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Chapter Text

October 31^st 1980

The Cave, England, Great Britain.

Why was it always him?

Okay. Here’s the thing. It hadn’t always been like this. Regulus had proudly been a self-preserving, well-respected Slytherin with no intention of ever doing the stupid hero shit. He’d left that to fun-loving, reckless and idiotic Sirius, his irresponsible Gryffindor brother.

Then, naïve, trusting Sirius had finally met someone who took full advantage of his idiocy and even encouraged it. And Albus Dumbledore was manipulative enough to wrap his plans in a neat bow of niceness, ‘goodness’ and light bullshit. Sirius, who was supposed to be the best of his family, ended up eating all of it up, and now Regulus had to clean up his mess, but what was new in his pointless life?

Not to say that Regulus hadn’t had his own… rash moments in the past, but at least his actions were usually influenced by one of two things, his crazy, controlling mother, or his family’s thousand-year-old legacy. Sirius, on the other hand, followed James Potter like he was God’s gift to mankind and Sirius was his devotee. It was an interesting dynamic, especially considering Sirius was more powerful and smarter than Potter, but hey, whatever made him happy, right? Right?!

NO! Because now Regulus was tied up in a mess that was way beyond his patience and self-control. Truly, how this snake-faced psychopath had managed to instil fear in a whole community is beyond Regulus’s comprehension. Like, the man was reckless and plain sadistic. His thoughts, plans, and actions were solely based on his need to destroy as much as he can. There was no planning or basic strategy behind any of it. And with pureblood supremacy as the banner of all things. Had the idiot really thought no-one would find out he was a half-blood? Like he didn’t even hide the information! How hypocritical could he be? Even Regulus, who came from a long line of powerful purebloods with a legacy that would need years to be recounted properly, wasn’t as enamoured by the rhetoric as this lowly half-blood. And his mother, in all her infinite wisdom, had thought subjecting half the family to his whims was a good idea. Where had she gotten that stupid belief, Regulus would never know. And now, Regulus had to listen to this half-man half… something spout his hateful, crazy views and try not to pull his hair out.

But all for Sirius’s continued happiness, right?

Yeah, no.

Because Sirius wasn’t even that happy! Why?! Because his stupid found family was being endangered by the snake-face Regulus was forced to follow and obey. Blegh. It left a bad taste in his mouth. Sirius was attached now, though, and for his continued survival, Regulus must do what he’d sworn he’d never do.

Become a stupid, disgustingly selfless hero.

Or anti-hero was more accurate. Heroes had good thoughts about people, they didn’t want to choke, maim, and/or kill their loved-ones. Regulus did though, so badly. He would much rather fight his brother to the death than be in this stupid cave.

See, this was Regulus’s genius plan:

He’d recently discovered that snake-face himself had found a rather… psychotic way of staying immortal, a way that had basically stripped him of most of his brain functions. The objects he’d created, known as Horcruxes, stored a part of his soul that broke off every time he killed someone with no remorse – which was surprisingly a lot less than you’d think, apparently the so-called dark lord preferred his people kill for him than doing the dirty work himself.

(Wouldn’t Regulus have made a much better Dark Lord? He’s; unfortunately, had this thought one too many times. But he didn’t have the patience or social skills needed for such a position though – not that the current dark lord was any better.)

Regulus knew Voldy had made more than one, but the one he’d found was hidden in this dark, dreary cave in the middle of bloody nowhere. And Regulus, in a misguided attempt at cleansing his soul and owning up to his many sins, had decided to find said Horcrux and destroy it, thus making it easier for the order of fried chicken to take out the big bad ugly. (And Merlin was he ugly. The no-nose look fit literally no one.)

Regulus could admit it that yes, it was a stupid plan bound to be disastrous, but what else could he do? The infuriatingly arrogant psycho had used his Kreacher to hide the stupid locket-horcrux. No one used Kreacher for evil plans except Regulus. So this twisted heroic adventure was his twisted idea of revenge.

How… ironic. Or iconic. It depended on how you viewed his actions. Regulus believed in the latter.

“Stupid Dark Lord. Stupid Sirius. Stupid Dumbledore. The old man could’ve done this himself. Why did it have to be me, huh? It’s like his comfy chair is forbidding him from actually doing something productive instead of sitting on his ass and twiddling his thumbs.” He muttered to himself as he rowed the stupid boat towards the stupid small island in the middle of the stupid lake in the stupid cave. His nose wrinkled as he smelled the dank musk the air was saturated in.

Dear Merlin, Regulus was usually more eloquent than this. Had his frustrations impeded his thoughts that much? Could he not come up with a better word than stupid? Frustratingly inept, perhaps, or numbingly blank….

Oh, but his musings wouldn’t really do him any good, would they. He could curse everyone that had every wronged him, and he’d still be in this stupid mess all by himself. The loneliness hadn’t hit him until now, but he shook his head to clear out that useless emotion.

“Maybe Master should wait for Kreacher?” His most loyal friend said softly, and Regulus scoffed.

“Don’t be absurd, Kreacher. You’ve already done this one too many times. Let me handle this.”

“But the potion…?”

“I’ll be fine. Just follow orders. Now, repeat them again for me.”

“Kreacher is to force Master to drink the potion. Kreacher is to retrieve the locket and hide it in Grimmauld Place. If necessary…. If necessary, Kreacher must leave Master behind.”

“Very good.” Regulus whispered, nodding in approval. His friend-slash-childhood caretaker had always been good at listening to orders.

“Master must know that Kreacher does not approve.”

“Noted, but I’m still doing this. Drinking the Drought of Despair once is enough for you.”

And what could Kreacher respond to that. Nothing, that’s what.

After a few minutes of silence, the boat hit the island with a soft lurch. Regulus slowly stood up and helped Kreacher off of it before jumping off himself. What greeted him was a desolate land and a central raised dais in the middle with a bowl on top. Magic swirled all around – anti-apparition and anti-portkey wards surrounding the whole cave. The lake also seemed covered in dark, sickening magic that made bile rise in Regulus’s throat. Ah, the curse of his power.

You’d think seeing magic would be… well magical, but the amount of disgustingly unnatural magic Regulus was surrounded by on a regular basis was just horrifying. It had really cemented the fact he’d been forced to join the wrong side. Add to that the literal mouldy green aura that clung to the Dark Lord at all times of the day, indicating the horrifying things he’d done to his very soul, and Regulus was just over the whole Death Eater thing.

His abilities came directly from his Black blood, but their full range and capabilities were still a complete mystery to him. Every time he used them, he discovered something new, so they weren’t predictable by any means, but they were a good backup to have in situations such as this one.

So… taking a deep breath to steel himself, Regulus started drinking the horrid mixture in the bowl. Every scoop of the liquid down his throat sent shivers down his spine and bile rising to his throat that he had to swallow down.

At first it just felt… wrong, like he was drinking something he shouldn’t. Then, the thirst started. He forced himself to continue, even though every drop just made him thirstier, not less so.

Then came the hallucinations. It wasn’t called the Draught of Despair for no reason.

“Why are you doing this Reggie?” The shimmering spirit of his brother asked softly, and Regulus couldn’t help glaring at it.

“Do I have choice? This is how I can help.”

“But no one will remember you. You’ll be just a footnote in history; the man who’d tried to be a hero but fell short. The one who always falls short. You thought you could be different, atone for your sins, but you and I both know you’re too much like mother to be anything but the perfect Black heir. Always obeying, never defying. The weapon she directed with a word.” The illusion said cruelly, and Regulus’s glare sharpened.

“Oh fuck you.” Regulus cursed loudly, making Kreacher jump in surprise.

“Master?”

“I – It’s… nothing.” He forced another palm-full of the potion down his throat, panting with the effort it took him not to immediately run towards the lake and gulp down water like a dying man. And maybe he was… a dead man walking.

The illusion of his brother kept hurling hurtful words at him, but Regulus was just over the whole situation at that point. As soon as the bowl was shallow enough, he grabbed the locket, hissing in pain as the magic in it burned the flesh of his palm – it felt like his very blood, his magic itself was recoiling at the abomination he was holding. He thrust it at Kreacher.

“Don’t touch. Levitate it and go!”

“I – I can’t just – “

“GO!” And Regulus let the locket go, trusting Kreacher will do as he asked. A few seconds that felt like hours later, he heard the distinct pop of house-elf apparition. He immediately ran towards the lake, scooping up water directly into his open mouth, heaving a sigh of relief as cool liquid trickled down his throat soothingly.

He closed his eyes tiredly, taking a deep breath to centre himself, so he didn’t notice when a bony arm came out of the lake until the hand grabbed his forearm in a death grip. The hand holding him was surprisingly dry, but the pain was so great that it felt like it was seconds from breaking his arm in two. As soon as the feeling registered, his eyes snapped open to come face-to-face with one of magic’s most unnatural and disgusting beings. An inferi – an immortal dead body cursed to stay mobile and obey a dark wizard’s every whim. A mindless zombie if you will. Merlin, he’s been writing too much to his American counterpart, Atlas ‘Mars’ Grimm.

And as he was dragged below the surface and water surrounded him from all sides, the only thought that came to mind was simple really.

I hope Sirius is fucking happy.

Chapter Text

July 31^st 1990.

4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, England, Great Britain.

The people of Privet Drive had never seen anything like this man. He stood staring at number 4 like the house had personally wronged him. They wondered if he was a spirit that had died there, or if he was a vampire that had been wronged by the occupants’ ancestors. Maybe he was a siren out of its depth coming to curse their homes and lure them to sea. He certainly looked like a mystical creature.

He was pretty in a haunted way, with pale skin that glowed a bit in the afternoon light, eyes that looked like pure silver, and sharp features that gave him an ethereal look. His hair reached just below his jaw with bangs that swept in front of his eyes and was a pitch black that contrasted heavily with his pale features. He was wearing a long black coat over a black shirt and matching slacks, with the coat tied by a belt at his waist. His shoes seemed to be expensive leather with pointed toes and a slight heel. The sun reflected off of the many rings adorning his fingers, and his neck was covered by a black silk choker. His figure was lean, and he stood like he owned the whole street, with equal parts confidence and coldness that sent shivers down the onlookers’ spines. They couldn’t look away, but at the same times they felt they weren’t allowed to look at all.

He moved like a predator, making his way towards number 4 like a hunter approaches its prey. Everyone immediately hid behind their curtains when they noticed him glancing in their direction, hiding from his calculated gaze. They didn’t want to know what would happen next – which was unusual considering the whole neighbourhood was known for their nosy personalities – but they didn’t hold out much hope for the Dursleys’ continued survival. If a man like that was targeting them, then they probably wouldn’t last, right?

Regulus smirked in amusement as every single person in this dreaded street scurried into their homes or hid behind their curtains at his stare. How… mundane of them, to be scared of him.

He tilted his head slightly as he considered the door in front of him. He could ring the doorbell, but what was the fun in that? With a sharp grin, he put his hand on the doorknob and it blew up with a soft explosion; the door swinging back and forth softly from the momentum. He heard hurried footsteps coming towards him as he leaned against the doorframe.

“Y-You! Who the hell are you?!” A loud walrus-like man bellowed, trying to look intimidating but only coming off as… idiotic really. Regulus smirked at him in amusement.

“Who? Me?”

“Y-you’re one of them, aren’t you?” The horse-like woman that was behind the man stuttered out, and Regulus tilted his head a bit in consideration. She was related to Evans? But Evans was a pretty red-head, this woman was… just not that attractive, especially with the permanent pinch to her face that made it look like she was always smelling shit around her. Maybe she was, who know?

“What an astute observation. I’m here for the kid.” He replied bluntly, staring at them with dead eyes and a raised eyebrow.

See, Regulus wasn’t always impulsive, he was a Slytherin for Merlin’s sake! He’d been observing the family’s dynamic for a week now, and what he saw was not… pleasant.

Look, if he’d perceived that the stupid muggle family treated his brother’s Godson with love and respect, he would’ve never thought of interrupting the kid’s life. But alas, they were just plain horrible. The worst muggles he’s ever met. They were bullies, abusive, and plain hypocritical. They forced the kid to do all the chores to ‘earn his keep’, lied about his parents and compared them to deadbeats, and even hit him when he did something ‘wrong’ in their eyes. Their rules were ever-changing, and their words were as sharp as a knife. It was no place for the ‘boy-who-lived’ to be.

Typical Dumbledore, always trying to do the ‘right’ thing and using his actions and words to hide his manipulative ways. He wondered what the wizarding world would think if they knew their ‘hero’ was being abused by his muggle relatives. He almost laughed at the thought.

They’d riot, but ultimately not do anything if Dumbledore placated them with a few pretty words, leaving the boy to rot like they’d left every other abused child before him.

“W – What k-k-kid?” Dursley stuttered out, eyes shifting every which way, but Regulus noticed they always landed on the cupboard under their stairs. Fuck, really?!

He walked away from the ugly couple, past their idiotically gaping son and towards the cupboard door.

“NO! You can’t – “

But she was too late, as Regulus had opened the door and made eye contact with a pair of emerald green eyes. The two stared at each other for a full minute before the kid opened his mouth.

“Wh – who are you?” The kid was rod thin and tiny for a ten year old, with sharp features from obvious malnutrition and sagging eye-bags. He looked like a less cared-for version of James Potter. It was… weird for Regulus. He felt bad for the kid, and he didn’t really feel the resentment he thought he’d feel. He just felt… pity. Fuck, the kid was barely living. Who would’ve thought James Potter’s precious son would end up… like this? In a cupboard, hated by his family, a servant in his own home.

Dumbledore should burn for this.

After the sacrifices his brother had made for this child, this was how he ended up? How tedious.

“This is a cupboard. Why are you in a cupboard?”

“It’s fine. This is my room.” The kid, Harry, muttered, hiding his face in shame.

“It’s not fine.” Regulus said, laughing loudly – a cold, bitter sound that echoes off the walls. The shadows around them start convulsing. Moving unnaturally in reaction to Regulus’s changing emotions.

“Now you listen here –“

But he didn’t get to continue as he chocked lightly, and finally Regulus’s eyes met his. The silver had darkened into a molten grey, face stuck in a cold fury.

“If you ever even think about touching him, there won’t be a corner of this earth you can hide in where I wouldn’t find you. And when I do, you won’t know what fucking hit you.”

As he spoke, the man had been levitating with his neck at a weird angle, like there was a noose around it dragging him up and up. The darkness lunged at Vernon, a thousand hands grasping at his throat. His wife, apparently the smarter one, had started begging quietly as she hid her son behind her.

“Please. We’ll leave him alone. We won’t do anything. Just stop, please.” She sobbed out, her hands clutched together as she fell to her knees. It was pathetic, and Regulus couldn’t help sneering at her ugly sputtering.

“Oh you won’t get the chance to, believe me on that.” With that he waved his hand lazily, and the whale-like man fell to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut off.

He slowly walked towards the kid, who was staring at him with equal parts awe and fear. Smart kid. He held out his hand towards the young Potter and made his final offer. Let this be the final thing he’ll do for his ungrateful brother.

“You can stay here, forgotten and alone. Or you can come with me and learn to make the whole world fear your name and tremble at the mention of it. Your choice kid.”

“You still haven’t told me who you are.” But as he said this, he took Regulus’s hand, no hesitation whatsoever. Okay, was Regulus starting to like this kid? Of course not. But he was… fascinating to interact with. But, wait! Oh fuck! Oh shit! He said yes? Fucking shit.

“My name is Regulus Black. I – you could say I knew your parents I suppose.”

“Huh. I don’t know how to respond to that, or if I can trust you.” The kid said as they walked towards the door hand in hand still. The kid was hesitant to let him go, which he understood, but still. Regulus had never really had prolonged touch with anyone that wasn’t painful. Maybe when he was a small kid and his brother would hug him before bed. If the boy needed the comfort, though, then he’d give it to him. He was not fond, damn it!

“You don’t. You just learn to trust me.” With that, they disappeared into a swirl of shadows.

12 Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, England

Harry… didn’t really know how to react. The man had saved him, yes, but he seemed… like a storm wrapped in silk. Beautiful, but lethal. Not evil per se, just… tragic. Like he’d seen hell and barely came back.

His rings barely touched Harry’s hand, the man was that gentle with him, but they were also shaped like skulls, weapons, and weird crests. His coat was warm and made of expensive material, but his eyes were ice cold, like the warmth just wasn’t registering.

When they landed, the shadows that had surrounded them fell away like a blanket, leaving them standing in front of a tall building with twelve hung on the door in gold numbering. The house seemed ancient, almost eerily so, like a haunted mansion.

As they walked inside, the dark décor became even clearer.

“Sorry for the emo look. My mother liked to torture us, even in death.” Before he could continue, a loud banshee-like screech of pure evil erupted.

“POTTER FILTH! BLOOD TRAITOR—“

“Speaking of Mother….” Regulus muttered, sighing in exhaustion as he walked towards a large frame. Harry stared as the man glared at the woman in the portrait, and the sound stopped.

“Was that… the portrait?!”

“Right, muggle upbringing. Yes, in the Magical world, portraits speak and interact with the living. It can be informative, but most of the time it’s just annoying.” Harry hummed at that, staring around in equal parts awe and disgust. Because the house was horrible. It was mouldy, the wallpaper was peeling, and the furniture was falling apart. “Yeah, the house is haunted by bad taste and my mother’s ghost. Try not to scream.”

“Why? I mean – “

Stupid Harry! Don’t ask questions! Regulus seemed better than the Dursleys, so Harry can’t let him know how much of a freak he was.

“Because I’ve been in a coma for the past few years, and my caretaker didn’t have time to clean up. And it’s fine to ask questions, I don’t care. I actually… enjoy intellectual conversations.”

“Oh…. Got it!” Harry said with a small smile, ducking his head down to hide it. Maybe this new situation could be… nice.

“Welcome home Master!” A voice said beside them, and Harry turned to find a… creature of some sort standing there gaping at them. “Master… has brought… a child home?”

“Yes. He’ll be staying with us from now on. Kreacher, this is Harry Potter. Kid, meet Kreacher, my personal House Elf. I’ll tell you what that is later.”

“Uh, nice to meet you?” Harry asked hesitantly, looking at… Kreacher in confusion.

“Absolutely not! Kreacher will not clean up after a Potter brat!”

“You will if I tell you so.” Regulus said coldly, and Harry couldn’t help shivering at the tone.

“Still….”

“Kreacher, if you finish that sentence, I’ll donate you to the Malfoys.” The older man warned, and the elf shrunk back into himself, nodding in submission.

“Yes Master.”

“You’ll learn to get along.” Regulus said, and Harry thought it was meant to comfort him, but it fell flat. He didn’t comment though. “Now come, time to settle in your room. Dinner will be at seven. You can sit and get comfortable until then. We can also discuss expectations, house rules, and lesson plans then.”

“Lesson plans?”

“Well yes. You didn’t think I’d leave you uneducated and lost, did you?”

“I guess not.” He did say he liked intellectual conversations. Maybe this is what he meant.

They moved up the flight of stairs to another floor. It was a long corridor, with about three doors on either side.

“This is my room.” Regulus said, pointing to the last room on the right. Then he pointed to the one opposite it. “That one will be yours. It used to be my brother’s, but you can have it now.”

“I… can use something else. So your brother doesn’t get mad.”

“Nonsense. Sirius is in prison anyway, what use would he have for his room from there? Ignore the pictures of… inappropriately clad women though, I’ll remove them later.”

“Uh, alright then.” That shocked him, but he tried not to show him. Regulus cackled at his expression, so it seemed he wasn’t successful.

“I’ll tell you my messed up family history later. For now, relax in the room, get comfortable, and the bathroom is the first door on the left, so you can freshen up before dinner. If you need anything, call Kreacher. He might not like you yet, but he’ll obey your words like he does mine.” With that, the man turned and climbed the remaining stairs to the third floor.

Harry took a fortifying breath before opening the door to ‘his room’ – the door literally had ‘Sirius Black’ carved on it in gold though. Instead of weird pictures and horribly mouldy walls like he expected, he was instead greeted with clear burgundy walls, a four-poster bed with navy bedding and mahogany wardrobe and desk. It was like the room had self-cleaned itself for him.

Harry grinned in happiness as he ran and jumped onto the bed, relaxing onto it in relief and happiness. He didn’t notice, but the shadows in the room all curled around him like a preening cat.

Maybe he’d finally find a home here.

In the library a floor above where Harry was decompressing, Regulus was frantically looking through the shelves.

He was not panicking, okay?! He just…. What the fuck was he doing with a child?! He’d intended on simply threatening them into treating the kid well, but then he’d impulsively decided to just do it himself. Why? He had no fucking idea.

He couldn’t raise a ten year old. He barely knew what he was doing when he lived on his own. His childhood wasn’t a stellar example of good parenting either. His father barely acknowledged their existence before age eleven, and his mother was their warden, not their parent. Every decision, every lesson, and even what they ate was decided for them by her dictatorship. It was suffocating, and he never wanted any child to experience that, especially not an abused child, Potter’s kid or not. Honestly, him being Potter’s kid made it better. In the afterlife, he would stand in front of that brother-stealer and gloat in his face that he’d been the one to protect and teach his son about life, not his dead ass.

He would even get to rub it in Sirius’s face. That Sirius had been unable to care for his Godson, but his hated brother had.

Oh, this was going to be fun!

Still, where the fuck were the parenting books in this cursed library! Had none of his ancestors ever needed advice on how to rear their kids?!

“Merlin, do children need vegetables? What if he dies because I forgot a food group? I should’ve just sent Kreacher with a strongly worded letter to the Dursleys.” Regulus muttered to himself, still looking for anything that could bloody help him in this weird situation.

“What is Master looking for?” Kreacher asked after he appeared with a pop. Their constant proximity had made it so that surprise appearances didn’t really shock Regulus anymore.

“Anything to help me parent the kid.”

“Master is that determined to raise the Potter child?”

“Yes. I don’t want to mess him up.” Regulus mumbled, and Kreacher softened at the words. With a snap of his fingers, a book appeared in Regulus’s hands.

“Kreacher will be in the kitchen preparing dinner.” With that, the house-elf left, but Regulus’s lips quirked upwards in amusement at the elf’s rough demeanour.

The book was a simple black leather-bound one with a silver title. “Noble House of Black: Heir Training (Revised Edition).”

“Huh. This could work.” With that, Regulus sat down on the floor and leaned his back on the shelves, immersing himself in the book.

Chapter Text

July 31^st 1990

12 Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, England

Okay, here’s the thing, Harry did believe in magic. The Dursleys always punished him when he mentioned it, yes, but still, what else could possibly explain the weird things he did. Like when he was seven and, while running way from bullies, he ended up on top of his school’s roof. Or when he was eight and his aunt gave him that awful haircut, but his hair ended up growing back overnight. Or when – okay, you get the idea. Harry believes in magic. But this, what’s happening around him at that moment, it wasn’t just small accidents, it was an outward display of pure weirdness that could only be explained by magic – none of his relatives’ justifications would work here.

He was currently in one of the house’s bathrooms, and things just… weren’t happening normally. The tap screamed when Harry had touched it, the mirror had spoken to him, telling him – or more likely insulting him – that “his hair looked like a bird had made it home and he’d allowed it like a Hufflepuff”. Under the sink, he’d found the words ‘Fuck Walburga’ written like it’d been carved by fire, or a very thin laser.

Generally speaking, the house was just plain strange. Even the creaks that Harry expected when climbing down the stairs didn’t happen, like the house was telling him that it was fine with him being there. But that was insane, right? Right?!

“Is the faucet supposed to scream at you?”

“Only when you’re unwanted.” The weird elf, Kreacher, replied in a snarky tone, glaring daggers at Harry.

“Does it hate a Walburga person too? Cause I found a carving of ‘Fuck Walburga’ under the sink.”

“How nostalgic.” Regulus sighed out, looking up from his book to smile at Harry. “But no, that was my brother’s rebellious way of infuriating my mother, whose name is Walburga. I wouldn’t mind the décor much, Harry. Remember, Houses like this one, ancient and full of magic as they are, always have an opinion on things, you just learn to ignore them.”

“Got it.” Harry replied as he sat opposite him on the very long table. The table had two candelabras in the centre that kept flickering from orange to black and back again. There were portraits all around, but they were silent as they stood or sat in their frames. They were just watching the room’s occupants, only reacting using their expressions. It was kind of creepy, but Harry tried not to focus on their stares.

As Harry sat down opposite Regulus, he couldn’t help noticing that the man had changed from the formal outfit he’d been wearing, to a casual black t-shirt and matching slacks. When he noticed that Harry was wearing the same too large t-shirt and jeans six sizes too big that were tied by rope, he startled a bit.

“Oh, uh, you’ll need clothes, won’t you…?”

“Yes.” Harry deadpanned, making direct eye-contact with his new… guardian.

“Huh. I’ll come up with something.” He muttered as he tapped twice on the desk. Suddenly, two plates full of food appeared in front of them.

“Hope Master and Master’s… guest enjoy.” Kreacher said before disappearing again.

“Does he not… eat?”

“Yes he does, just not around us. That’s just what house-elves are comfortable with, so don’t take it personally.” Regulus replied as he started cutting his steak in elegant slices. Harry, who’d never really been given such a large meal before in his life, didn’t know what to do.

Regulus, noticing the boy’s confusion, decided to just help him out this time. He took the kid’s plate and gave him his already cut one. Harry stared at him in surprise and appreciation, but Regulus just shook his head awkwardly.

“It’s… nothing. But you’ll have to learn how to use utensils other than a fork and spoon.”

“I know how to cook, I’ve just… never had steak before.”

“I’ll add etiquette lessons to your plan.”

“Speaking of plan, can I… ask now?”

“After eating, it’s impolite to engage in conversation during a meal.” Regulus said in a typical teacher tone, and Harry returned to looking at his food. One bite of the deliciously tender meat seemed to open the floodgates, and he couldn’t help just shovelling the food into his mouth. He hadn’t realised how hungry he’d been before this.

He was thankful that Regulus didn’t comment on his abhorrent table manner; he didn’t think he could handle any words of comfort at the moment, and the man – weirdly enough – seemed to recognize that.

They finished their meal in silence, then Regulus led him to a room with a couch in front of the fireplace with a coffee table in the middle where two mugs were sitting. They settled down with space between them, which Harry was pleased about. He wasn’t used to positive physical touch, and it seemed Regulus was similar in that sense. The older man handed him one mug, taking the other for himself. Taking a sip, Harry couldn’t help humming softly at the taste of chocolate melted into his mouth, so unlike the watery expired packet mix Aunt Petunia had sometimes grudgingly gave him. His eyes were closed, so he didn’t notice the fond smirk Regulus shot him.

“So,” His saviour started, speaking in a calm, yet eerie tone. “What questions did you have?”

“How do you know my parents?” Because this would really decide how much he can initially trust the man.

“Not that well, but my brother was best friends with your father. They… were closer than brothers.” Harry could easily hear the bitterness in his voice, but he didn’t comment on it. “Sirius, my brother, is your godfather. Your mother and I did potions together sometimes. She was… the more intelligent of your parents. I had… great respect for her.”

“Okay. Why are you helping me?”

“You want the vaguely honest answer or the brutally honest one?” This had Harry laughing a bit before he answered.

“Both would be best.”

“Alright.” Regulus nodded. “Honest answer, because I know no one else would’ve. The man who sent you to your relatives… he’s too trusted, too influential to be questioned, so if he said you staying there was for the best, then no one would ask anymore or oppose his decision. The brutally honest answer is a lot simpler, I want to rub it in my brother’s face that I protected his precious Godson while he rotted in Azkaban for being an impulsive idiot and trusting the wrong people.”

“That’s… a lot to process.”

“Take your time.” Regulus said with a shrug, taking a sip of his drink.

Harry did the same, trying to process everything he’d just been told. There was one thing that kept bugging him from that whole tirade.

“This man, he has so much power that he can condemn me to years with the Dursleys without anyone even asking?” That had Regulus snorting loudly, though Harry had no idea why.

“You have no idea. This man, Dumbledore, he… he can tell the Wizarding World the sky is orange and grass is pink and they’d believe him. A lot of people, including my brother and your parents, have made the mistake of trusting his infallibility, and it usually got them hurt, or worse. There were a lot of things about my family’s ideologies that I did not agree with, but their mistrust of Dumbledore was one that I believed wholeheartedly. My brother, on the hand, thought all of my family’s words were lies and hypocrisies, so he put his life in Dumbledore’s hands, but it gave him nothing but heartache and a prolonged stay in hell. Remember kid, Dumbledore left you there on purpose, and your parents’ complete faith in him enabled that without anyone questioning him, even though you’re supposedly the ‘Saviour of the Wizarding World’ or something.”

“What?! I never did any saving! I’m just a kid.”

“Ah, I believe this is the time of this conversation where I tell you how exactly your parents died.”

“It wasn’t in a car accident, was it? The Dursleys lied about this too, didn’t they?”

“Car accident? Kid, I don’t think your father’s ever stepped foot in one in his – admittedly short – life. I would take everything the Dursleys said with a grain of salt. No, a stupid snake-faced idiot killed them. Look kid, I don’t sugar-coat things, if I tell you this story, I’m not hiding or decorating anything to protect your innocent little heart.” Regulus said bluntly, tone slightly sarcastic at the end, staring at Harry’s eyes as he said, “You sure you want to hear this?”

“Yes. Everything. The good, the bad and the ugly.” Harry said firmly – he was done with lies. Regulus’s blunt honesty was a fresh change actually.

“Suit yourself.” Regulus took a fortifying breath before starting. “Here goes. Okay, around maybe like fifteen years ago, a civil war broke out in the British Wizarding World between what people called the ‘light and dark’ sides, though I wouldn’t call them that. I’d call them more the idiotic hypocrites and the impulsive hypocrites. I was, unfortunately, forced by my psychotic mother to join the idiotic hypocrites’ side, AKA the Dark side. The leader of this little group, Voldemort, or the Dark Lord as his followers called him, rallied his troops on the banner of what magicals call blood purity, which is basically the belief that people of ‘Pure’ blood, so those born from both magical parents, are the only ones worthy of learning and practicing magic. His followers were mainly people who believed in that, or people with Dark cores – their magic was compatible with dark spells, which are illegal in our country. With me so far?”

“I think so…? So the idiotic hypocrites believed that only a small part of the community have the right to do magic, and the others didn’t, right? He also attracted the people who weren’t… supported by the magical ministry…?”

“Exactly! Damn kid that was a good sum-up.”

“Thanks. Why do you call them hypocrites though?”

“Glad you asked. Hypocrites because the Dark Lord, or as I call him, snake-face, is the son of a woman born from magical parents but without magic, and a man who was a muggle, so he had no magic at all. He’s what we call a half-blood. People like your mother, a witch born of a completely muggle family, were their biggest target. Your father, on the other hand, was like me. A pureblood from an ancient lineage. The Potters are actually a really old magical family.”

“Got it. And the other side, the… impulsive hypocrites?”

“Dumbledore’s side, and your parents’ side. They were called the ‘Light Side’ because they only practiced light magic, so legal, quote-unquote ‘good’ magic. We’ll get into types of magic at a later date, just know that this distinction is a bunch of ministry bullshit created to segregate people and cause conflict. Political hogwash if you will.”

“Hmm, like how muggles discriminate against those of non-white skin for no reason?”

“Yup, exactly. So the fight broke out around nineteen seventy five, when I was a lowly fourth year just trying to get by on sheer will and a ton of coffee. My mother, to no one’s surprise, decided to side with the idiots who thought blood differentiated people. My grandfather, who was the head at the time, decided to stay neutral, while my darling older brother sided with Dumbledore and his sheep. The conflict was mostly kept out of Hogwarts, our magical school, though some students do join sides around age sixteen, including, unfortunately, myself.”

“So you basically took your brother’s place, right?”

“Yes! Finally, someone who sees it for what it was! I was forced to take my brother’s place. While he got to strut around like God’s gift to humanity, I was being trained to be a killer using… interesting means. Our story really starts around nineteen seventy nine, around the time your parents had gotten married, but before your birth.”

“Okay….”

“A prophecy was given to Dumbledore in a fucking bar of all places. Don’t know the whole thing, and I don’t really remember the exact words, but it basically spoke of a child born at the end of July to parents who’d defied voldy thrice that would have the power to destroy the dark lord, or something, who fucking knows. There was more, but the spy who’d overheard it didn’t get the chance to hear the rest before he was caught and thrown out of the bar. Out of some sick sense of loyalty, he went to snake-face and told him. At this point, no one was a clear choice for villain-destroyer, but….”

“I was born.”

“Well, kind of. You and another kid, Longbottom, were born. In nineteen eighty, the two families were sent into hiding by Dumbledore, who they followed like domesticated pets, no offence.”

“None taken.” Harry replied softly, not really caring about much beyond where the story was obviously heading.

“So, for about six or so months, old snake-face tried to break the protections around either family. Then, your lovely family’s secret keeper, the one man who had your life literally in his hand, betrayed your parents and told voldy where you were hidden willingly, which is the only way anyone would’ve been able to get to you. So, on Halloween of nineteen eighty-one, my lovely twentieth birthday by the way, voldy attacked, killed your parents, and tried to kill you. The killing curse backfired, and for now, he’s gone. Though who knows how long that would last.”

“Okay. Let me just gather my thoughts before I ask.”

“By all means.” Regulus said, waving his hand casually as he took a breath and another sip to clear his throat. Look, Regulus was not the talkative type, so this whole storytelling thing was taking it out of him.

“Okay.” Harry took a big breath and let it out slowly before continuing. “Who was their secret keeper?”

“A greatly astute question, and I shockingly don’t mean this sarcastically. The ministry, Dumbledore and most people think it was my lovely idiotic brother, Sirius Black. So he was captured and sent to prison without a trial. Apparently, the evidence was too great that a trial was ‘simply not needed’.” The bitterness and sarcasm that dripped from Regulus’s tongue was so overwhelming that it was like slapping Harry with a sign that said, liars. Subconsciously, Harry found himself curling up in the corner of the couch as he prepared for the heartbreak he knew was coming.

“So what actually happened?” That had Regulus cackling, nodding in approval at Harry’s wording. Harry internally smiled. In a shocking turn of events, he found himself trying his hardest to earn this man’s approval.

“Their other friend, a guy named Peter Pettigrew, did it. I don’t know if Sirius actually killed him or if he miraculously managed to escape my bloodthirsty, Black-trained brother, but after their confrontation, only Sirius was found and thus assumed the guilty party. And my stupid brother didn’t help matters at all, laughing hysterically at the scene like a common criminal.” At this, Regulus’s rings clinked against the ceramic as his grip tightened around his mug.

“That’s why you said his impulsiveness sent him to hell.”

“Oh, yes. If only he’d stayed put and taken care of you, he wouldn’t be where he is now, would he?” Regulus said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

“Huh…. And my parents chose him as my Godfather?”

“Shocking, isn’t it? However, I believe Azkaban prison, the hell it is, might’ve finally curbed his recklessness. Too little too late though.”

“Can’t you… get him out?”

“Hmm…. I could, but I don’t want to yet. Call it a little brother’s petty revenge for being abandoned to hell for fucking Potter.” Regulus hissed angrily. “No hate to you Kid, I just don’t like your dad.”

“I understand. Can I ask more?”

“Sure. Ask anything you want.” That made Harry grin happily. How… unusual, hearing these words for the first time in his life. He was starting to really like this man. He was blunt but honest, vulgar but kind, and dark but not… pure evil like Harry had initially expected after what he did to the Dursleys.

“Why didn’t Dumbledore… help your brother? Wasn’t he his follower too?”

“Kid. I’m starting to really like you, which is unlike me but I’m rolling with it. Yes. He should’ve, but Merlin knows what goes on in that old goat’s head. Apparently, Sirius was not worth any effort from the Great Albus Dumbledore.”

“Did you… leave the idiotic hypocrites?” Regulus found it funny that the kid had taken to using his terminology instead of the official one, but he didn’t comment.

“Yes. I betrayed the hell out of him, which is how I ended up in a ten year coma. Fun, right?”

“I don’t get details, do I?”

“Not now, no. Maybe later in life, my young student.” Harry laughed quietly at that but nodded in understanding.

“What – what were my parents like?”

“You done with the war questions?”

“For now.” Regulus nodded at that before he thought about how to answer that question without insulting the kid’s father outright, again. Look, he had no love for James fucking Potter, but he respected the man enough to not tarnish his image in front of his son, especially post mortem. Had the man been alive, this would’ve been a different conversation – it actually wouldn’t have happened at all if Potter hadn’t died.

“He was a… arrogant little shit, with too much time on his hands, but… he was really talented at this sport called Quidditch. He and I were always neck and neck, and I respected his… loyalty and devotion to his friends. Guy loved you to death though, literally. Your mother, she had a mean stinging hex. She was also a complete genius; don’t tell anyone, but I actually liked her. She didn’t take shit from anyone, not even your father and his snot-faced friends.”

Harry smiled at the description. He liked how Regulus described everything, it was fun but precise. And he spoke with confidence, so Harry knew he wasn’t just bullshitting his way through things. He also admitted when he didn’t know something, which Harry knew was a special talent adults weren’t very adept at.

“Is magic always… this angry?” Harry asked after a moment of silence, gesturing to the house all around him.

“Only the fun kind.” Regulus said with a mischievous grin, eyes glinting slightly in the candle light.

“Okay…. Rules?”

“Ah yes. Well, you’ll be expected to learn a bunch of things. Your family’s powerful and ancient, with a lot of influence in our world, and heirs like you have a lot of expectations on them. I’ll be teaching you magic, duelling, history, and etiquette, among other things, and I expect complete diligence while learning. Focus and obedience are also required in these lessons.”

“Okay, I understand.”

“Beyond that, I expect you to question me on things. I’m not a parent, much less a caretaker. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I expect to make many mistakes. Question my words, research topics on your own to make sure I’m not lying or embellishing, and even defy me at times. If you don’t like something, say so. But discussions should be that, not arguments or head-butting competitions. I don’t like loud noises, so please, no shouting. Anything to counter so far?”

“No. I like all of this. I also… don’t like yelling.”

“Good. Punishments will not be like your relatives’ methods, I won’t withhold food, hit you or even use magic on you. I’ll ground you, perhaps forbid fun lessons for a time, or even have you clean out my cauldrons or the kitchen instead of Kreacher, but that’s about it. You’re too old for time-outs and shit. I cuss, a lot, but please don’t do it yourself, though I’m not that big of a hypocrite to punish you for it.” That made Harry laugh as he nodded in agreement.

“Now, there are three main rules I expect you to follow.” Harry’s face turned serious and his back subconsciously straightened as he waited for the list.

“One, never trust a twinkly-eyes, white-bearded bastard that thinks he’s the reincarnation of Merlin. Two, always steel the good silver when out and about. Fake shit isn’t allowed in this house. And three, if you must duel someone, always cheat. I expect complete survival, no heroic bullshit that gets people killed. Dark magic, unlike what the idiots around you will tell you, isn’t evil, just honest. It’s fuelled by emotions, not just stupid wand waving like light magic is. When we start lessons, I expect respect for the Dark Arts like you’d respect any other spell. And yes, you will be learning everything, from the bone breaking curse to the killing curse. Any questions?”

Harry tried very hard not to laugh at the man’s grave expression.

“Can I keep said silver?”

“Only of you don’t get caught. I’m not helping you if you do. People who get caught deserve to be punished; it means they were too thoughtless. Oh, and one more thing. If I ever hear you regurgitating ministry or Dumbledore rhetoric like a bloody sheep, I will have you recite A History of Magic backwards. No child living with me will ever believe the bullshit Dumbledore spouts like gospel.”

“Got it!” Harry stuck out his hand at Regulus, who shook it sharply. “I look forward to our continued arrangements, Mister Black.”

“Likewise, Mister Potter.” The two exchanged satisfied smirk.

Harry had a feeling he would come to enjoy living at Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

Chapter Text

August 1^st 1990 to August 7^th 1990

12 Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, England

The first week living with Regulus Black was bliss compared to life with the Dursleys.

See, the lessons were hard, but the fact that Regulus, and by extension Kreacher, actually seemed to care about his well-being made it all worth the exhaustion and mental workouts he had to do every day.

His days had taken on a certain routine, a schedule much better than the mind-numbing chores his aunt and uncle had forced on him from the age of six (Regulus had cussed like a sailor and stabbed three dummies when he’d found out).

He started the day with making the bed, washing up, then he’d make his way down for breakfast. Sometimes he’d find Regulus waiting for him at the top of the staircase, while other times the older man would already be seated at the dining table, reading a newspaper as he waited for Harry to arrive. Breakfast itself was a rather calm affair, where Regulus would calmly explain some of the day’s news and they’d discuss their plans. After that, Kreacher would clear the table with a snap of his fingers, and while Regulus would either spend the next few hours in the library or – what Harry had come to find out to be – the potions lab in the basement, Harry would start etiquette lessons with the grumpy house-elf.

The lessons were awful but entertaining at times, as Kreacher would sometimes regale him with stories from the past as he learned which utensils were for what, and how he was supposed to network with each class of people. The elf wasn’t kind by any means, and his words could be sharper than the sharpest knife, but once Harry had earned his reluctant approval, he started giving backhanded ‘compliments’ every once in a while.

It was frustrating at first, when Harry would find himself being insulted for stupid reasons, but when he started grasping that Kreacher was beginning to be more positive, Harry felt very proud of himself.

It started with clearly hurtful words like:

“Master Potter holds a knife like a goblin.” Or “Master Potter has clearly never seen a proper soup spoon in his life. Was your upbringing truly that useless?”

But soon turned to:

“Mater Potter… has improved.” Or the much more common “Master Potter shouldn’t have to try so hard, but… progress.”

The words were all given in the same derisive and mocking tone, but after a few days, Harry was able to distinguish between Kreacher’s ‘You’re an idiot’ tone and his ‘You’re still an idiot, but a better idiot’ tone.

One of Harry’s favourite lessons was the one on knife uses.

“This is the knife used to cut ingredients in the kitchen. It is never brought to the dining room, or seen by guests. It is also the preferred knife for when a cook needs to defend himself.” Kreacher explained, brandishing a large, wide knife with a sharp blade and a thick handle.

“This knife,” Kreacher continued, putting down the cutting knife and holding up a thin, smooth one, “is a butter knife. You use it to butter a crumpet, or cut a muffin in half. You may even use it to cut a slice of bread in half, but that is all. This knife is not to be used for anything else.”

The third one was also on the thinner side, but with a serrated blade instead. “This is a steak knife. It is used to cut meats into slices for eating. This knife, alongside the fork used for eating, are the only ones you may use to stab any unruly guests. Because it is for meats, it is also allowed to touch human meat.”

“So,” Harry started slowly, “I can use this knife to… stab enemies at the dinner table?”

“Yes, but only this one. Now, show Kreacher how you’d hold it for eating.” The elf said, holding the handle out to Harry as he had the blade itself between his thumb and pointer finger. Harry hesitated for only a moment before he grabbed it and held it over the plate how he’d seen his aunt do while eating steak. He also grabbed the fork beside his plate in the appropriate position Kreacher had taught him the day before; with his thumb under the handle and his pointer and middle fingers on top.

“Master has… improved slightly from yesterday, though Master Potter still holds knife like a Gnome.” Kreacher sneered out, but Harry had learned that this was his way of complimenting him, so he didn’t take it hard. “Now, when transitioning to an attack hold, Master must be… agile and quick, so enemies don’t see it coming until it’s too late. There are three ways Master can use the knife as a weapon. One, Master throws it beside guest’s head as a warning. Two, Master throws it at guest’s head or throat – one shot, one kill. Three, master stabs guest with it. If it’s a warning, Master stabs hand or thigh, if to kill, Master stabs stomach for a slow death, and heart or throat for a faster death.”

“Isn’t that a bit… excessive?” Harry asked hesitantly, wanting to maintain at least a semblance of morality but finding himself unable to. From the start, it was pretty obvious his new… family were violent by nature.

“Would Master rather die instead? This is enemy, not pest. Blacks show no mercy to enemies.”

“Revenge to the fullest.” Harry muttered under his breath, a mantra Regulus had been beating into his head since his arrival; well… one of many other sayings.

“Exactly, now let’s work on Master’s horrendous aim.”

That day, Harry didn’t just learn how to eat like a pureblood heir, he also learned how to elegantly defend himself like one. He did hate the lesson on proper posture – his back still hurt from the amount of times Kreacher would push his finger into Harry’s neck to straighten his back.

“Master must always sit like the lowly chair is his personal throne.”

After those gruelling two hours, Harry was free to do what he pleased until lunchtime. He usually sat in the Black library, with Regulus sometimes joining him. He would read as much as he could, learning and memorizing and trying his hardest to catch up on things magical-raised kids probably already knew.

He wanted to curse Dumbledore to hell for putting him at such a disadvantage compared to others, but he couldn’t. For now, at least.

Regulus had warned him about cursed books, but he hadn’t really believed him at first. The man talked about books transporting him to other rooms and screaming at him as soon as they were open. It just didn’t seem… realistic. That is, until one day he bit off more than he could chew, quite literally.

He’d been roaming around the library, lost in thought. If he was being honest with himself, which he tried to be most of the time, his thoughts have been jumbled since he’d arrived at Grimmauld Place. It wasn’t that he felt out of place – though that was also partially true and, according to Regulus, completely normal given his ‘Muggle upbringing’ – but it was just everything. He’d been uprooted from everything he’d ever known and put in a situation where he was forced to rewire his whole brain. Everything he’d ever known as a fact had turned out to be complete lies. He was angry, and emotional and just… all over the place…. He felt like all his life had been wasted for the simple greed and narcissism of people who thought his life was a game, and he was the toy they could move around however they pleased.

He hated the Dursleys for making him their personal servant instead of loving him like they should’ve, he hated that Dumbledore man for removing him from his world, putting him with people he should’ve at least suspected of hating magic and never even checking on him, and he hated Voldemort for taking his parents, the only people who’d ever loved him, away from him.

Harry had always been numb to the treatment he received, having long ago learned that getting emotional would only result in more pain for him. This all-consuming rage was a new feeling, and he didn’t know what to do with it. So here he was, roaming the library, looking for anything to distract him from this… sea of fury he was drowning in.

He was so preoccupied with everything that he didn’t notice he’d picked up a book until he felt pain on his finger.

“Ouch!” He yelped, looking down to find that the book he’d touched had literally bit him. “What the hell?!”

“Good. Now you’ll learn to respect dark and cursed objects and handle them with care.” A voice said behind him, making Harry jump before he whirled around to find his new guardian leaning against a bookshelf, smirking in amusement.

“I’m sorry!” Harry exclaimed, carefully putting the book back in its place before cradling his wounded finger.

“It’s alright. Now, what has you so distracted?” Regulus had summoned the first-aid kit from seemingly out of nowhere and had gently led Harry towards one of the couches in the large room. The two sat facing each other, and Harry resignedly gave the man his hand when prompted. The conversation continued on as Regulus carefully – and dare he say lovingly – bandaged Harry’s hand.

“I…. I’m just so angry…. And I don’t know what to do…. It’s like it’s consuming me.”

“Then use it.” Regulus said simply as he wrapped up the bandage. “Use this anger to fuel your determination. Use it to get better. To be better.”

And Harry did. Instead of spacing out, he used his rage and sadness to get better at everything set in front of him.

For as awkward as Regulus could be with him, he really did give good advice.

After lunch is when magic finally gets involved. They started with magical theory lessons, until Harry understood it thoroughly enough to be able to apply the concepts properly to spell-work.

The first few lessons were just basics; the Latin origin of each spell, the difference between each type of spell – which was just confusing – and how to really connect to his magical core; this particular lesson had the added result of Harry discovering that he hated meditation, it was too boring.

They were now discussing the different types of magic itself.

“Light magic is like the watered down version of pure magic. It’s… bland and honestly boring to use. It pretends that emotions don’t power magic, even though it’s been proven time and again that emotions are needed for powerful casting. Look at accidental magic for example. The stronger the emotion, the stronger the magic reacts. That’s why dark magic is so feared, because not everyone can cast it and the fact it’s fuelled by emotion makes it so much more potent than light magic. Because light wizards and witches can’t use it, and they unfortunately do make up a larger portion of the Wizarding World now, dark magic became outlawed. This is why so many people joined Voldemort at the start of his campaign, even those who didn’t really care about blood purity that much. I’m ashamed to say that was originally why I didn’t oppose joining too much; I thought he would help give dark magicals more freedom. I was wrong, of course, but the fact still stands, we are persecuted for simply being born with a different core to most.”

“We?”

“Yes, Potters are generally known for having grey cores, which means you can cast both light and dark spells quite easily. Blacks, on the other hand, mostly have dark cores, so while light magic isn’t that hard for us to cast, it’s not what our magic is naturally attuned to. Light magicals, on the other hand, can’t even begin to comprehend casting dark spells. The fact can be quite amusing, until it starts affecting us negatively like it has now.”

“Hypocrisy is an annoying thing.”

“Agreed. Now, there is a misconception that dark spells equal The Unforgivables, but that’s completely untrue. There are a multitude of dark spells that have light equivalents, but are definitely more powerful. You’ll be learning both, of course, but we’ll start with simple spells.”

“Even… the killing curse?”

“Yes. How will you defend yourself from it when you don’t know how it works? Besides, you’ll be learning worse spells, the killing curse shouldn’t be an issue. Or… do you not want to learn everything? That’s alright, just surprising.”

“No! I want to!” Harry said vehemently, shaking his head. He wanted to know, and, weirdly enough, he wanted to make Regulus proud of him. But Harry had always craved validation and support, and now that he has someone willing to actually give it to him, he would do everything in his power to receive it.

“Alright then. Let’s start with a simple mending spell.”

Harry spent hours trying to first do the spell right, then perfecting it so that it came as naturally as possible. After two days, he was able to literally bend his glasses to their proper form quite easily.

He was so proud of himself, he was giddy for hours afterwards.

“Dark spells do also enhance any emotion you have for an hour or so after casting.” Regulus said with a laugh, amused by the kid’s excitement and hyperactivity.

Then, the event occurred. Something that would change Harry’s perspective of Regulus Black forever.

It had started out as a very normal day. By the end of the first week of Harry’s stay at Grimmauld Place, he’d created a very stable and comfortable routine that had the added benefit of extreme productivity. That day; however, instead of going to the library after his etiquette lessons with Kreacher, he’d decided to roam around the house, hoping to run into Regulus wherever he may be.

After reading a bit on ancient houses, he had a few questions about both his family and the Blacks. He was also hoping they could discuss starting his Heir lessons, since he’d started getting used to the magical world as a whole. Harry could now, successfully, make his bed and clean his room with magic. He didn’t rely on muggle things anymore, and he was actually starting to use magical terms and sayings. It was… exciting and nice to finally feel like he belonged in the world he’d been denied for so long.

He thought his guardian could possibly be in the potion’s lab, but going down to the basement, he heard noises coming from the room opposite the lab, catching his focus from the lingering sulphur smell that usually wafted from the potion’s lab. He hesitantly opened the door before abruptly stopping at the sight that greeted him.

He stared at Regulus, who was shirtless…. Which wasn’t really the most shocking part. His torso was covered in black veins and his arms had weird tattoos all over them. He had on wide, black cotton pants and was holding two long knives with intricately designed handles. He had droplets of what looked like blood splattered on him, and two bodies on the ground around him with two more moving towards him. Luckily, they didn’t seem to be humans, but more like moving mannequins. Harry sucked in a breath as they launched at his guardian, but the man dodged easily, moving like he was made of liquid shadows. His movements were precise and elegant, fast but focused; he knew exactly what he was doing. His knives glinted in the light as he raised them and charged, slicing through one mannequin at the waist before jumping on top of the other and slit its throat in one fluid motion; the shink sound it made causing a shiver to run down Harry’s spine. The mannequins splattered fake blood all over him, but he didn’t seem to care as he heaved a quite breath. Then, he turned towards Harry with his arms at his side, staring at him with pewter grey eyes that narrowed at him.

Harry gaped at the man, conflicting feelings surging through him. He didn’t know whether to be impressed or positively terrified. This man was deadly in a way most could never even imagine. He could’ve very easily killed Harry this past week, but he hadn’t. And wasn’t that the biggest proof that the man didn’t believe in Voldemort anymore? That he actually wanted to protect Harry?

Then his thoughts changed into something… else. What if… he could do that? Wouldn’t this allow him to protect himself? Sure, he’d started being taught how to defend himself in multiple ways, but this…. This was on a whole other level.

“Never sneak up on a Black, Harry, especially if they have a weapon on them. We do bite, or slice in this case.” Regulus said with a smirk, amusement clear in his voice. He rolled his shoulders briefly before he moved gracefully, like a snake surveying its prey. Grabbing a cloth, he wiped himself first before moving onto his blades.

“W-what are these?”

“The veins? They’re from the time I spent with– I mean, under the lake. The ink is runes, they help me… focus. And you already know about this one.” He finished, pointing to his left forearm dismissively. Of course, he’d already told Harry about the mark that symbolised Voldemort’s most loyal or most powerful followers, and he’d vaguely explained to Harry his… coma and what had happened to cause it, but seeing the proof of that was… a bit heart-breaking actually.

“C-Could I do that? Someday?”

“If you want to learn.” Regulus said simply, staring at Harry with a blank look, no indication on what he was thinking on his face.

“I do. Want to learn.” Harry said a bit breathlessly, eyes wide in desire and anticipation. Regulus’s lips quirked in a smirk.

“Then you will.” The man then flipped one of the knives, catching it reflexively like he’d done it a thousand times. “We start tomorrow.”

And that, that was truly the crux of their relationship. Harry would ask to be taught something, and Regulus would concede with either an amused smirk or a proud smile.

It made Harry glow in pure happiness. Who knew all he’d needed to be himself and strive to learn was a supportive mentor.

August 10^th 1990

12 Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, England

Truthfully, Harry had thought about it. Permanently becoming a Black instead of the loose, probably illegal guardianship he was currently under. It would probably make his life easier, but at the same time…. Did he actually want to be tied to Regulus in that way?

At first, he was unsure, as he didn’t know the man well enough to not have that escape plan available if he’d turned out to be a psychopath, but now, after getting to know Regulus… yeah, he wanted it!

But then, he knew there was one thing that was keeping the two from taking that step…. Sirius Black.

See, he’d been told about his elusive imprisoned Godfather, and how Regulus, being presumed dead still, couldn’t get the man free quite so easily, but still…. He’d never met the man, should he care about what he’d feel if his younger brother adopted his godson? The logical answer would be no, it was ultimately Harry’s decision anyway, but…. He still hesitated.

So he didn’t bring it up, and if Regulus didn’t either, then it would never happen, simple as that. But then… Regulus did bring it up.

It was breakfast, about ten days into Harry’s stay, and Regulus had been slowly explaining the importance of blood to magicals.

“Blood ties an individual to certain bloodlines, thus some spells from Family Grimoires. There are also many magical abilities that are tied to blood. There are many rituals that can be done using blood, some are good, like magical reinvigoration or blood adoption, while others can be very dangerous, like physical control and most binding rituals.”

“Blood adoption?”

“Yes. There are two types of adoption in the Magical World. Normal, legal-based adoption, and blood adoption. Blood adoption fundamentally changes the adoptee’s DNA make up. It doesn’t erase their biological parents, but does add the adoptive parent or parents to their gene pool.”

“Huh…. And that’s… illegal?”

“Yes. Most Blood magic is.”

“But this is… good magic!” Harry exclaimed in shock. Day after day, he was understanding more and more the amount of illogical hypocrisy that coloured the British Wizarding World’s laws and politics.

“It is. It creates a special bond between adoptive parent and child, so the child never feels like they don’t belong. And yet, the Ministry in all their infinite wisdom believed it was an ‘unneeded’ ritual, and that signing paper and a name change were enough to make someone belong to a family. Honestly, they chose what they liked of our traditions and discarded what was ‘unnecessary’ in their eyes. They could approve of Pureblood lines having political sway, but having an adopted child eligible to inherit instead of the house going extinct was just too much for them.”

“Wait, so Blood Adoption would also allow someone to inherit?”

“Yes, the child would have that family’s blood in their veins, and that’s the main criteria that Family Magics uses to recognize heirs. Each House obviously also has a few extra conditions for accepting an heir or lord, but most are easy enough to achieve if you were raised properly.”

“So…. Does the Black Family Magic not recognize half-bloods? Since its motto is Toujours Pur?”

“No. The blood purity belief came from certain members, the magic has always recognized pure intentions and pure magic above all. Magic has blessed us many times throughout the centuries, and forsaking that is the true breaking of our vows. Unfortunately, as members’ selfishness increased, these vows have been broken time and time again. It’s why I can never take on the mantle of Lord Black, because I subjugated myself to someone else other than the Lord Black, even if it was unwilling. As long as this mark is on my arm, I will never be more than a member of the House. Hell, if Sirius, the true Lord, ever called Judgement on me, I might be disowned.” Regulus said with a casual shrug, but Harry could hear the regret and pain in his voice. It was clearer as the man rubbed his left forearm absentmindedly.

“Judgement?” He understood everything else in the explanation, as it’d been part of the lessons he’d been getting. Family Magics were the ancient magic ties to certain pureblood families, like a boost to their blood and cores. While the Potters, through the Peverell line, walked with Death, the Blacks dance with it, are always surrounded by it. A Family’s Oath is the tie every member of a House has to their family’s beliefs and mottos and their eternal loyalty to their family. Disownment was obvious enough; being thrown out from the family and losing the magic they get from that bloodline. For younger families, it could only mean becoming weaker physically and magically, but for older families like the Blacks, that magic is so embedded in their magical cores that losing it could mean losing all their magic, or worse, death. He’d never heard the word Judgement said in that tone before though. Reverently, like it was a sacred ritual or oath.

“Judgement is a ritual a Head of the Family can inflict on a member of their House. Basically, they call the Family Magics to judge this person’s morals, intentions and previous sins. If they’re found guilty of breaking their family’s oaths, they’re disowned automatically, if not, they survive the ritual and are actually trusted more. Because magic is sentient but unbiased, it views everything about you, but decides based on your actions and thoughts only, without personal opinions colouring the decision. That’s why Lords and Ladies aren’t allowed to disown or disinherit someone without consulting Family Magics, and why my mother’s idiotic ritual of burning someone off the family tapestry never did anything.” Harry had also come across said tapestry, and boy was it disgusting. It was filled with holes and scorch marks from Walburga Black’s… interesting soothing methods, and the drawings were all inaccurate, apparently they reflected how she’d seen people, as opposed to how they actually looked. He’d also watched as Regulus forced the thing to break its tie to his mother and update magically so it was more… accurate and up-to-date. This had also confirmed what the man had already believed – upon his grandfather’s death last year, Sirius Black III had been chosen as the Lord of the House of Black.

“So… if you blood adopted me… I wouldn’t only have the Potter Family Magics, but the Black one as well?”

“Yes, though the Potter one would take precedent.”

“Why?”

“Because the House of Black still has a few members left, but you’re the only living Potter.”

“Oh….” And wasn’t that heart-breaking? Harry had hoped he’d meet a relative now that he was back in the magical world, but Regulus had quickly, but gently, explained that his closest relatives had all; unfortunately, passed away during the war ten years ago. No one had survived, not his grandparents, or his great uncle and his wife, or even any cousins his father might’ve had.

“Why are you contemplating this?” Regulus asked with a curious tilt to his head, his silvery eyes piercing through Harry’s very soul.

“Cause…. Wouldn’t it be better if you were legally my guardian? If I… had a family to call my own?”

“I suppose, but keep in mind, the Black Family Magics is dark and cruel. It… taints you, corrupts you. Some have even gone mad because of it. It doesn’t just live in your blood, it consumes your very soul. And if we do this… there will never be a chance for you to know Sirius as a father-figure.” The shadows shifted ominously around them, but neither noticed, too focused as they were on their conversation.

“Yes, but I’ve never met Sirius. He went to prison for revenge, you came for me, not him. He had twelve years to do something about his situation, you changed my life in ten days.” Harry said darkly, eyes narrowing in anger as he clutched his knife tightly in his hand. He hadn’t gotten over that. When Regulus had explained what’d happened to his knowledge and after Harry had pushed many times – his emotions had been a rollercoaster before settling on anger, and it’d stayed that way since.

That conversation had, ironically enough, happened after Harry had found Sirius’s room – full of motorcycle and woman posters and as red as it was. He’d wondered about the Godfather he’d never met, which started a spiral into why he’d never met him, and by the time Kreacher had told Regulus about his location, Harry had fully devolved into an emotional storm.

“I suppose there are two options here. Do you want to stay as Harry Potter, or become a Black?”

“I want to… join your family. But… will it hurt?” Harry stuttered our, and Regulus smirked.

“Only if we do it right.”

Chapter Text

Okay! Hi, writer K here <3

I'm conflicted on what to do with the golden trio tbh. I don't want to make Ron and Hermione Harry's enemies, but his allies, but I don't know where to put them. This is definitely an au, so they won't be in Gryffindor either.

Here's Option 1: The Slytherin Quartet (Hyperion, Draco, Hermione, Ron)

Thematic Core: Ambition, Power, & Internal Revolution. This is a story about conquering the system from within. It's dark, sharp, and intensely character-driven. 

And Option 2: The United Front (Hyperion/Slytherin, Hermione/Ravenclaw, Ron/Hufflepuff, Neville/Gryffindor)

Thematic Core: Unity, Reconciliation, & Breaking Cycles. This is a story about healing old wounds and building something new. It's a more hopeful, but no less politically complex, narrative.

I hope this is spoiler free, but I really can't make a decision on where to put them to be honest. Note: Hyperion is harry. Oops, some spoilers ahead lol

Again, this will be deleted when I update next in the next few days, so don't worry this is not me saying the story is abandoned or something like that.

Hope you guys enjoy what's coming your way hehe, and thank you to anyone who helps!!

Chapter Text

August 11^th 1990

12 Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, England.

The basement of the Manor Homes of the House of Black had always been large, with varying types of rooms. The one in Grimmauld Place had doors that formed a circular floor. Among these rooms were a potion’s lab, a duelling room, a training room and a ritual chamber, which is where the duo stood at that very moment.

The walls were matt black, with runes drawn all around in blood red ink, though Harry didn’t know their meaning, yet. There were candle holders all around the circular chamber with candles that burned black and green – the flames moving as if someone was controlling them, like a conductor directing their orchestra with a baton. The air was thick with ozone and the smell of wet stone, but was also a bit musky, making it clear that the chamber hadn’t been used for a while now.

There was an obsidian pedestal in the centre of the room, with a small golden goblet on it. It had constellation designs all around it, a clear sign of the Blacks’ connection to the stars and the night sky.

“Ah, I see you’ve noticed the Star Chalice. It’s a Black Family heirloom that’s used for blood rituals. Now, are you sure about this? Once we do this, Harry, there’s no going back. You will never be just Harry Potter again. You will be mine, and I will be yours.” Regulus said firmly, moving to stand beside Harry.

“Yes. I’m sure.” Harry said, nerves shaking his voice a bit but his eyes gleaming with determination. “Will it… change me?”

“Only in the best ways.” Regulus said with a soft smile before his face darkened in seriousness. “Alright then, here’s how this will go. You and I will stand on opposite sides of the chalice, we will each put exactly seven drops of blood into it, and then we’ll hold our still cut hands together as we say the chant. First, I’ll call the Family Magics, then we’ll start the ritual. I know you’ve already studied the English and Latin words. Remember Harry, The House of Black demands sacrifice. Are you ready to bleed for it?”

“I’ve bled for worse. This one seems fair.” Harry said as he nodded, taking a deep breath as they moved to stand exactly as Regulus had said.

“I call upon the Magics of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Magia vocationem meam audi et veritatem meam iudice.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, his eyes had changed from their usual silvery grey to an eerily glowing blue that seeped into his pupils. It brought a shiver down Harry’s spine. (Magic hear my call and judge my truth.)

The shadows all around them started converging, moving and swaying like they had a mind of their own while blue magic crackled all around them, seeming to be coming from Regulus himself. Regulus held out his left hand with the dagger in it, and grabbed Harry’s right with his other hand. The dagger’s hilt was carved with the crest Harry had come to associate with the House of Black, and the blade itself wasn’t a normal silver like its colour indicated. It was dimmer, and seemed to absorb light instead of reflecting it. Regulus had told him that it was Stygian Iron, a metal said to have been forged only in the Underworld and cooled in the River Styx itself. Harry didn’t know if it was true or not, but the deep purple aura the blade seemed to have made it very clear it wasn’t normal iron.

It was smooth as it sliced through; first on Regulus’s palm, then Harry’s. Their blood slid down their wrists and they allowed only seven drops each before moving their hands away from the chalice. The blood was sticky, and the cut stung a bit, but Harry knew it would be all worth it in the end. He’d finally have a family after this.

He’d noticed the black veins running up Regulus’s wrists before, but he hadn’t thought it would affect his blood, but oh how wrong Harry was. The blood running down his guardian’s hand wasn’t a bright red like his, but a dark maroon that was very close to being pure black. It broke his heart again to see the effects of Regulus’s brave sacrifice, like that lake hadn’t just marked his body, but also his very blood and soul.

As their bloods mixed together, Harry noticed the colour change. Regulus’s finally became that black he’d expected, while his own glowed a shocking gold colour. The shadows around them seemed to sharpen and surround them completely, almost cocooning Harry fully.

They started the chant in sync.

“Magic. licentiam tuam rogamus. Da votum nostrum. Coniunge sanguinem nostrum et familias nostras. Unum fac nobis.” (Magic. We ask your permission. Grant our wish. Join our blood and our families. Make us one.)

Harry didn’t know, but at that moment his eyes shifted from their emerald green to a glowing silvery grey colour. A colour that symbolized maturity, intellect, and control – fitting for who Harry was and who he’d become soon.

The chalice emitted a black and gold mist that blended beautifully, and they felt as magic itself seemed to touch them, testing their intent and resolve. It took a few seconds that felt more like hours, but finally, the Black Family Magics seemed to accept their request as the mist glowed brightly, almost blinding them. The house shuddered all around them, and they heard a faint scream from far away. Harry’s scar burned and his eyes watered slightly as he felt a brief flash of something… it couldn’t be fear though, he wasn’t afraid…. Still he held his ground and clutched Regulus’s hand tightly to settle himself, and the feeling soon faded.

Far away, in the Albanian forests, a scream echoes loudly as one shadow, one soul, knew that change had come.

“Hyperion James Sirius Potter-Black, I name you my son. For now and the rest of time.”

“I accept… Father.” The word felt strange and unfamiliar, but also… right, like Harry, now Hyperion, was meant to say it to this man that had taken him in and called him his own. He hoped his parents weren’t too mad by his choice, but he couldn’t bring himself to care much at this point. All his life, he’d hoped they’d come and rescue him from Dursley hell, but they didn’t, Regulus had though. What else could he do but pledge his loyalty and devotion to this man?

They’d sat down and come up with his name together. Of course, Harry would hyphen his last name, as was appropriate, but he also hadn’t wanted to keep going by Harry. He wanted a name that really fit the regal and… unusual naming choices of the Blacks, and Hyperion seemed to fit quite well. His middle name was also an issue. He’d wanted to keep some part of his Potter heritage, and his father’s name seemed the most fitting. Regulus, in a fit of sibling pettiness, thought that adding Sirius’s name to that would be… appropriate.

“A Black name fitting for a Black heir, and anything that could rub in Sirius’s face that I stole what should’ve been his and still chose to honour him is a win in my books. He’ll be so furious, and I’ll get to gloat for eternity.”

As the magic settled, so did Harr- Hyperion’s features. While his hair had been a bird’s nest of very dark brown, it had fully shifted into the curly raven black of his new family’s, and as he smiled, his canines seemed to sharped slightly like Regulus’s, making his smirk as sharp as his new father’s. His eyes were still the emerald green of his mother, but some specks of grey swirled in the irises. His features also sharpened a bit, but his skin stayed the slight tan he’d apparently gotten from the Potters.

As the shadows subsided and the new father-son duo smiled at each other, their bond settled into their magical cores. And for the first time in years, Harry, not Hyperion, felt pure happiness and relief as he hugged Regulus tightly. Hyperion would continue feeling this for a long time to come.

“Thank you Father.”

“Of course kid.”

Azkaban Prison, The North Sea.

Thousands of kilometres away from them, another man also felt the change in his core and a pain that signified the added bond tied to his. A nephew bond wrapped tightly around his Godfather bond. But…. NO! That was impossible. His brother is dead! And his godson, his pup….

A loud cackle interrupted his thoughts suddenly, and he turned to the cell beside his and watched as his cousin experienced a similar change to his. An Heir has been chosen, and all Blacks must know to bow to them.

“Regulus did it, the bastard. He got himself a kid after surviving death!” Bellatrix cackled in glee, her stormy grey eyes clearing slightly of the madness that had fully consumed her by that point. “You should be proud, cousin. Your brother did what you never could. He saved the House of Black.”

His eyes narrowed as pure fury burned him alive. “REGULUS YOU FUCKER! HOW DARE YOU STEAL WHAT’S MINE?!”

As he stood, a shadow started rising behind him, taking on the form of a familiar stag. He heard the whisper deep in his soul, like a reminder of all he’d lost, all his sins.

“You failed us, Padfoot. Now, he’s lost. Forever.” The voice was so familiar. James should’ve killed him back then, it would’ve been easier than this.... This guilt…. This heart-break….

The cell shook with his magic, and his voice was laced with a power he’d denied himself for so long finally broke free as he spoke.

“I’m coming for you soon, little brother.”

August 12^th 1990

12 Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, England

It took Hyperion a full day to heal from such a strenuous ritual, and for his magic to stabilize enough after being bombarded with as dark and powerful of a magic as the Blacks’. At breakfast, he’d expected some change to Kreacher’s demeanour, but aside from a pointed comment “Kreacher lives to serve the true House of Black,” nothing changed. He did notice the elf polishing an elegant obsidian ring with a Stygian Iron raven on top, muttering to himself as always, but the words were warmer than usual. “Master Hyperion will make the House proud… unlike others.” He said as he glanced at the portrait of Walburga Black.

Harry didn’t really mention it until the ring was handed to him during his etiquette lessons later that day.

“This ring symbolises your claim to the Black Heirship and your position as Master Regulus’s son. Master Hyperion must take very good care of it.” Hyperion had promised to do just that, and when he’d finally put it on, it felt like coming home.

And if he later found Kreacher sobbing in a corner about a ‘new master to serve and protect’, no one would know but Hyperion that the jaded elf actually had something as benign as feelings, Kreacher’s words not his.

Hyperion did notice the change to his magic, how it was darker, more reactive to his emotions, but it was pretty simple to control again once Regulus had told him the secret.

“You are its master, not the other way around. Force it to bend, not mould.”

Regulus apparently also seemed to gain some fatherly instincts from their new bond, and checked on Ha-Hyperion pretty consistently throughout the day. He was especially interested in his eyes, but Harry didn’t comment on the new instincts, he just enjoyed the attention.

What Hyperion didn’t know was that Regulus was making sure the Black Madness hadn’t consumed him like it had done to so many before him. His mother’s words kept ringing in his ears, words she’d whispered to him in a malicious tone as soon as he’d tugged his son to bed the night before.

“You will ruin him. Regulus, you weren’t made to nurture, only destroy, and he will be no different.” Regulus had walked away, but inside, he was fuming. She’d made him a weapon, and now she was blaming him for trying to finally do something other than… kill. Destroy. Take Regulus – it is your right and duty as a Black to take.

But as he’d watched out for a glint of that madness, that darkness that Regulus struggled every day to keep down, all he found in his new son’s eyes was a strong determination to succeed. Not madness, but ambition. The kind that had built this family from the ground up. He sighed in relief and moved on. He wouldn’t let the Blacks’ all-consuming magic drown Hyperion. He couldn’t.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hogwarts Castle, South Hogwarts Region, Highlands, Scotland.

In a castle in Scotland, the Headmaster of this very school was sitting in his office, sucking on a lemon drop as he finished some of his paperwork. He didn’t notice as the office around him changed in subtle ways to indicate the shifting of history as he’d planned it. The detection spells he’d put on his young ward failed as some of the bobbles on his desk emitted a soft black smoke as if they’d been burned. His loyal companion, a phoenix called Fawkes, sang a sad tune that he just associated with the creature’s melancholy emotions, not the fact Fawkes knew…. He wouldn’t find out all that had happened until a year later, when, instead of a small, thin boy with his father’s build and his mother’s eyes walking into these very halls, a confident young pureblood heir had taken his place.

Another sentient artefact in the room also noticed the change from its perch on the top shelf. Its lips smirked as it whispered “Slytherin” to no one in particular.

Because Harry Potter was no more. Like the phoenix currently singing, he’d been snuffed out and burned and Hyperion Potter-Black had risen from his ashes. Stronger, smarter, better. And he wouldn’t take being a chess piece in this man’s board lying down. He was a Black, damn it! And what Sirius Black had failed to realise in his youth, Hyperion would prove tenfold.

Blacks bowed to the whims of no one but Magic herself.

Chapter Text

August 11^th 1990

12 Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, England.

Regulus had thought being a new father would be harder than it actually was, or maybe it was just because he’d gotten an easy kid, who knows, but it truly wasn’t bad. In Regulus’s humble opinion, he was doing a pretty good job. Don’t ask Kreacher though, he’d disagree.

“You forgot the child needed clothes, Master.” Kreacher said, interrupting his thoughts as if he’d been reading his mind. Hyperion, the traitorous son he was, cackled from his seat on the armchair beside him. The three were gathered in the library for Hyperion’s – or Rion as Regulus had taken to calling him – politics lessons that usually just blended with his other theoretical lessons.

“I mean… he’s not wrong. I did have to wear your old clothes for like four days, not that I’m complaining, they were much better than Dudley’s.”

“Blacks –” Kreacher started aggressively, and Hyperion interrupted with a drawl he’d heard Regulus use many times to continue the saying he’d been hearing consistently since his adoption.

“Deserve only the best. I know Kreacher.” He said, ending his sentence with a roll of his eyes.

“Alright my young student, let us start our lesson. From the history books and old newspapers you’ve read so far, what can you say about public perception of events here in the UK?”

“It’s as fickle as it gets. If even a moderately influential figure said something dramatic enough, the public would eat it up, seeing it as completely true.”

“Examples?”

“Well, Dumbledore’s claims on Grindelwald for one. No one ever researched his words, they just printed it and the people took it as facts. I know freedom of the press exists here, perhaps even in excess, but the idea of doing research and verifying any type of information is a completely foreign concept.”

“Yes, even research and magical books published aren’t verified for accuracy or authenticity before they’re put on the shelves. It’s absurd, and a lot of countries look down on us due to this alone, but it is how the UK wizarding world has operated for centuries.”

“The magical world here is so backwards, it’s a bit crazy. Like why robes? And the belief that the minister is infallible…. It’s like most people are too lazy to even think or question anything.”

“While true, that is a bit out of the scope of our lesson today. When you officially re-enter wizarding society, a lot of this public perception will be on you. You need to remember, they saw Harry Potter as some greater being; a hero if you will, but you aren’t Harry Potter anymore. The Boy-Who-Lived is dead. You’re Hyperion Black – use their beliefs and hero-worship to your advantage. Their ignorance is your weapon.”

“How though? I might still somewhat look like Harry Potter, though the scar is a lot fainter than it was, but I certainly don’t act like the docile, impulsive boy they’ll expect.”

“I don’t want you to be impulsive, because you are not Harry Potter, but you can use their belief in him to burn everything to the ground. Tell them about how you were abused, and that no one came to check up on you, and how a distant relative of your grandmother’s took you in and adopted you.”

“Ah, because Grandmother was a Black. That makes sense.” Hyperion had been taught both the Potter and Black Family trees days ago, so he was familiar with all his ancestors and their bloodlines. His grandmother, Dorea Potter née Black, had been Lord Arcturus Black’s cousin, so it’s not even lying. Regulus was a distant relative of hers.

“Yes. Now, show me again how you use the signet ring. First, let’s try disillusionment.”

Hyperion closed his eyes and concentrated on the magic emitting from it. For a second, nothing happened, but then he felt a shiver run down his spine indicating the charm had worked.

“Perfect. Now reverse and try using the clothing option.”

“Which event?” Hyperion’s disembodied voice asked, tone slightly exasperated as he knew Regulus would say something outrageous.

“Hmm…. Gala.” Regulus said, smirking in amusement, knowing exactly what Hyperion thought about this lesson.

“Ugh, you’re so bloody pompous.” Hyperion muttered as he refocused on the magic surrounding him. Seconds later, he was visible again and his white shirt and black pants had been switched out for a black silk shirt, matching black fitted slacks and a black velvet blazer over it.

“Perfect.” Regulus said, nodding in approval.

“Yes, Master Hyperion looks… somewhat like a Black heir now.” Kreacher said, his voice still sharp but with a hint of support colouring it. Hyperion focused for a moment and his clothes returned back to their previous more comfortable state – light blue jeans and a black sweater tucked into it.

“Now then, let’s continue our discussion, what do you think has historically affected the people of Great Britain the most?”

And they continued from there, with the lesson mostly being a discussion between the two with Regulus dropping wisdom when needed.

After lunch, the two moved to the training room downstairs, sitting criss-cross across each other on the floor.

“Remember Rion, Dark magic doesn’t corrupt, it reveals truths long hidden. It requires extreme self-acceptance to be able to cast it. The spells aren’t just swishing of a wand and muttering a spell. That’s why a lot of Dark magicals are able to easily cast without wands after enough practice, and why I haven’t given you a wand yet.”

“Alright. What do I do?”

“Close your eyes, take a deep breath and think about what you want the spell to do. Today we are doing the cutting curse. You want this piece of wood to be cut in half. The incantation is concisus.”

Hyperion did as he was told, following every step precisely. He raised his hand so that it was hovering over the board. He reached deep inside him, feeling for that ball of energy Regulus had called his magical core, and allowed the electric feeling to flow from somewhere under his sternum to the tip of his right hand.

“Concisus.” He whispered, feeling the electricity leave him for a moment. When he opened his eyes again, the wood was in two pieces at his feet. He couldn’t help grinning in pride at what he’d accomplished.

“Very good.” Regulus said with a quirk of his mouth. His silvery eyes glowed with pride. “Again.”

And they continued for the next hour, until Hyperion’s forehead was covered in sweat, his hands were trembling slightly and he’d absolutely perfected the spell.

“Let’s end here.” Regulus said, summoning a towel and giving it to the boy. “We’ll relax for a bit and then return to the living room for Occlumency.”

Hyperion groaned at that. He hated Occlumency lessons with a passion. The meditation, the concentration and the constant spacing out both bored him and mentally exhausted him so that by the end of each lesson, he had no energy to do anything but curl up next to his new father and just drift off for a couple of hours before bed.

“Yes, yes, we hate it. But, my dear son, protecting your mind could be the difference between you living and dying one day. Merlin knows I would’ve been dead way before my coma had my mind not been obscured.”

“I know…. Still doesn’t mean it’s not exhausting.”

Converging to the living room was probably Hyperion’s favourite time of the day. After that fateful night that felt years ago but was actually around two weeks ago, they’d made it a habit of ending the day with casual conversation and cups of hot chocolate before going to bed. Regulus sometimes even retold stories from his childhood, with Hyperion’s parents and Godfather featuring often in them.

Before they could do that, however, Hyperion must beat the hurdle that is Occlumency lessons.

“Clear your mind, and stabilize your thoughts. Your mind is a fortress; you must build its walls brick by brick and layer by layer. Your mindscape must be something that resonates with you. Something that is so familiar to you, only you would be able to navigate it and find everything.”

After that, Regulus left him to build and structure everything. Occlumency was a very complex mind art that took people years to perfect and master so that your walls and protections were just… always subconsciously there.

Hyperion had already finished the first step, which was meditation and the clearing of the mind. After ten days of consistent breathing exercises and complete silence while he concentrated and relaxed, it had become easy for him to just do it when prompted.

Now he was on step two, building his mindscape. Hyperion had deliberated about the shape and look of it, and had finally decided on Grimmauld Place as a base for it. He’d stored his memories in books and cabinets; skills in training rooms and bedrooms, knowledge in the library and so on. Now, he was trying to come up with protections aside from simple wards. He thought about gargoyles and maybe some other statues; maybe some of the legendary Black protectors he’d read about in history books. Maybe shadows to obscure sight.

As he built and imagined, he got lost in his head, completely ignoring everything physically around him for now. It’d been hard for him at first, as he’d always felt on edge, unable to shake off the thought that if he wasn’t guarded, someone would come and punish him, or drag him away for a painful chore. Regulus had had to consistently reassure him that nothing of the sort would happen while he was in the House of Black’s care. The man had even sat beside him during nightmares and coxed him back to slumber. He truly was the very best.

What felt like hours later, but was actually around forty five minutes or so, he opened his eyes and made direct eye contact with the man he’d come to trust above anyone else, which wasn’t much, considering he’d never had anyone to trust. But still, Regulus had quickly risen to become his favourite person in the world with his endless wit and proud smiles.

With a nod shared, Regulus raised his wand and muttered one word. “Legilimens.”

Hyperion knew it wasn’t fully powered, but he still tried his hardest to deflect it. The spell slithered into his mind, and he felt as it tried to go through his triple layer of defence before rebounding. Regulus smirked in immense pride.

“Very good Rion.” But Regulus could see his son wavering in exhaustion, his hands and body shaking as he tried to stay upright. With a quiet sigh, he led the boy’s head onto his lap and started softly stroking his hair, something he’d come to realise Hyperion enjoyed immensely – and even now, the boy slumped and gave a big happy sigh, making Regulus chuckle under his breath.

“You know, the first time I held a knife, it felt like coming home. Like I was made to defend people. I thought I’d finally be able to protect Siri like he’s protected me, but then…. I realised I was only taught to be used. That Mother would never allow her weapon to stray, or Merlin forbid, help her disappointment of an heir. I hated my knives after that, especially after the Dark Lord started using me as his executioner…. It’s only now that I’m starting to use them without feeling repulsed at myself. I think you’re helping too, teaching you to defend yourself seems like a noble thing, and I know I’ll never use you as a weapon like Mother did.” Regulus said quietly as they sat there, like a secret confession he was afraid to say but had to anyway.

“I’m glad.” Hyperion whispered, snuggling more into the warm embrace of his guardian. He’d never felt more cared for than with his man, and boy was he glad to have agreed to live with him.

“Yeah kid, I am too.”

And as they continued on with their night, sharing light-hearted stories and enjoying their hot cocoa, they couldn’t help but feel happy to be together for this.

August 16^th 1990

Borgin & Burkes, Knockturn Alley, Diagon Alley, London, England.

Hyperion Black hated Draco Malfoy. It wasn’t negotiable. He was spoiled, arrogant and nosy.

Hyperion had been sent by his adopted father to check out a few of the Black Family’s holdings in Knockturn Alley, since it was theirs to control and theirs to rule. He’d already met up with Audrey Mulpepper and discussed buying of a few rare potions and ingredients for Regulus and it’d gone well, so he’d decided to take a chance and see if Borgin & Burkes had gotten the order Regulus had secretly placed a week ago. Simple, right?

Yeah, no. Because it was here that he’d had the absolute displeasure of running into Regulus’s cousin Narcissa Black-Malfoy and her snot-nosed son. Narcissa herself actually seemed like a very cunning woman, but her son was just… too much all around.

“Heir Black. A pleasure to finally meet you.” Lady Malfoy said with a nod in greeting, a gesture Hyperion returned.

“Thank you, Lady Malfoy. The pleasure is all mine. Father speaks very highly of you.” Of course, she’ll have to keep speculating who his father is, but that wasn’t Hyperion’s problem. He knew Regulus had kept his living status hidden so that no one would bother him as the most direct Black descendant after Sirius, and Hyperion wouldn’t be the one to ruin that. When – or if ever – Regulus decided to reveal himself, it would be his decision to make.

He also knew that the only reason Narcissa had recognized his status was the signet ring on his finger, where her gaze had lingered for a long moment before her greeting. He didn’t really look like the Harry Potter people expected, but he also didn’t look like your typical Black. His scar had almost completely disappeared since the adoption ritual, he didn’t need his glasses anymore and he didn’t look like a carbon copy of James Potter anymore. He also didn’t have the grey eyes or the pale skin and high cheekbones. His jawline was sharp, yes, and his hair was as black as it got, but those weren’t indicators of a pure Black. His skin was a bit darker and closer to copper, showing his Indian heritage from his Potter side and his eyes were still green, not as dark as his mother’s though.

“I’m Draco Malfoy, Heir to The Vigilant and Most Ancient House of Malfoy.” The blond boy said proudly, his nose raised high in the air.

“Hyperion Black, Heir of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.” Hyperion responded softly, his voice and expression completely blank, just like Regulus had taught him.

“What are you doing here alone then?” The boy asked bluntly, his mother hissing at him in warning. Hyperion just ignored him and turned back to Mister Borgin, one of the store ‘owners’. They continued discussing business, and the Malfoy kid seemed to be getting frustrated with his lack of answer. Hyperion might’ve smirked slightly in satisfaction.

“You know,” The boy started as he handed a cursed pendant to Mister Burkes, the other ‘owner’, “Father said this killed a muggle in seconds.”

“How pedestrian.” Hyperion replied coolly, still not looking directly at the blond. “My father has a dagger that devours the souls of those it comes in contact with.”

The Malfoy heir’s eyes widen in shock, obviously not expecting this reply. Ha, if he thought Hyperion would be impressed by that, he was sorely mistaken. Grimmauld Place had more dangerous objects in its junk drawer than this brat would see in his life.

Then Malfoy seems to stare at Hyperion’s face, and he knows exactly what the blond must notice.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” He whispered with wide eyes. Hyperion hesitated for a moment, thinking of the best response to give.

“Not anymore.”

“If you truly are the Black heir,” Malfoy started after a moment of silence, seeming to stop the posing for a moment, “will you be reclaiming all its alliances and primacy?”

“In time.” Hyperion said vaguely, finally turning to the blond. “Your loyalty to the family is… admirable. It’s a pity your father wastes the Malfoy influence on the Dark Lord’s arrogant posturing.”

“It…. I’ve thought about that. Wouldn’t the Blacks taking back power help with this issue?”

“When its back fully, yes.”

“I want to help.” The boy said, eyes shining in determination. Hmm…. Seems he was smarter than Hyperion had given him credit for. He obviously didn’t want to follow in his father’s foolish footsteps.

“Help me rule Hogwarts and restore the Black name…. And I’ll reclaim primacy over the Malfoy line and judge those who need it.”

“Deal.” The two shook hands, and thus an alliance was born, with Narcissa Black-Malfoy as the witness.

An hour or so later, after he’d returned home, Regulus had asked him what had happened, as it was obvious something had shaken Hyperion. So, the boy had told him.

“That’s good. Slytherin House works in a court-like structure, having a right hand will help you control it faster.”

“I still think he’s an arrogant brat, but… he’s tolerable.”

Regulus cackled at that. Seemed the next generation of Blacks were going to take Hogwarts by storm, and he couldn’t wait to see it and support them.

It was time to play the game, and Blacks always play to win.

Chapter Text

August 25^th 1990

Knockturn Alley, Diagon Alley, London, England.

Here’s the thing about living in hiding – no one notices when you’re near and guessing your identity is close to impossible.

Barty liked it like that though. The anonymity. The odd, violent jobs that required… a certain set of skills. The air of danger that always surrounded him in public, like simply being seen could cause either his or someone else’s death.

Ever since breaking out of that stupid Imperius his father had him under, Barty has been… doing as he pleases. If that meant taking the occasional assassination job to earn money, then so be it, not like Barty had never killed before. He hadn’t thought of much since, his mind focusing on surviving and nothing else.

After his stint in Azkaban, he’d found himself… reflecting on a few things, actually even before Azkaban he’d started feeling niggling doubts. Firstly was his loyalty to the Dark Lord – Barty could admit to himself that he’d been… blinded by a possible support system that liked him, unlike his stupid, good for nothing father. But now…. Now, he didn’t like who he’d become under the Dark Lord’s tutelage, but that realisation had come even before his cell and the roaming dementors, this had come when he’d found himself staring at the helpless bodies of Frank and Alice Longbottom as his fellow Death Eaters tortured the couple and tried to kill their son, a baby for fuck’s sake.

Barty had been disgusted, more so when people had thought he’d helped! Him, who knew very well the pain of the crutiatus from his father’s… loving care. He would never subject a child to the loss he’d felt when his own doting grandmother had passed, leaving him with a monster and his spineless wife. To be accused of that… it had truly forced Barty to put things into perspective, to finally understand why his closest friend might have defected and died doing it, or so he’d thought until he’d landed in his cell and heard the whispers of the other death eaters.

He was grateful, don’t get him wrong. In the end, his mother had sacrificed her already ending life for him, but to what end. He would’ve rather stayed in Azkaban and atoned than be subjected to the six years in hell he’d experienced by his father’s wand. But those years had also given him an added sense of clarity. The Ministry was just as bad as the Dark Lord, and even Dumbledore wasn’t a bloody saint, even if he tried to make people believe he was. There was truly no one in a position of power that had the common wixen’s well-being in mind. It was disheartening, but also a bit… motivating. Could Barty help in this endeavour when no one else had before? Surely someone else had had the same realisation and decided to act.

As he watched the kid who looked like the love child of Sirius Black and James Potter (no matter that the idea was physically improbable but funny nonetheless), he had a feeling he knew exactly who had decided to take matters into his own hands.

Regulus Black, the bloody genius he was. Kidnapping and blood adopting the boy-who-lived was bloody brilliant!

He watched the inconspicuously powerful boy walk into Borgin and Burks with a straight back and a blank expression that made it very clear that he was a pureblood heir. Add to that the ring glinting on his finger and the air of someone who owned his surroundings, and those that know the truth of Knockturn Alley would know exactly which family he belonged to.

The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black did own almost half the stores in the alley, and sponsored the rest, so that they collectively had control of everything in the area. It’d been like that since the inception of the dark and dank place over a hundred years ago. They also decided to house some of their more… aggressive and not fully human allies there. The residents’ loyalty transcended time and space, clearly shown by the people and creatures he’d met who were eagerly anticipating the return of the House of Black in all its violent, powerful glory. And against all odds, it seemed they’d be getting their wishes soon.

It was very interesting that the family who had always proclaimed their support of blood purity had such staunch followers in vampires, werewolves, hags and the worst wizards and witches in the United Kingdom.

“Stupid Barty, these are just my mother’s ideals, not the whole family’s views on the topic. Don’t be absurd, if we hated all magical creatures and half-bloods or muggle-borns, we would’ve never lasted this long. Grandfather and even Father have always been perfectly polite and happy to interact with anyone with magic, as long as they are smart enough or… controllable enough to be of use. Why would they turn away a vampire or a werewolf if their help would double the Blacks’ coffers.” His lovely friend had told him with a roll of his eyes and sneer on his face years ago, and Barty hadn’t believed him until he’d seen it for himself.

He’d continued to follow the boy as he’d gotten lost in his memories from fourth year, so he hadn’t been too focussed on what the kid was doing until he’d started a conversation with one of the owners of the store. A few moments later, the boy was handed a thick book in exchange of a small bag of coins. It could be bottomless though, so Barty had no idea how many galleons could be in it. He did know the Blacks were insanely, mind-numbingly rich, though, so the range of his guess was pretty large.

As the boy exited the store, Barty followed in his ratty black robes, which he’d stolen from an unsuspecting shopper a few months ago to be able to disguise himself in the dingy alley.

“Wouldn’t have guessed he’d send you here of all places. But I suppose being dead has limited his roaming.” The boy tensed at the sudden voice, and Barty found a knife sticking out of his robes just above his shoulder blade and attaching him to the wall, forcing him to stop mid-step. “Oh, you’re fun.”

“Who are you to know all of this?”

“An old friend, he used to call me Emi.” It had become a secret name they’d used during the war to distinguish each other among those who’d seek to use their likeness for… unfortunate deeds, a practice the Dark Lord had employed heavily, especially as his paranoia and violent nature seemed to consume his mind completely.

“Yes, so I’ve been told, though he believes you to be quite… dead.”

“So was he until recently. Is it such a shock for the both of us to pull the impossible?”

“I suppose not.” The kid muttered before staring at Barty’s cloaked face with intense Avada Kedavra green eyes. “What can I help you with?”

“Oh, nothing, I’m here offering you my help.” Barty replied smugly, and the kid’s eyes narrowed in distrust. Good, Reggie has taught him well.

“What could you possibly offer a pureblood heir as a runaway?” The incredulity in his tone was to be expected.

“A runaway who is thought to be very dead, as you put it, and has a… knack for getting into places he shouldn’t be.”

The boy looked contemplative, his eyes darkening in thought, which made the silvery specks in them more prominent. Merlin, he really looked like a carbon copy of a Black brother at that moment.

“I’ll have to discuss it with him. I do have a question though. How did you know about him?”

“Oh, the shadows in Azkaban are always speaking, especially when you ask the right questions.”

12 Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, England.

“So he just… offered, in exchange of what exactly?”

“Our alliance, so that when the war restarts, he’s not without a side.” That shocked Regulus a bit, as he’d thought only Dumbledore, himself and possibly Snape believed that the Dark Lord wasn’t truly dead.

“Hmm, perhaps working with Barty isn’t the worst idea. His knowledge and… skills may come in handy.”

“How do you know him anyway?” Hyperion asked, curious about his father’s life before the coma.

“He and I were… friends at Hogwarts. Though he was a Hufflepuff and I was, obviously, a Slytherin, we made quite the… harmonious pair, and the Dark Lord recognised that as well, as he always paired the both of us during training and missions, sometimes adding Evan Rosier to our group. We were… a good trio, worked very well together.”

“What happened to Rosier?”

“The Prewett Twins blew him to bits, but to be fair, he’d tried attacking one of their nephews. He was definitely more loyal and devoted than Barty and I. I do wonder why Barty defected though, and how he escaped Azkaban….” His musings would get him nowhere, however, so he put the thought out of his mind. For now…. “But, no matter. I will contact him and see if he will take a blood oath. We did have a very elaborate communication channel back in the war. And Hyperion, why do we need the oath?”

“Because Blacks always require blood for trust, otherwise how can we guarantee loyalty?” Hyperion recited dutifully, remembering one of the first political and magical combined lessons he’d gotten a few days ago.

“Very good. I have taught you well my son.”

Three days later, as Bartemius Casper Crouch Jr and Regulus Arcturus Black shook their cut hands allowing their blood to mix as they chanted, the shadows around them shifted, signalling the creation of a new Black pact. Hyperion watched on with a serious expression, analysing every detail for his own inevitable Blood Oaths.

September 3^rd 1990

4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, England, Great Britain.

Severus Tobias Snape had been many things, and he’d played many roles in his arguably short life, though if you asked him he’d tell you his life’s been too long.

He’s been a loyal Death Eater, a loyal spy, a hopelessly-in-love man, and now a professor, but he’s never been an errand boy. Until this day that is.

Dumbledore, the all-knowing man he though he was, had decided to send Severus on a wild goose chase three days into the term. He was supposed to be shouting at students and taking points from Gryffindors, yet here he was, in the middle of nowhere, Surrey, tracking down a runaway Potter, as if the Potters hadn’t already ruined his life enough. But alas, he’d sworn an oath to protect the stupid boy, and thus when he went missing, Severus had to be the one to find him.

His research, and Dumbledore’s tip-off, had found him in front of house number 4 in the middle of this very bland neighbour (and how could anyone stand this much beige), getting a rather harried greeting from Arabella Figg, a squib who was supposed to have been keeping an eye on the brat as she lived literally next door. Unfortunately, the old bat had failed her very simple mission. Surprise surprise, as if her ten kneezles weren’t enough of a clue as to the state of her mental faculties.

“Yes, thank you Missus Figg, I’ll take it from here.”

“Of course, Severus. Good luck with them, though, they won’t say anything, just that another relative took the boy in.”

Severus had substituted his flowing robes for a long black coat instead, and as he walked towards the unsuspecting door, he couldn’t help noticing the nosy neighbours peering at him and whispering to themselves. How irritating.

The door only took a moment after ringing the bell for it to open, and coming face to face with his old childhood tormentor wasn’t much pleasure, shockingly enough.

“You!” The long-necked woman sneered, and Severus gave her one back that had her backing off slightly. No one could out-sneer Severus Tobias Snape, especially not this awful housewife.

“Yes, yes. Just tell me where the boy is, and I’ll leave your awfully bland doorstep immediately.” Her face became ghost white and stricken with fear, and that was not a good sign. Not at all. Unfortunately, she chose that very moment to become completely mum. “Come on, woman. Speak!”

“He just… He blew up the door! Didn’t even give us a chance. Almost choked Vernon to death, and scared Dudley something mad. Talked to the boy, and he left with him willingly.”

“His name?”

“I don’t know! He didn’t even give us two full sentences, much less his name!”

“Okay, let me see.” He pushed her aside and walked towards the sitting room, which seemed like the most probable location for the intruder’s conversation. Pulling out his wand, and ignoring Petunia Dursley’s terrified squeak, he waved it all around the room, trying to find any magical signature to indicate who’d taken the brat. But… the results weren’t what he expected to find at all. Instead of a wizard’s magical signature, he only found a void, like any drop of magic that had been in the place had been swallowed or erased, which was unnatural, especially for a home that had once housed a magical child with uncontrollable magic.

“What the hell?” He muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he left, not sparing Petunia a second glance.

Dumbledore would not be happy about this. Not only had the person who’d been there penetrated the old man’s wards, but they’d also seemed to have completely consumed them and any magical residue they and the kid could have left behind.

It was extremely dark magic, and the only people Severus knew who could think of who had the power to do that were either dead or in Azkaban.

November 1^st 1990

12 Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, England.

It was ironic. Hyperion had been born Harry Potter, yet he’d never been given the chance to connect with his family and their legacy. Now that he was Hyperion Black, he got to learn about both; his new family and his old house, and, just as ironically, he found himself more connected to the Black side of his blood than the Potter part. He knew the Potters were descended of necromancers and inventers, the Peverells, but they were just… too light for him now. His magical core had originally been grey but light leaning, but now… now he leaned more towards the Dark Arts.

The Black family history was also very fascinating. Both of his families came from a Knight of the Round Table, but while the Peverells, and subsequently the Potters, descended from Sir Percival the Honourable, the Blacks’ first ancestor was Sir Gwaine the Black Knight – misunderstood and ruthless, his family members had truly followed in his footsteps. Reading more and more on his new family just continued to attract Hyperion’s interests to their history. The most accurate books, obviously, were those with Black family members as their authors. This specific book he was currently reading was written by Alya Black, a historian from the eighteenth century, who’d researched and documented all the important members of the House of Black starting from the family’s inception.

‘The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black claims origins as far back as the 5th century, when their ancestor and founder—Sir Gawain the Black Knight—served beside Merlin and King Arthur as one of the Knights of the Round Table. In a secret battle known as the Falling Stars War, the knight stood against arcane entities seeking to drain the world of magic and defeated them ruthlessly. For this, his bloodline was blessed by Lady Magic herself. Each descendant would carry a unique magical gift—an echo of their ancient pact to protect the balance of magic.

Gawain’s gift manifested in his sword, which glowed with ethereal blue flame and could strike down even the most fearsome foes. From then on, the family bore not only strength in blood, but power in spirit as well.

Originally known as House Noir, their name evolved over centuries to "Black"—a title symbolizing their role as custodians of magic's shadowed truths and misunderstood depths. Their motto, Toujours Pur (Always Pure), stood for the untainted preservation of magic itself.’

His ancestors had also achieved great things. Lord Arcturus Black I had helped establish the Wizengamot, Wizarding Great Britain’s parliament, Duke Altair Black had saved the British king at the time, and Duke Castor Black had supported the creation of the British Ministry of Magic. Others like Duchess Lyra Black had advocated for laws still used to this day – the International Statute of Magical Secrecy being the most important of them. The House of Black had truly and permanently left its mark on Wizarding society and its many history books, and Hyperion couldn’t be prouder of the family he’d joined.

Now the power…. That had started to manifest, and it wasn’t… the easiest to control. See, these gifts they were blessed with were unique to each Black, and there weren’t really any references of others gaining similar abilities to his in any book. Regulus tried to help, but his gift was even more obscure than Hyperion’s, which was saying a lot.

Hyperion remembered the day they’d discussed what it was, during his first magical outburst only days after his blood adoption.

It had started with a Dark Magic lesson, which had become a daily occurrence now that his magical core had stabilised and he was quite familiar with the theoretical part of it all.

Hyperion had been trying to master a rather complex spells from the Black Family Grimoire – or one of them at least. The spell, Umbra Sanguis, was historically used by Blacks to manipulate the shadows and turn it into solid weapons that can injure or kill an enemy.

“It is a very complex and power-sapping spell, to the point where the creator almost went mad. Caution and discipline are needed here. Understood?” Regulus had explained gravely, and Hyperion had nodded in understanding.

“Yes.”

“Alright, let’s try it. Slowly, Hyperion.” And Hyperion had said the spell slowly, enunciating every syllable. The shadows had sharpened and solidified, but before he could guide them to the dummy he was meant to attach, he started hearing whispers. Ghastly, creepy whispers that consumed his mind. Alongside the low murmurs came the imprint of ghosts, people once killed in this very chamber. Hyperion stood frozen, a feeling of pure fear and horror coursing through his veins.

“No….” He whispered, closing his eyes and covering his ears to shield himself from the ghosts’ whispers and accusatory gazes. They kept coming closer, explaining in great detail how they’d been killed by one Black or another; names thrown around like knives slicing through. “Get away.”

“HYPERION! Snap out of it!” Regulus shouted, but Hyperion was hearing it like it was coming through a long tunnel – distant and quiet. The shadows seemed to rise in reaction to his fear, surrounding him on all sides. He hadn’t realised, but when he’d opened his eyes, they were a very dark grey instead of their normal emerald green, shining like pewter in the night.

Regulus, seeing the shield, activated his own gift, aptly named The Eyes That Swallow Magic by his brother. He doesn’t just see magic, he perceives its very depths and intricate details, like an ocean of invisible forces. One of the gift’s abilities, The Tide-Breaker, can literally cause any magic to fail around him – spells, enchanted objects, and even, in worst case scenarios, Family Magics itself.

A moment later, and the whispers had stopped, Hyperion’s force field or shield had fallen, and the boy had hidden himself behind the training equipment, huddling in on himself as self-protection. He was shaking and his breathing was erratic.

“Come on Rion, breathe.” Regulus said comfortingly, moving to crouch in front of the boy and putting his arms around him.

“What was that?” He’d asked fearfully, staring at the opposing wall in horror.

“Your Black gift, a rite of passage for every member of our direct, and sometimes even secondary, lines. Because of your Peverell ancestory, I’d imagine yours manifested in a power related to death and shadows, which is good, Mon poussin, but it will be hard to control. We’ll work on it though, as we do everything else. We’ll start lessons tomorrow so an outburst like this never happens again.”

“Is that even possible?” Hyperion whispered softly, unable to comprehend how he could possibly control something like this.

“It has to be. Hyperion, the Black Family gifts – they are powerful and all-consuming. It is the main reason for the Black Madness. You cannot let it control you, you must become its master, or else….”

And he had. With the daily lessons and meditation, he’d mastered his gift, and even unlocked another part of it.

Now, he could also use the shadows as a blade when needed, like a dark knight’s sword. As Hyperion duelled Regulus, he found his many lessons had also come in handy. He was more agile, better on his feet, and even better with a weapon. The two clashed, and Hyperion could almost beat Regulus now. But still almost, as Regulus was probably the best duellist ever. The man was like a whirlwind with any sort of weapon, and Hyperion knew the man was probably going easy on him, but he’d still take it!

As they came to standstill, Hyperion heaved a loud sigh as exhaustion settled into his muscles.

“Very good, mon jeune protégé. You will be ready for Hogwarts in no time.” Regulus said with a small but proud smirk, looking annoyingly put together with barely a strand out of place even after hours of moving around. Hyperion hoped one day he’d be this put together all the time.

“Uhuh.” Hyperion hummed in agreement, still trying to catch his breath. Regulus laughed fondly, handing the boy a towel to wipe away the beads of sweat running down his forehead.

Whatever may come with his entrance into the magical world, Hyperion James Sirius Potter-Black would be ready for it.

Chapter Text

July 31^st 1991

12 Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, England.

Hyperion couldn’t believe that his life had changed so much in the past year alone. This time last year, Harry James Potter been hiding in the cupboard under the stairs from his angry maternal uncle when a weird man had walked in, threatened his abusive relatives, and swept him away to a world he could’ve never imagined.

Now, living with said weird man, who was his adopted father, Hyperion Potter-Black had freedoms and allowances that he could’ve never thought of getting back then. He was a powerful heir who was given many lessons to prepare himself from entering wizarding society. If he hadn’t take Regulus Black’s hand back then, he would’ve probably been finding out about Hogwarts and magic for the first time today, and he highly doubted Petunia would’ve explained anything – she would’ve rather left him in the dark than give him a single ounce of kindness.

But of course, there were a few fundamental things about himself that had changed greatly after he’d joined the House of Black. He was more ruthless, more discerning and very much dark. Violence and magic had become essentials in his life. But if he had to choose, he’d rather be this mature and pragmatic than the naïve and innocently optimistic kid he’d been before. He was vicious, yes, but also calm under pressure and able to make logical decisions without emotions getting in the way like they used to. He honestly thought he was better for it.

“Are you contemplating your life choices on your eleventh birthday?” An airy voice asked, their accent thick but regal, clearly someone who was raised in luxury. That voice had become quite familiar to Hyperion over the last year.

“Just thinking over everything that has changed.” Regulus Black was leaning against Hyperion’s bedroom door, looking at the boy with a clearly nonchalant look. At first glance, he looked relaxed but Hyperion had come to know the man well enough to know it was one of his many masks. The man was actually nervous about this topic of conversation, as clearly demonstrated by the way his hand was tapping lightly on the doorsill in a nervous habit Hyperion had noticed a few weeks into their living arrangement.

“Any regrets?”

“None.” Hyperion replied decisively, and Regulus grinned at him, his fingers pausing in their actions.

“Good.” He said, and Hyperion could tell his answer had calmed down his father. They’d talked about this before, how Regulus was scared he’d corrupted the boy by taking him in and adopting him into the House of Black, and how he feared Hyperion would come to regret it all in the future. Hyperion had tried to reassure the older man many times, but he still needed the reminder every once in a while. Hyperion would never regret becoming a Black and the son of Regulus, the man just needed time to process that. “Now then, you have mail and breakfast waiting for you.”

“The Hogwarts letter is here?!” Hyperion exclaimed, jumping out of bed excitedly. He didn’t show his emotions much anymore, but these were extenuating circumstances. He waved his hand in a lazy wave and his bed made itself, which caused Regulus’s lips to quirk in a small but proud smile.

“Seems likely.” The two walked down together after Hyperion had quickly wrapped his robe around his pyjamas. Seems Regulus was cutting him some slack today, as he normally insisted his son was properly dressed before leaving his room for the day.

“I don’t mind going to Diagon whenever.” Hyperion was saying, shrugging his shoulder nonchalantly.

“I know, but I don’t think it would be wise to do so today, as a lot of ‘Boy-Who-Lived’ fans and most likely a spy of Dumbledore’s will be expecting you there. He was probably hoping you were an overexcited teen who was living with an indulgent adult.”

“Hmm, good thing I am nothing like that then.”

“And you never will be. A Black Heir must never show something as unbecoming as excitement in public.” A grave voice said as they entered the dining room, and the two turned to the portrait hung on the wall opposite their chairs. The man was sitting on a high-backed throne-like chair with gold and black embroidery. His stormy grey eyes surveyed the two with perceptiveness and one raised brow. His raven black hair was streaked with white but looked quite elegant with his high-necked robes.

“Of course not Grandfather. Have I ever done that?” Hyperion said, sharing an amused look with his father. Orion Black had been a more recent addition to their life, but Regulus had felt that his father could be a good teacher for diplomacy, a skill Hyperion would need at Hogwarts. Getting his portrait down from his office and into a more accessible place was easy enough, but the man’s commentary was the thing they’d truly needed to get used to, or reused to in Regulus’s case.

“Quite disciplined of you, Hyperion.” Another, older voice said, and the severe man that was Lord Arcturus Black walked into the frame behind his son. This particular portrait had become a popular hang-out spot for all of Hyperion’s ancestors, who loved to bestow their wisdom upon the boy and gossip like old ladies. It was hilarious, and the father-son duo enjoyed the bickering the portraits all got into. Arcturus looked like a carbon copy of his son, except his hair reached his mid-back and was tied in a tight ponytail.

“Ah, thank you Great-Grandfather.”

“Of course he is, he was raised by Regulus!” A loud, shrill voice said, and Lady Walburga Black in all her glory joined the conversation. Honestly, Hyperion didn’t know what to think of the woman. The Black Madness had obviously affected her far more than her husband, as was common among the line of Pollux Black, or generally known as the Black family’s secondary line. Truthfully, Alphard, Narcissa and Andromeda seemed to be the sanest of the line, while the others were… not fully stable. Walburga was a cruel woman to be sure, but she’d obviously loved her sons in her own twisted, evil way. She also taught some really mean curses, and had created spells that had gone down in Black history as the most ruthless and vicious work anyone had ever seen. Hyperion had a good amount of respect and fear for her, but he also recognised how bad of a mother she’d been and how much of a hypocrite she seemed to be.

“Regulus.” Another person entered the frame, and Regulus turned to find his uncle Alphard giving him a very specific signal they’d agreed on beforehand. Regulus concentrated on the house’s wards and found one of the only portraits he never wanted to activate had apparently popped in while they were asleep. Regulus immediately isolated the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black, a previous Headmaster of Hogwarts who was often used by Dumbledore to spy on their family. He made it seem like Grimmauld Place was still inactive, so the man would get bored and leave. After breakfast, he’d get Hyperion to deactivate it, then reactivate it so that no one would get suspicious. It’d be a good lesson in manor care.

Breakfast was always a quiet affair, as it was improper to talk while eating, but as soon as their meal was done, Kreacher popped in with the mail. Three letters went to Regulus, who put them to the side for later perusal. He watched his son stare at the envelope he’d just been handed with the Hogwarts crest sealing it. Turning it over, he gasped.

“It’s not addressed to Harry Potter!” He exclaimed, a pleased smile colouring his face. Regulus released a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding. It seemed even Hogwarts’s magic had recognised Hyperion’s new identity, which was a relief. The boy had stopped responding to Harry ages ago, as for their new family, Harry Potter had died when Hyperion Potter-Black had risen.

There, in clear golden cursive, was the name the boy had recognised as his for a year now.

‘Hyperion J. S. Black’

“Perfect.” Regulus said softly. “Not even a hint of Potter.”

“But there’s a note with the letter.”

“No, this note came separately. Kreacher had rerouted all mail to Harry Potter from anywhere to here for Master Hyperion. Most is stupidly disrespectful fan-mail, but this one came in this morning. Kreacher must warn Masters, though, Masters will not like this.”

“Why– Oh.” Hyperion breathed out, not even bothering to continue his question as he saw who the letter was from.

“Yes.” Kreacher replied gravely, “Master should also know there was a tracking charm on it, but Kreacher took care of it, and the wards did the rest.”

“What is it, Rion?” Regulus asked softly, getting worried as the shadows around them reacted to the boy’s emotions and seemed to sharpen in rage, a side-effect of the Black gift Hyperion had been learning to control since he’d discovered it.

“See for yourself.” He said as he clenched his fists tightly. Regulus took the letter from his hands and laid his hand on the boy’s in a calming gesture as he read what had caused this serious a reaction. He’d learned that Hyperion calmed down best when he was given tactile comfort, something he was embarrassed to admit but Regulus had been happy to indulge in – after getting over his awkwardness about touch of course.

“Oh, the bastard!”

‘Dear Harry,

I am disappointed in your little stunt. Running away is never the answer, my boy, even if we sometimes need it. But all that aside, please know your aunt and uncle are very worried about you and would like your safe return. I implore you to think about what they must feel.

In any case, I look forward to guiding you this year, my boy, and wish you a happy school year.

A.P.W.B.D’

“Kreacher, return it to sender.” Regulus said with a sneer, but Hyperion’s shadows snatched it up before he could hand it over and tore it to shreds.

“No. Let him wonder what happened to his saviour. I will not satisfy him with even that.” Hyperion snapped, eyes blazing in pure rage.

Despite himself, Regulus couldn’t help glowing in pride at his boy’s viciousness and ferocity. He’d taught him well.

“Very good, Hyperion. We do not subjugate ourselves to the likes of that manipulative old goat.” Orion scoffed, getting agreeing nods from all the people still in his frame. Walburga cackled proudly, Arcturus nodded his approval and even Alphard, arguably the calmest of them, seemed to enjoy Hyperion’s reaction.

“Still, a bit of calmness in your reaction would’ve been better.” Regulus chastised lightly, and Hyperion looked slightly ashamed but still glowering with righteous fury.

“Sorry, Dad.”

“It’s alright.” He put a supportive hand on his son’s shoulder and squeezed twice, their way of saying ‘I love you’. Hyperion smiled at the man and his eyes showed that the sentiment was wholly returned.

July 17^th 1991

Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, England, Great Britain.

Hagrid had never questioned Albus Dumbledore a day in his life. The man was wise, smart, kind and good, and he’d never given Hagrid a reason to think otherwise. But his most recent request was a weird one, even by Dumbledore standards.

“Hagrid, Harry Potter has been missing for about a year now, but I believe he’ll return to his relatives’ house soon, so I need you to go there and scout the area until you see him. When you do, I need you to give him this and take him to Diagon Alley. It seems there was an error with the Hogwarts Registry and it didn’t generate a letter for him, but I made one especially for him. I believe it would be best if he was given it in person. You are the only person I can trust with this.”

 And of course Hagrid had agreed, not only because Dumbledore had asked him, but because it was about the boy he’d saved as a wee lad, the one whose parents had been brave and kind and good, and who deserved for their only son to be taken care of. So Hagrid had gone and tried to blend into his surroundings, waiting for the boy he was sure would look like a carbon copy of his father, James Potter.

But over eight hours had passed since his arrival, and no one who even remotely resembled the boy had come by. The only boy he’d seen near the house was a chubby boy with blond hair and blue eyes, but nothing else.

Hagrid stayed for four more hours, but as it neared midnight and he didn’t find anyone, he decided to call it quits and just leave, shame coursing through his body. He’d failed Professor Dumbledore, oh how Hagrid hated it. But what else could he have done?!

Harry Potter hadn’t come.

And Hagrid didn’t know this at the time, but he never would.

15 August 1991

12 Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, England.

Regulus was…. Bloody hell, he was nervous. He hadn’t left Grimmauld Place once since he’d woken up from his coma. It’d been unnecessary, and honestly he hadn’t really wanted to. But now, as his precious son was preparing to leave for the death-trap that was Hogwarts, he had to venture outside for the first time in a decade.

“Stupid Sirius, giving me a pack in fifth year.” Regulus grumbled as he took another drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke to the side and tipping the ash into the tray on the sill. He was in the balcony that was attached to Sirius’s room, the only one in the whole damn house he could hide in. His brother had taken several smokes here, and after he’d left, Regulus had tried to do it with the pack his brother had given him that year. It’d been disgusting at first, but he’d just continued anyway. Afterwards, whenever he was feeling melancholy and remembered Sirius – never miss, Sirius didn’t deserve to be missed after callously abandoning Regulus – he would come out and smoke a cigarette. The habit had evolved after that, to the point where he’d smoked one a day during his seventh year – he’d sneak away behind the castle walls, which is where his brother and his friends would do it too. It was a muggle habit, and if his mother had known, she would’ve skinned him alive, but it calmed him down after high stress situations.

He’d stopped after the coma, but he felt the itch every time he grew truly anxious, and this time he just couldn’t help getting out his stash and smoking one. It was old, and probably stale, but he didn’t care. The smoke going into his lungs and the smell that surrounded him brought him peace in a chaotic time.

“Dad?” Hyperion called out from the hallway, and Regulus quickly stubbed it out and left the room that brought him so much grief and nostalgia now. Every corner he looked, he would remember a memory with his brother that he’d treasured but Sirius had thrown away. The times he’d snuck into his big brother’s bed after a nightmare, when Sirius had tried teaching him a spell using his wand before Regulus had gone to Hogwarts, and even the times when they’d play wrestle on the rug, fights that always turned into cuddle piles.

It doesn’t matter anymore, Regulus thought as he shook his head, clearing his thoughts. I have a son to raise anyway.

“Yes Hyperion?” Regulus asked as he left the room and came face to face with the boy. Hyperion had decided to take full opportunity of the wardrobe Regulus had bought him through owl post and was wearing a navy blue sweater with matching jeans underneath, leaving his hair in its natural stylish messiness and using his magic to hide his distinctive features. He had bangs to cover the barely there scar, and his emerald eyes were now a rather dark grey colour. He looked like every other Black that had ever graced the earth, including Sirius and Regulus himself, but with enough things different to blur the lines just so.

Regulus was going disguised but keeping their features matching so that it was obvious they were father and son without being recognised as Blacks or, Merlin forbid, Harry Potter and the MIA Death Eater. He was also dressed in a muggle black suit with a matching turtleneck underneath, something no Death Eater except perhaps Malfoy would be caught dead in. His hair had also grown longer compared to his younger years, reaching the back of his neck with long curtain bangs partially covering his pale face. All in all, he didn’t look exactly like people remembered Regulus Black looking, so he was hoping it’d be enough of a disguise to throw everyone off.

“I’m ready to go if you are.” The boy said softly, and Regulus continued to be surprised by how in tuned his son was with his emotions. Regulus knew he had an impeccable mask, but spending most of their time together has allowed the two to see beyond those masks, and now Hyperion was an expert on Regulus Black, and vice versa.

“I am, yes. Let’s go.” The two walked down to the foyer in comfortable silence, but Hyperion seemed to stand closer to him in comfort. For all his new ruthlessness, Hyperion was still the sweet little boy Regulus had met a year ago underneath all the Blackness, but now it only showed around the people he cared about most.

“Don’t worry Master, Kreacher will be there for any emergencies.” His loyal friend (and, embarrassingly enough, pseudo parent) said with a serious face, and Regulus tried to laugh it off awkwardly.

“I’m not worried.” But the looks both Kreacher and Hyperion shot him made it very clear the two did not believe him one bit. Ugh, stupidly perceptive people who knew Regulus like the back of their hands. He couldn’t even have privacy for his emotions when he was around them. How annoying!

Diagon Alley, Charing Cross Road, London, England.

Flooing into Diagon Alley was a surreal experience for Regulus and his admittedly quite frayed psyche. His magic and body were coiled tightly, as if waiting for even a hint of threat to strike. They started the day with a trip to Gringotts Bank. Regulus knew both the Black and Potter accounts were probably in complete disarray due to disuse, and he’d been living purely on the vault his grandfather had created for daily household usage that Kreacher had access to, which wouldn’t be enough soon enough, especially with a growing boy living with them.

The tall white and golden building would be intimidating for people who weren’t used to outward displays of wealth, but for Regulus who’d grown up as a member the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, it was just another part of his life. Hyperion was impressed, though, but you would never be able to tell unless you recognised the interested glint in his eyes, which was pretty clear to Regulus even with the glamour on. Regulus had taught him well, and he was proud of the discipline Hyperion carried himself with nowadays.

They walked in regally, straight-backed and confident. It was obvious they were pureblood heirs even if you couldn’t quite place them in one specific family. A few people glanced at them in interest, but Regulus ignored them all as he walked towards a teller.

“I would like a meeting with my account manager.”

“And which account would that be.” The goblin said with their usual sneer, but Regulus didn’t answer verbally, he just waved his left hand over his right and let the signet ring show. It’d been given to him by his father as a symbol of the secondary heir of their family. Any Goblin worth their position would be able to recognise it immediately. He re-applied the glamour as soon as the goblin nodded in understanding. He would not be taking any chances with his son’s safety today.

“This away, sir.” The goblin said after a moment, and jumped from his stool to move the duo out of the reception area and to a side entrance. They were led through winding hallways and complicated turns to a very elegant office with large white double door. One knock from their guide, and they were allowed entrance.

“I should’ve known you’d come soon Scion Black, especially after I was notified of the newest addition to the family through Gringotts’s family tapestry.”

“Yes, Bloodclaw. That is very much the reason for my visit. I’d like you to meet the new Heir Black, Hyperion.”

“Yes, also the last remaining Potter, or so I’ve heard.”

“That is correct, Account Manager Bloodclaw.” Hyperion replied politely, and the two sat when the goblin gestured to the chairs in front of his large marble desk. “I would also like to get an Inheritance test to check on my family’s vaults and properties and see if there are any distant relatives I can contact.”

“Of course, Heir Black. That’s easy enough to accomplish. And Scion Black?”

“I’m just here to check on the accounts and get a key for my personal vault, as mine was destroyed. Oh! And open up a trust vault for Hyperion’s schooling.”

“Let us start with the test and then discuss the rest, shall we?” The father-son duo nodded in agreement, and Bloodclaw opened a drawer and drew out three objects from it. A piece of yellow parchment, a potion vial, and a small dagger.

“I’ll be using my own, thank you.” Hyperion said as he brought out his own Stygian Iron dagger from a sheath he’d hidden in the back of his pants. Regulus looked on proudly as Hyperion cut his palm and let the blood drip seven times into the potion bottle without so much as a flinch. Bloodclaw shook the bottle then poured its contents onto the parchment. A few seconds went by without anything happening, but then words started appearing slowly.

When it stopped, Regulus and Hyperion both sat side-by-side to read together the content.

Inheritance Test Results for: Hyperion Potter-Black

1. Blood Status & Affiliations:

• Name: Hyperion James Sirius Potter-Black
• Birthday: July 31^st 1980
• Age: 11
• Blood Status: Pureblood (Via Blood Adoption, Black Line; Half-Blood via Biological Birth, Potter Line)
• Titles:
• Heir Apparent to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black
• Heir by Blood to the Honourable and Most Ancient House of Potter
• Scion of the Inventive and Most Olde House of Peverell (via Ignotus Peverell)
• Magical Core: Grey (Leaning Dark Post-Black Blood Adoption). Notably dense and powerful for age.
• Magical Affinity: Shadow Manipulation (Noctis Potentia), Soul Magic (Dormant, Peverell), Ancient Blood Magics (Black).

1. Lineage & Living Blood Relatives:

• Paternal (Black) Bloodline [Through Adoption]:
• Regulus Arcturus Black II (Blood-Adopted Father)
• Sirius Black III (Blood Uncle, Incarcerated)
• Narcissa Malfoy (née Black) (First Cousin Once Removed)
• Bellatrix Lestrange (née Black) (First Cousin Once Removed, Incarcerated)
• Andromeda Tonks (née Black) (First Cousin Once Removed)
• Draco Malfoy (Second Cousin)
• Nymphadora Tonks (Second Cousin)
• The Houses of Crouch, Weasley, Macmillan, Crabbe, Potter and Longbottom are very distant relations, but not direct blood relatives.
• Maternal (Potter) Bloodline [Through Birth]:
• James Fleamont Potter (Biological Father, Deceased)
• Lily Potter (née Evans) (Biological Mother, Deceased)
• Charles Potter-Vera (Second Cousin, Once Removed, Alive) [Son of Elizabeth Potter-Vera and Nikolas Vera. Resident of the United States; works for the Magical Congress of the United States of America (MACUSA) in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.]
• The Houses of Longbottom and McKinnon are very distant relations, but not direct blood relatives.

III. Financial Holdings & Anomalies:

• A. House of Black Vaults:
• Vault #711: Heir's Trust Vault (Accessible at 11).
• Contents: Moderate sum of gold, heirloom jewellery, beginner-level grimoires.
• Vault #13: Main Family Vault (Accessible upon Lordship or at age 17). Contents: Extreme sum of gold, art, artefacts, family grimoires, historical documents. Status: Pristine. Wards: Strong.
• B. House of Potter Vaults:
• Vault #687: Heir's Trust Vault (Accessible at 11). Contents: Nearly depleted. A small, pile of gold. Status: Heavily and frequently accessed by a third party.
• Vault #18: Main Family Vault (Accessible upon Lordship or at age 17). Contents: Significant wealth, Lord & Lady’s personal effects, James Potter's family heirlooms. Status: Wards weakened by repeated, unauthorized entry.
• Vault #3: Peverell Vault (Accessed via Peverell Bloodline & Heirloom). Contents: Unknown. Wards are primordial and keyed to the Resurrection Stone. Status: Untouched for centuries.
• C. Financial Anomaly - Potter Trust Vault (#687):
• Log of Transactions: Attached parchment lists a long, detailed log of withdrawals. Note: Anomalies and irregularities detected. Financial Impropriety Suspected*.
• Primary Access Key Holder: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore (Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Order of Merlin First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Supreme Mugwump of the ICW and Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.)
• Justification Listed: "Upkeep & Care for the Heir, Harry J. Potter."

1. Guardianship & Wills:

• Legal Guardian (Blood-Adopted): Regulus Arcturus Black II (Recognized by Black Family Magic & Gringotts Bank).
• Godparent (Biological): Sirius Black III (Magically binding, currently nullified due to incarceration).
• Last Will & Testament of James & Lily Potter: SEALED BY ORDER OF THE DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT, UNDER DIRECTIVE FROM CHIEF WARLOCK ALBUS DUMBLEDORE AND PREVIOUS HEAD OF THE DMLE BARTEMIUS CROUCH. 

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” Hyperion exclaimed, unable to contain his outrage like he’d been taught to do. His aunt would’ve washed his mouth with soap if she’d heard him cuss like he was at that moment.

“Well shit.” Regulus said under his breath, eyes going wide even as his expression remained blank. Then everything caught up to him, his thoughts stabilised, and his eyes flashed a menacing white. “Lock down the Potter Vaults immediately and recall any issued keys. I also demand the goblin in charge be judged for his actions. He allowed a man completely unrelated to the Potter family beyond friendly acquaintance to access ancestral vaults. And I don’t even want to get started on the illegally sealed will.”

“Right away, Scion Black.” Bloodclaw said gravely, knowing that a Black’s ire is the worst thing to incur. They can be vengeful, creative, and their morals weren’t enough to control their actions. He immediately activated the magic needed, and started writing letters to both the goblin in the wrong and the Head of this Branch of Gringotts, Ragnor – brother to the Goblin King Ragnarok. “Who would you like to take over the Potter accounts in the meantime?”

“You.” Hyperion said distractedly, still staring at the test in a mix of shock and horror. The shadows around them had started moving menacingly, and Regulus knew it was only thin control that was keeping them from destroying the office.

“Calm, Hyperion. This is not the time to let emotions consume you.” Regulus cautioned, standing to move behind his son, putting his hands on the boy’s shoulders in comfort.

“You’re right, Father. It is time to act as a Black should.” Hyperion said seriously, eyes focusing and shining black for a second before going to the tint they always got when he was particularly angry – Avada Kedavra green. Unfortunately, Glamours were erased when one enters an account manager’s office, as the wards didn’t allow those hidden to enter without honesty. “Please find my parents’ will, Bloodclaw, and only issue myself and my father keys to the Potter vaults. I would also like to claim my Heir ring, and see about getting in contact with this relative I seem to have.”

“Of course, Heir Black. I will have all of that ready for you as soon as possible. And our branch head Ragnor has already replied to my missive stating that the goblin in question, Bladelink, has been taken into custody and is awaiting trial. He will henceforth not be able to manage any account, even if he were to be found innocent, unlikely that may be.”

“Very good. You will handle the accounts until then.” Bloodclaw nodded at Regulus’s words, but inside he was cackling in pure glee. To handle both the Black and Potter accounts would not only raise his standing among his kind, but will increase his coffers tenfold. “Now, what are the steps needed to get this money from the interloper?”

“And can I sue him for stealing from my inheritance?” Hyperion asked, giving the goblin a bloodthirsty sneer that earned him an impressed stare from the man.

“Let us get started then, gentlemen.” The three men smirked at each other as they settled in for a long meeting.

“Why must we get the robes from here?” Hyperion murmured as he walked towards Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. He was used to luxury by now, and the Blacks exclusively ordered from their personal tailor, Lord Klein of the Elegant House of Viola, who operated his own store alongside his three sons – a store which had three branches in the UK so far and was already looking to expand to France, the man’s home country.

“Because it’s a Hogwarts tradition, and Madam Malkin’s is the only store who has a contract with the school to create the students’ robes.”

“Well that’s just stupid.”

“Yes, Hyperion. When you take over the world, I’m sure you’ll correct this most egregious mistake.” Regulus said sarcastically, and cackled when his son scowled at him.

“Oh, I agree wholeheartedly.” A voice said from inside the store, and the two turned to find Draco Malfoy standing on a dais getting measured by Madam Malkin herself.

“Draco.”

“Hyperion.” The two nodded to each other in greeting, and Regulus looked on in amusement as the two moved to stand beside each other and started talking about their plans for school.

“I see Hyperion is here, Draco. It is good to see you dear.” A voice said behind Regulus, and he turned to find his favourite cousin standing there looking at the two boys with a fond smirk.

“You as well, Aunt Narcissa.” Hyperion said with a polite smile, shaking the woman’s hand before he was ushered to be fitted himself.

“And who might you be?” The woman asked as she looked at Regulus, and he smirked, his eyes flashing a bright white that he knew she would recognise instantly. It was the colour his eyes turned when his Black gift was activated. “No! It can’t be….”

“Oh Cissy, you didn’t think I’d actually die, did you?” He said smugly, putting his glamour back on. His expression slowly shifted as Narcissa did the unimaginable, and grabbed him into a hug. Purebloods, especially Blacks, were taught to never show affection in public, so for Narcissa to do that for him, it meant she’d truly missed him, which was something Regulus hadn’t really thought would be the case.

It was nice, knowing some of his family members had been sad when he’d gone into the coma.

The four walked towards Flourish and Blots in animated conversation, for purebloods at least.

Regulus noticed Severus Snape lurking about, watching them with a mix of confusion and suspicion. Regulus knew he’d need to talk to him soon, but for now he was happy to leave the man running around trying to find something he never would. Severus didn’t even notice that Hyperion’s reflection had emerald green eyes and darker skin, making him look almost like Harry Potter.

They dropped the two off at the store, got Hyperion’s books, and then headed for Ollivander’s Wand Shop to get the boy’s wand.

“I don’t know, Father, it’s an intense tradition.”

“And you’ll do great. You’ll find a wand and then we’ll start getting you used to it before school starts.”

The two walked into the dark store, where the owner, a white-haired, white-bearded man was standing at the counter, looking at them with a soft, whimsical smile.

“Ah, Mister Black. How good to see you healthy. I remember your wand, black walnut, dragon heartstring, eleven and a half inches, slightly rigid. You always were meant for greater things. And you must be the newest Black, or are you still Harry Potter?”

“How did you know?” Hyperion asked, surprised by the information.

“Intuition perhaps. Or magic, more like.” The man said calmly, and Regulus smirked in amusement.

“Hyperion here needs a wand.”

“Then I believe you’ve come to the right place. Come, let us try until we find the right one for you.”

And they did. Hundreds of wands, each one reacting more explosively than the last.

“This is a holly, phoenix feather core, eleven inches, nice and supple.” But as soon as Hyperion touched the handle, it stung him sharply.

“Ouch.” Hyperion exclaimed as he quickly let it go.

“Huh, I thought that one would’ve been it.” The man muttered under his breath, and the father-son duo didn’t know it yet, but they’d just foiled another of Dumbledore’s complicated plans. No brother wands to fight each other.

The man hummed as he looked through the many boxes until he found what he was looking for.

“Ebony wood, Thestral hair core, twelve inches, it’s sturdy but flexible.”

“Thestral hair?” Regulus asked, surprised. It wasn’t normally used as a wand core, as it was very temperamental and particular, as the creature it comes from is.

“Yes, I thought with his Peverell ancestry, it could be fitting.” Hyperion took a deep breath before grabbing the wand and instantly feeling a warmth spreading through his right arm, and the wand’s tip glowed a bright silver and black. The shadows around them started getting absorbed by the wand as if it was a vacuum.

Ollivander gaped in shock at the violent reaction; no wand had ever done this in the hands of its owner. He’d seen some Blacks have a very strong reaction, yes, but never like this.

Regulus, on the other hand, looked on smugly as the magic calmed down.

“Perfect. We’ve found your wand.”

“Yes we did.” Hyperion said, looking on in satisfaction and happiness.

"Curious… your magic leaves no trace. Like a shadow without a source." Ollivander said vaguely, “but yes, congratulations Mister Potter-Black.”

Hyperion looked to his father, and when he found the man looking at him proudly, he glowed in joy.

Oh, but Hogwarts wouldn’t know what hit it!