents were sending letters in droves, the Daily Prophet published sensational speculation daily, and even Albus Dumbledore was running thin trying to control the damage. Lucius Malfoy, newly appointed to the Governor’s Board through some barely legal maneuvering, was fanning the flames—his voice louder, his accusations sharper with each passing day.

Christmas arrived wrapped in fear, not festivity. The petrified students—half-bloods and purebloods who’d dared to support the Black-Potter union or still upheld the Old Laws—remained confined to the Hospital Wing, still frozen in time, their attackers still a mystery. The unease in the castle had grown like a bruise left too long unattended.

Three Ministry meetings and one foreign conference were already on Evander’s schedule—obligations no Lord could ignore. But Cassiopeia Black, ever perceptive, declared that politics could wait. She swept Harry and Evander off to Paris, determined to bond the two boys more deeply under the glow of Yule fire.

Paris was white with frost, the Seine iced over at its edges. Cassiopeia rented out a flat in the 6th arrondissement, wrapped in enchantments older than the Eiffel Tower. The Yule rituals were intimate and traditional: a blessed log was burned in the hearth, an animal was sacrificed as per ancient rites, and Cassiopeia guided Harry through the process with a gentleness that was rare for her. They attended LeBlanc family’s grand Yule gala, mingled with foreign Lords and heirs, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like the darkness had lifted.

But fate was rarely merciful. When they returned to Hogwarts in January, the castle stood unchanged—but the fear had settled into its bones. The attacks, strangely, had ceased for three months. Students started whispering that perhaps the worst had passed. They were wrong.

It happened on a somber Friday morning in March, just as lunch was winding down. Students had filled the Great Hall with lazy chatter and clinking cutlery. Outside, spring sunlight peeked through frost-laced windows. Classes were resuming soon, and the corridors echoed with footsteps and laughter. Then came the scream.

Not from a student—but from Professor McGonagall. She burst into the Great Hall, disheveled and pale, eyes wide behind her spectacles. Her Scottish brogue was thick with panic, voice trembling as she cried out, “Albus! Albus—Mr. Weasley! In th’ corridor—Transfiguration corridor—oh Merlin, Albus, he’s—!”

The hall descended into chaos. Students surged to their feet. Professors followed in McGonagall’s wake. Evander rose with icy calm, Harry already tugging on his sleeve, and together they moved through the growing crowd. Nothing could have prepared them for the sight that waited.

The corridor was silent—eerily so. Cassia Rosier stood petrified against the wall, her body twisted in a strange, rigid arc, her mouth frozen mid-scream. But it was what lay before her that stole the breath from everyone who arrived. Percy Weasley. Not petrified. Not cursed.

Dead.

His body was crumpled, lifeless, sprawled at an angle no living spine could bend. His spectacles lay broken beside him. There were no wounds. No curse scars. Just an empty, hollow gaze and the silence that follows the soul.

McGonagall dropped to her knees beside him. Her hands trembled as she brushed his fringe away from his eyes—those too-bright, too-dead eyes. “Percival,” she whispered. “Och, my clever lad…”

Evander stood utterly still. His jaw tightened, but the grief was in his throat, clogging it, raw and burning. Percy had been many things: a rival, a competitor, a pureblood with both brains and backbone. Evander had respected him in ways he never voiced—perhaps never fully realized until now.

A Ravenclaw girl began sobbing behind them. And that was when the realization settled, like ash after fire. The monster—whatever it was—was not done. It had not forgotten. And now, it had killed.

The aftermath was devastating—brutal in its stillness and sorrow. The Weasley twins, who had arrived moments after the scream rang through the castle, pushed through the lingering crowd just in time to hear McGonagall’s broken cry: “Percival…”

It hit like a blow. All the air seemed to leave the corridor at once. The students, in silent reverence or stunned fear, instinctively parted to let the rest of the Weasleys through. Ron stood frozen where he was, his freckles stark against a face drained of all color, mouth slack in disbelief. He wasn’t crying—he didn’t seem able to. He just stared, hollow-eyed, at the lifeless body of the brother he admired and never told. Harry was already at his side, one hand on his back, whispering something low and desperate, but Ron didn’t hear it. He was locked in place, shell-shocked and trembling.

The youngest Weasley, the girl—Ginny—looked like she’d been doused in ice water. She clung to the wall, her fingers digging into the stone, eyes wide and unblinking. Her lips moved silently, over and over, whispering something—Percy’s name perhaps, or a prayer. She looked so terribly small, a ghost of herself, as though a single gust would blow her away.

But it was the twins who broke the silence like shattering glass. Fred and George rushed forward, voices hoarse and cracking, dropping to their knees beside their elder brother. There was no laughter now. No smirk. No jest. Only disbelief, clawing and frantic. Fred shook Percy’s shoulder while George checked his wrist for a pulse that wasn’t there.

“Percy—come on, you git—wake up—this isn’t funny—”

“Professor, please—he’s not—he’s not—”

“Do something! DO SOMETHING!”

Their cries echoed off the stone like a curse. They begged. Pleaded. Clutched at their brother’s robes like children again, as if their love could will him back. But Percy didn’t move. His body remained cold, the finality of it a slap to the soul.

Even Albus Dumbledore, a man known for unfailing composure, stood at the edge of the corridor looking as though the weight of a century had fallen on his shoulders. His eyes, usually bright with mischief or mystery, were dulled with sorrow. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He merely watched, hands folded before him, as if mourning not just the boy, but everything that came undone with him.

The castle itself seemed to grieve. No one returned to their lessons. No one dared laugh or speak louder than a whisper. The silence stretched across every hall, pressed against every chest like stone. The news spread like wildfire, but no one wanted to hear it.

Molly and Arthur Weasley arrived within the hour, and their cries tore through the castle like a storm. Molly collapsed to her knees the moment she saw Percy’s body, her sobs shaking her so violently that even Madam Pomfrey flinched. Arthur knelt beside her, white-faced and shaking, arms around his wife, one hand stroking Percy’s hair as if it would somehow comfort him—even now.

Healers from St. Mungo’s were summoned, but they came too late to do anything more than record the time of death. They performed their examination quietly, respectfully. But there was no mystery left. The only thing colder than Percy’s body was the silence that followed him.

The castle did not recover. In the days that followed Percy Weasley’s death, Hogwarts became unrecognizable. It was still stone and spires, ghosts and candles—but it no longer felt alive. The laughter that once echoed through the halls had vanished entirely, swallowed by a grief too deep for magic to touch. Every portrait in the castle seemed to whisper, and even Peeves, notorious for his chaos, went silent for nearly a week.

The House of Gryffindor was a hollow shell. Their prefect was gone—taken not by time or accident, but by something unknown, something cruel that had wormed its way into the heart of their school. Percy had never been the most beloved among students—too proud, too strict, too proper—but his death carved through them like a knife. Because Percy was the one who was supposed to be safe. The smart one. The careful one. The one who did everything right. And now he was gone. The Fat Lady wept openly in her portrait. At night, she refused to let anyone in without a password and a whispered apology.

Classes resumed, but half the students didn't attend. And those who did sat stiffly in their seats, eyes unfocused, quills unmoving. Teachers didn’t enforce the rules; they merely looked on, taking register with trembling hands. Even Professor Snape, cold and cutting as ever, toned down his usual barbs. He handed out assignments in a voice low and flat, eyes flicking once to the empty seat Percy had once filled in Advanced Potions—then quickly away. Minerva McGonagall moved like a shadow through the castle, her face set in stone. She spoke only when necessary, her brogue heavier, her words clipped. During meals, she remained silent at the staff table, staring into her untouched plate, her knuckles white around her goblet.

The Great Hall, once filled with chatter and clinking cutlery, now sounded like a cathedral in mourning. The long tables were quieter than libraries. Students whispered their conversations, and heads turned every time a teacher entered, expecting—dreading—more news. Atop the staff table, a black velvet ribbon was wrapped around the silver lectern where Percy once stood to deliver announcements as a prefect. A single candle burned beside it—charmed never to go out until justice was served.

And then there were the Weasleys. Fred and George didn’t prank. They didn’t speak. They drifted through the halls like ghosts, walking side by side, shoulders touching. They sat at the far end of the Gryffindor table, too quiet, too still. When one twin picked up a fork, the other set his down. When one looked up, the other lowered his gaze. It was as if a part of them had been carved out—raw, open, and bleeding.

Ron, once loud and messy and full of emotion, had not spoken to anyone in days. He simply sat in the common room, staring into the fire, his fists clenched. And Ginny—Ginny had changed too. She no longer hovered near her friends or hovered behind Hermione. She stood alone more often now, shoulders stiff, eyes hard, like she was waiting to burn the world down.

Harry, always caught between his own grief and everyone else’s expectations, stayed mostly in Evander’s quarters, away from the noise, the whispers, the guilt. He didn’t cry—at least not in public. But his face bore the same hollow silence as those who had lost something irreplaceable.

Evander, who rarely showed emotion, had never looked more tired. He did his duties—met with professors, wrote to the Wizengamot, signed off on security measures—but the sharpness in his eyes was dulled. Percy had been his rival, his academic equal, someone he had respected deeply even behind cool civility. And now that seat across from him in class was empty.

It was Evander who insisted Percy be given full honors in the Black Court’s record of war. “A mind lost in a time of war is no lesser casualty.” The words he wrote in silver ink were etched beside Percy’s name, the Black seal pressed beneath. And Hogwarts, ancient and proud, mourned not only a boy—but the shattering of its illusion of safety. Something was hunting them. And now, the war was no longer just whispered between classes. It had come to their doorstep.

Actions

Kudos

Jinx_101, Meomean, 12Katharinalelilasnowlingflintlight, koronekokun, Lunnea, brattycakes, JS2002, Sevlover77, Xxlux18xX, Dreamitty, Juka034, 132kdp, bitsbits, ALadywithabrain, clumsyee, DhaCostta, Vampirelover67, HeavenstarCalix, and Noorherself as well as 15 guests left kudos on this work!

Comments

brattycakes on Chapter 1 Tue 17 Jun 2025 05:23PM UTC

Intriguing start

Comment Actions
- Reply
- Thread
1. Guddan_027 on Chapter 1 Wed 18 Jun 2025 01:45PM UTC
  
  😇
  
  Comment Actions
hattiebea (Guest) on Chapter 1 Thu 19 Jun 2025 05:40PM UTC

heyaa, really luv ya work and I'm a Digital Artist would luv to create illustration for ya story also I got a scene illustration idea
so if you're interested here's my discord: hattiee.bea

Comment Actions
- Reply
- Thread
Noorherself on Chapter 2 Mon 16 Jun 2025 06:34PM UTC

Oooooh if only they knew that the Hat wanted him in Slytherin! Can't wait to see how Harry turns Evanders life upside down like the little gremlin he is.

Comment Actions
- Reply
- Thread
1. Guddan_027 on Chapter 2 Mon 16 Jun 2025 07:11PM UTC
  
  Oh trust me, the Hat knew what it was doing when it let him go to Gryffindor. Poor Evander has no idea the little gremlin is about to rewrite every law of control he lives by 😈
  
  Comment Actions
Noorherself on Chapter 4 Mon 16 Jun 2025 07:02PM UTC

This whole chapter is so evocative. I love the descriptions of Harry as this like ethereal Fae twilight prince. It makes sense that there would be this wild otherworldly aura about him considering how touched he is by fate and death. Plus Harry has always been a bit feral in a way I think the Blacks would appreciate if they weren't so mired in blood purity nonsense.

Comment Actions
- Reply
- Thread
1. Guddan_027 on Chapter 4 Mon 16 Jun 2025 07:13PM UTC
  
  You’ve absolutely nailed the essence — Harry is this quiet, twilight thing, touched by something ancient and unknowable. There’s a softness to him, but it’s the kind that lingers after a storm. The Blacks might not understand it yet, but their magic will. And Evander… oh, he’s already spiraling. The Fae Prince has arrived, and the world’s about to shift.
  
  Comment Actions
2. 1. Noorherself on Chapter 4 Mon 16 Jun 2025 07:34PM UTC
    
    Omg yes! This is the dynamic I want. I can't wait to see how this plays out. It makes me sad that Arcturus didn't live to see it though. I bet he would have loved Harry.
    
    Comment Actions
  2. 1. Guddan_027 on Chapter 4 Mon 16 Jun 2025 08:11PM UTC
      
      Ahh you get it 🥺✨ Arcturus absolutely would have adored Harry—his softness, his quiet fire, the mischief hidden beneath those lashes. I always imagined him being one of the first to truly see Harry's worth. If only fate had let them meet... but who knows? The Blacks have a way of lingering, even in portraits and magic older than memory 🖤 Stay with me, because this story is just beginning to unfold!
      
      Comment Actions
Noorherself on Chapter 8 Mon 16 Jun 2025 07:17PM UTC

Holy shit. This is gonna end up being the best thing that's ever happend to Harry I think. Getting him away from the Dursleys and Dumbledore is always a win.

Comment Actions
- Reply
- Thread
1. Guddan_027 on Chapter 8 Mon 16 Jun 2025 07:21PM UTC
  
  Right?! He went from cupboard under the stairs to marble halls and magically possessive nobles. 😌 We love a dramatic life upgrade. But let’s just say… peace and quiet isn’t exactly what Harry’s getting in return. 👀💅
  
  Comment Actions
Noorherself on Chapter 10 Mon 16 Jun 2025 07:27PM UTC

My baby is finally safe. Though I wonder if events have changed from canon seeing as there was no mention of Voldemort. Or does Evander just not know about Harry's run in with him. I'm so excited to see Harry reach his full potential - now that he has some real guidance. Also it's gonna be hysterical when Draco finds out his cousin is marrying the boy he was basically stalking lol.

Comment Actions
- Reply
- Thread
1. Guddan_027 on Chapter 10 Mon 16 Jun 2025 08:08PM UTC
  
  Awww 🥺 yes, finally safe and properly spoiled! As for the events of canon… let’s just say Evander is about to discover a lot of things Harry “forgot” to mention (including a certain Dark Lord incident 👀). And ohhh Draco… poor ferret won’t know whether to scream, sulk, or send wedding gifts early 💅 Stay tuned—Harry’s glow-up and chaos era is just getting started 💚🖤
  
  Comment Actions
brattycakes on Chapter 13 Tue 17 Jun 2025 08:19PM UTC

Devoured this. Can't wait to see where else this goes!

Comment Actions
- Reply
- Thread
1. Guddan_027 on Chapter 13 Wed 18 Jun 2025 01:44PM UTC
  
  Ha Ha.... Thank You.....😅
  
  Comment Actions
brattycakes on Chapter 14 Wed 18 Jun 2025 10:49AM UTC

Im hoping Ton and Hermione come around, cause it would suck of he lost his friends in Gryffindor. There has to be room for both, right?
Ginny might want to join Draco in their mutual despair over "losing" Harry.

Comment Actions
- Reply
- Thread
1. Guddan_027 on Chapter 14 Wed 18 Jun 2025 01:43PM UTC
  
  Friendship between the trio will remain... But it will not be as close as it was in canon... They would have some disagreements, and well, Ginny will be with Draco.
  
  Comment Actions
2. 1. brattycakes on Chapter 14 Wed 18 Jun 2025 02:13PM UTC
    
    I love that for them🤣
    Arthur and Lucius will implode.
    
    Comment Actions
  2. 1. Guddan_027 on Chapter 14 Wed 18 Jun 2025 07:20PM UTC
      
      They will off course..... 😜
      
      Comment Actions
Noorherself on Chapter 14 Wed 18 Jun 2025 01:05PM UTC

Yeah I just don't see a happy ending so to speak in terms of Harry's friendships in Gryffindor. It's also worth bearing in mind that this is only Harry's second year in Hogwarts now right? So there's a lot less keeping the golden trio together. Harry's only known them for like one school year at this point and while he obviously cares about them he hasn't known them or rather trauma bonded with them enough to usurp the Blacks. The Blacks have offered him safety, knowledge and family - there's no beating that. Especially when recent revelations about Harry's future and place in the world as Consort Black are gonna bring about both Hermione and Rons worst attributes. Hermione is already being incredibly obnoxious about matters she doesn't understand and doesn't realise that Harry loves the Blacks and is ultimately very pleased that he'll be marrying Evander. I wouldn't say Harry's in love with Evander yet but he obviously has a huge soft spot for him. Ron ofc is immediately jealous of Harry's new clothes etc like the petty man he is. He'll just never be able to get past Harry's material wealth now that Harry isn't hiding it anymore. Ginny is a huge creep here and is clearly making Harry really uncomfortable. He's spoken less than 3 words to her and she somehow felt entitled to him. Gross.
I honestly think Harry would be better off resorting into a different house but I think he'll be ok in Gryffindor if he finds the right people. Neville would probably be a lifeline here tbh. He's the only person in Harry's year in Gryffindor who has the legacy of an old Pureblood house to carry. I think he probably "gets" it while many of them won't. Even if Harry was unwilling this is all set in a contract enforced by strong old magic - so regardless of Harry's feelings he has to go along with it. Luckily for him and Evander they are well suited and even without the contract they would have been drawn together imo.
I'm interested to see if the diary will turn up in this. Has the recent scandal with Harry being the new upcoming Consort Black been big enough to keep Arthur Weasleys muggle protection act off the table so to speak? I like how your giving us a lot of info of things that happen in Harry and Evanders immediate sphere but keep a lot of other canon related stuff in the background. Harry didn't go to Diagon alley with the Weasleys in this world so we have no idea if anything went down with Lucius and Arthur. We also don't know for sure what happened with Quirrell at the end of first year because Evander didn't notice anything odd and if anything did happen than Harry hasn't told the Blacks. If the diary does turn up and things follow canon - I think we'll see the heir of Slytherin stuff hit Harry a lot harder. I don't see *this* Ron having Harry's back when he's already really jealous at this point.

Comment Actions
- Reply
- Thread
1. Guddan_027 on Chapter 14 Wed 18 Jun 2025 01:40PM UTC
  
  Well catch... Harry here never went to Weasleys, and so he had no bond with them.... Yes, he had a soft spot for Evander.... The friendship will remain, but not as close as it was in canon.... And, of course, the Diary plot is going to come... but it will be more intense... More Creepier....😱
  
  Comment Actions
brattycakes on Chapter 15 Thu 19 Jun 2025 12:58AM UTC

How did I forget to comment? Loved how comfortable Harry has become with Evander. They are becoming home to each other. How will Sirius fit into this or will he not escape? I've always hated his fate in canon and I hope he gets a different one in this fic.

Comment Actions
- Reply
- Thread
1. Guddan_027 on Chapter 15 Thu 19 Jun 2025 08:56AM UTC
  
  Sirius’ fate in canon is something I’ve always personally disliked. He’s a character I believe deserved far more than what he was written into or ultimately given. In this fanfic, while the main narrative revolves around the entangled fates of Harry and Evander, it also explores the rise—both in power and legacy—of the Houses of Black and Potter.
  Evander, though groomed to lead and raised within an elite and often ruthless world, has grown up under the long, grim shadow of Sirius Black. Even with Sirius in Azkaban and the world branding him a traitor, Evander’s belief in the sanctity of blood runs deeper than public opinion. For him, Sirius is more than a name chained to shame—he is family. And in the world of old magic and legacy, family is everything.
  Because of this, Sirius’ fate in this story will diverge from canon. He will not be cast aside. Not here.
  
  Comment Actions
brattycakes on Chapter 16 Thu 19 Jun 2025 05:32PM UTC

Percy? Damn. He died roo soon. Does Ginny have the diary? The family will be deviated when they find out she is being possessed. Hopefully, she'll get some therapy.

Comment Actions
- Reply
- Thread

Actions

Work Header