"The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper." — W.B. Yeats
November 4, 1968, London
The return journey was silent, but it was a silence that possessed a distinct texture. Before, the silence of the Black family procession had been brittle, a thin layer of ice over a deep, dark ocean of expectation. Now, the silence was anchored.
Vega sat in the back of the enchanted black limousine that Arcturus preferred over the vulgar immediacy of the Knight Bus or the discomfort of side-along apparition. He felt the wand—his wand, the King of the Forest—pressed against his forearm beneath his sleeve.
It was warm. Not the feverish heat of a infection, but the steady, radiating warmth of a hearth fire in deep winter. It hummed against his skin, a low, constant vibration that synced with his pulse. Thump-thump. Thrum-thrum.
Sirius sat beside him, vibrating with an energy that had nowhere to go. The boy kept glancing at Vega's arm, his grey eyes wide, replaying the memory of the golden light and the sudden wind in the shop.
"It's asleep," Sirius whispered, leaning in conspiratorially, dodging Walburga's sharp gaze from the front seat.
Vega looked down at his brother and smiled—a small, genuine expression that didn't reach the vigilant eyes of his grandfather. "It isn't asleep, Sirius. Trees never truly sleep. They just wait. It is... listening."
"To what?" Regulus asked, his voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.
"To London," Vega answered, looking out the tinted window at the passing grey blur of Muggle streets. "To the earth beneath the tarmac. To the rhythm of us."
November 4, Number 12, Grimmauld Place, London
Entering the house was usually like walking into a crypt. The air of Grimmauld Place was stagnant, recycled through centuries of dark rituals and heavier secrets. The wards pressed down on the shoulders, a physical weight meant to crush intruders and temper the inhabitants into diamonds.
But today, as Vega stepped across the threshold, something shifted.
The moment his foot touched the hallway runner, the heavy, suffocating pressure of the house slammed into him, and broke.
It didn't break the wards, but it broke against him. He felt the English Oak wand flare against his arm, a surge of stubborn, rooted strength. I am here, the wood seemed to say. Stand tall.
For the first time in his life, Vega stood in the hallway of his ancestors and did not feel small. He felt rooted.
"Report," Walburga said, turning to them as the house-elf took their cloaks. She didn't look at the boys; she looked at the wand-holster on Vega's arm. "Was it successful? Ollivander can be... difficult with his sentimentalities."
Arcturus bypassed her, walking toward his study. "It was more than successful, Walburga. It was decisive."
Vega saw the hunger in his mother's eyes, the desire for a weapon, for a symbol of dominance she could brandish at tea parties. He felt a spike of pity for her. She saw magic as a knife to be sharpened, never realizing it was the very air she breathed.
"It is a good wand, Mother," Vega said softly. "It is loyal."
He didn't show it to her. He sensed, with that new, sharp intuition the Oak had promised, that the wand would resent being displayed like a trophy. It was a friend, and one did not parade friends for validation.
"Loyalty is useful," Walburga sniffed, straightening her robes. "But power is absolute. Go to your room. Prepare for dinner. The Malfoys are sending a raven tonight regarding the Board of Governors. You will need to be presentable."
Vega nodded, but before he turned to the stairs, he felt a small hand tug his sleeve.
"Vega?" Sirius asked. "The stone?"
Vega paused. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small, smooth stone he had transmuted in the ice cream parlour—the one he had used to explain the feeling of the wand. He pressed it into Sirius's palm.
"Keep it," Vega whispered. "Remind yourself that magic isn't just the heavy stuff in the books, Siri. It's the stone, the ice cream, the wind in the shop. Don't let this house make you forget the fun of it."
Sirius closed his fist around the stone, his eyes fierce. "I won't."
The Heir's Chamber, Midnight
The house slept, but the magic did not.
Vega sat by the window of his room, the heavy velvet drapes pulled back to reveal the sliver of moon hanging over London. The gaslamps of the square below flickered, their light struggling against the thick, unnatural fog that always seemed to wreath Grimmauld Place.
He held the wand in his lap. In the darkness of the room, the iridescent veins of the Quetzalcoatl feather glowed with a faint, rhythmic pulse—teal, gold, teal, gold.
He wasn't practicing spells. He wasn't memorizing incantations. He was simply being.
He closed his eyes and let his Metamorphmagus awareness expand. Usually, this was a chaotic exercise—a flood of sensory data, the creaking of the house, the taste of dust. But the Oak acted as a filter. It grounded the chaos.
He could feel the house breathing. He could feel the ancient protection spells woven into the floorboards like roots. He could feel the faint, sleeping heartbeats of Sirius and Regulus down the hall.
And then, he felt something else.
A tapping.
Not at the window, but inside the magic. A polite, rhythmic knocking on the edges of the wards.
Vega opened his eyes. He stood, the movement fluid, the wand sliding into his hand as if it had been born there. He didn't feel fear. The Oak flooded him with a calm, steady courage.
He walked to the window and looked down into the square.
Standing under the flickering gaslamp, staring directly up at his window, was a large, grey owl. It wasn't a post owl. It was too big, its feathers too ruffled, its eyes too intelligent.
It sat on the iron railing, unmoving.
Vega unlatched the window. The cold November air rushed in, biting at his face, but the wand in his hand grew warm to compensate.
"You are not from the Ministry," Vega whispered to the night air.
The owl hooted—a low, mournful sound that carried clearly over the distance. It lifted one leg. There was no letter attached. Instead, tied with a simple strip of leather, was a small sprig of dried distinct plant matter.
Holly.
Vega frowned. Holly becomes King as the days begin to shorten again...
He extended his wand. He didn't cast a summoning charm; he simply asked. He pulled on the concept of the wind, the domain of the feather in his core.
Bring it to me.
The wind obeyed. A gentle gust lifted the owl, carrying it up three stories with a silent grace, depositing it on his windowsill. The bird looked at him with golden, judgmental eyes, dropped the holly sprig onto the floorboards, and immediately took flight, dissolving into the London mist.
Vega picked up the sprig. It was sharp, the berries a deep, blood red.
It wasn't a threat. It was a greeting.
"Holly and Oak," Vega murmured, his mind racing through the lore Arcturus had forced him to memorize, and the intuition the wand was now feeding him. "The two Kings."
He looked out at the empty square. Somewhere out there, beyond the safety of the Black wards, the world was moving. The "Deep World" his grandfather spoke of—the Khanate, the Jade Lotus, the ancient orders that predated the Ministry—they were watching. They knew the Heir of Black had been armed.
He wasn't just a student going to school. He was a player stepping onto the board.
Vega gripped his wand, feeling the Quetzalcoatl feather vibrate with anticipation. A smile, slow and genuine, spread across his face. It wasn't the predatory smile of Arcturus, nor the haughty sneer of Walburga.
It was the smile of a boy who had just realized that the story was real, and that he held the pen.
"Hello, world," he whispered to the dark. "I'm listening."