"Strange is our situation here upon earth. Each of us comes for a short visit, not knowing why, yet sometimes seeming to a divine purpose." — Albert Einstein
April 20, 1969, Blackwood Manor, Wiltshire
Chief Thomas Thunder-Hawk POV
The ancient seat of the Black family in the country was everything Grimmauld Place was not. Where the London house was a sealed tomb of concentrated ego, Blackwood Manor was an open lung, breathing deeply of the ancient, chalky soil of Wiltshire.
It sat on a convergence of three major ley lines, the air permanently vibrating with a low-grade static that made the hair on one's arms stand on end. The wards here were older than the Ministry, woven into the roots of the massive, brooding forests that surrounded the estate.
Standing on the crushed gravel of the driveway, awaiting their guests, Arcturus Black looked less like a politician and more like a feudal lord surveying his domain.
Beside him stood Vega.
From the perspective of Chief Thomas Thunder-Hawk, Cultural liaison for the MACUSA and an elder of the Comanche Nation, the boy was a fascinating study in contradictions as he stepped out of the carriage.
Thomas had dealt with British wizards for decades. They were usually stiff as starched collars, their magic jammed tight into rigid Latin structures, terrified of anything that didn't come in a Ministry-approved textbook.
But this boy—the Black Heir—was different.
Visually, Vega held the classic aristocracy of the House of Black: the high cheekbones that could cut glass, the midnight-dark hair, and the eyes of arresting, stormy grey. He was tall for eleven, possessing a natural poise that usually took decades to cultivate in the courts of Europe.
Yet, Thomas noted, the boy did not stand like a statue. There was a terrifying stillness to Arcturus, like a coiled viper. The boy, however, held himself with a loose, liquid grace. He didn't seem fixed in reality; he seemed poured into it. His edges were soft, as if his physical form was merely a polite suggestion he was currently agreeing to adhere to.
A Metamorphmagus, Arcturus had claimed in their private correspondence. A true shapeshifter, not just a parlour trickster changing nose shapes.
"Chief Thunder-Hawk," Arcturus said, his voice a dry rustle. "Welcome to the soil of my fathers."
"Lord Black," Thomas replied, his voice a deep resonance that seemed to originate from the chest rather than the throat. He gestured to the girl standing beside him. "May I present my daughter, Aaya."
Vega Black POV
Vega looked at the girl.
She was perhaps a year older than him, twelve turning thirteen. She possessed a striking, intimidating beauty that had nothing to do with the pale, powdered dolls of British pureblood society. Her skin was a rich copper, her dark eyes holding a fierce, unblinking intelligence that assessed Vega and found him... amusing. Her black hair was woven into two thick braids, heavy with silver clasps carved with symbols that Vega's inherent magic recognized as potent wind-wards.
She did not curtsey. She nodded, a sharp, economical movement of a hunter recognizing another predator in the clearing.
"Heir Black," she said. Her voice was clear, American-accented, with a musical lilt underneath that hinted at older languages.
"Aaya," Vega replied, executing a bow that was perfectly correct yet somehow entirely devoid of subservience. He rose, his grey eyes meeting her dark ones, and for a fraction of a second, he let his Metamorphmagus control slip just enough to shift the colour of his irises to match hers exactly—a silent, private acknowledgment of seeing her.
A tiny smirk touched the corner of Aaya's mouth. She had noticed.
"The house smells better than your London one," Aaya observed drily as they moved indoors, her eyes scanning the vaulted ceiling of the entrance hall, carved with hunting scenes where the beasts seemed uncomfortably alive. "Less... constipated."
Arcturus stiffened slightly ahead of them, but Vega let out a startled, genuine laugh.
"It breathes better out here," Vega agreed, falling into step beside her. "London makes the magic cough."
The adults retired to the library to discuss matters that Arcturus termed "global realignments"—code for the rising tensions in the East and the shadowy movements of the Khanate. Vega was tasked with entertaining their guest.
They ended up on the rear terrace, overlooking the sprawling, ancient woodlands that bordered the estate. The April air was heavy and humid, the sky a bruised purple. A storm was brewing, the kind of profound English spring storm that felt like the sky was tearing itself open.
Aaya walked to the edge of the balustrade, lifting her face to the wind. The silver charms in her braids chimed softly.
"My father says you are to go to Hogwarts," she said, not looking at him. "The school of castles and rules."
"It is the customary sentence for my kind, yes," Vega said lightly, leaning against a stone pillar. He felt the hum of his wand against his arm, reacting to the pressure dropping in the atmosphere.
"I go to Ilvermorny," Aaya said, turning to face him. There was a challenge in her stance. "Thunderbird House. We favor the soul of the warrior. The adventurer. They say British wizards are too busy dusting their family crests to look at the horizon."
"A fair criticism," Vega admitted. "We do love our dust."
Aaya narrowed her eyes. "You are too relaxed for a Black. My father said your grandfather is a blizzard wrapped in human skin. You feel like... puddle water."
Vega grinned. "I'll take that as a compliment. Puddles can be surprisingly deep if you step in the wrong one."
She studied him, sensing the deflection. "Show me. Show me this famous Black magic. Do you curse the gardener for looking at you wrong?"
"Too messy. Good gardeners are hard to find." Vega pushed off the pillar. "Show me yours first. Thunderbird. That is a creature of the storm, yes?"
Aaya smiled, and it was a terrifying expression, full of teeth and wild joy.
She didn't draw a wand. She reached into a pouch at her belt and pulled out a small, dried gourd carved with zig-zag patterns. She began to shake it in a rhythmic, staccato beat. Shk-shk-shk-SHAKA.
She began to hum, a low, vibrating sound deep in her throat that bypassed Vega's ears and resonated in his chest cavity.
The effect was immediate. The heavy, purple sky above them began to churn. The wind whipped up, tearing leaves from the trees below the terrace. The ambient static of the ley lines spiked violently.
With a final, sharp shake of the gourd, Aaya snapped her hand upward.
A fork of brilliant, jagged lightning tore across the sky, not striking the ground, but illuminating the clouds from within, followed instantly by a deafening crack of thunder that shook the flagstones beneath their feet.
She lowered her hand, her chest heaving slightly, her eyes bright with adrenaline. It was raw, beautiful, untamed magic. It was the sky answering a call.
"Subtle," Vega drawled in the stunned silence that followed.
Aaya laughed, a bright, crashing sound. "Your turn, puddle boy."
Vega knew he couldn't match that raw elemental fury. If he pulled his wand and cast a standard Incendio or a Stunning Spell, it would look pathetic against the backdrop of her storm.
He needed to show her what he was.
He walked to the edge of the terrace. The wind she had summoned was still whipping around them.
"To hold the wind," Vega whispered, quoting the proverb he had read months ago, "you must be the mountain."
He closed his eyes. He didn't reach for a spell. He reached inside, to the chaotic, shifting ocean of his Metamorphmagus core. He didn't try to control the wind; he just... became less solid.
Aaya watched, her eyes widening, as Vega's outline blurred in the twilight. For a few seconds, he wasn't a boy standing against the wind; he was the wind moving around a boy-shaped space. His hair whipped, his robes billowed, but his body seemed to lose its rigidity, flowing around the currents of air rather than resisting them.
Then, he solidified. He reached into his sleeve and drew his wand.
He didn't flourish it. He simply held it out, letting the last rays of the dying sun catch the wood.
The English Oak looked humble, sturdy, radiating its quiet, rooted strength. But it was the core that sang.
The Quetzalcoatl feather inside sensed the storm Aaya had agitated. It felt the kindred spirit of the Thunderbird. The iridescent veins on the wand's surface flared to life—not just a glow, but a rhythmic pulse of deep teal and electric gold.
The wand began to hum, a low, throbbing vibration that harmonized with the lingering thunder.
Vega felt the connection snap into place—the wand acting as a lightning rod not for electricity, but for the intent of the storm. He didn't cast. He just directed.
With a slow, deliberate movement, like a conductor silencing an orchestra, he swept the wand downwards.
The churning clouds above them instantly stilled. The wind died as if cut with a knife. The brewing storm didn't dissipate naturally; it was ordered to cease.
Aaya stared at the sky, then down at the wand in his hand, her mouth slightly open.
"That's not a British core," she accused, but there was awe in her voice. "That feels like... the south winds. Older than Europe."
"The Plumed Serpent," Vega confirmed, sliding the wand back into his holster where it continued to keep his arm satisfyingly warm. "A cousin to your Thunderbird, I believe. It seems they recognize each other."
Aaya looked at him, really looked at him, stripping away the preconceived notions of the stiff British heir. She saw the fluidity, the refusal to be rigid, and the wielding of a magic that was a partnership rather than a demand.
"You are strange, Vega Black," she decided, a genuine smile replacing the predatory smirk. She reached out and tapped a finger against his chest. It felt solid enough now. "You flow like water, but you carry oak. It is a confusing mix."
"Confusion is a useful tactic," Vega said, offering her his arm to lead her back inside as the first heavy drops of rain, finally released from the suspended storm, began to fall.
As they walked back toward the warmth of the manor, Aaya laughed again.
"You're going to terrify them at your little castle school," she said cheerily. "They won't know what box to put you in, and they will hate you for it."
"I'm counting on it," Vega replied, feeling the truth of it settle deep in his bones.
He had looked outside the narrow scope of his island's magic, and the world had looked back, winking. The game was so much larger than Walburga's drawing room, and Vega was just beginning to learn the rules.
The Great Hall, Blackwood Manor
The dinner had been a stiff affair, a dance of silver cutlery and polite geopolitical evasions. Now, with the plates cleared, the children had been banished to the Great Hall while the adults spoke of treaties in the library.
The Hall was a cavernous space, dominated by a fireplace large enough to roast a hippogriff. The logs hissed and popped, sending plumes of woodsmoke drifting toward the high, vaulted ceiling.
Vega and Aaya sat on a sprawling bear-skin rug before the hearth. The formality of the terrace had dissolved into a comfortable, curious truce.
"So," Aaya said, picking at a loose thread on the rug. "You really don't chant? At all?"
"Only in Latin," Vega replied, leaning back on his hands, watching the fire. "And only when we want to sound important. British magic is very concerned with grammar. If you conjugate the verb wrong, you don't get a fireball, you get a stern lecture."
Aaya snorted, a thoroughly unladylike sound that Vega found delightful. "That sounds exhausting. Magic is a conversation, not a spelling bee. Listen."
She leaned forward and pursed her lips. She didn't whistle; she made a series of sharp, clicking sounds with her tongue against the roof of her mouth, followed by a low, rhythmic exhalation. Click-click-whoosh. Click-click-whoosh.
It sounded like dry leaves skittering over stone.
From the hearth, a tendril of grey woodsmoke detached itself from the fire. It didn't dissipate. Instead, it coiled, thickening and condensing until it formed a perfect, smoky ring. Then another. Then a third.
They floated toward them, holding their shape against the draft of the room.
"It listens to the rhythm," Aaya explained, her dark eyes reflecting the firelight. "The smoke knows the sound of the wind, so I speak wind to it."
Vega watched the smoke rings. It was beautiful control—wandless, wordless, purely intent-driven.
"May I?" he asked.
Aaya nodded, challenging him with a raised eyebrow.
Vega didn't try to click. He didn't try to command the wind. He focused on the concept of the smoke—the grey, particulate suspension. He reached into his Metamorphmagus core, the place where he stored textures and colours.
He didn't cast a spell. He simply projected a thought: Not grey. Living.
He brushed his finger through the air near the first smoke ring. As his hand passed, the grey smoke shivered and transmuted. It didn't turn into a solid object, but the color shifted violently. The grey became a vibrant, neon violet.
Aaya gasped softly.
Vega touched the second ring. It turned a deep, impossible emerald green.
He touched the third. It burst into a shimmering gold, hanging in the air like a halo.
"You painted it," Aaya whispered, reaching out to touch the golden ring. Her finger passed through it, disturbing the smoke, causing the gold to swirl into intricate eddies. "I gave it form, but you gave it... skin."
"Structure and surface," Vega mused, watching the colours swirl. "Your magic builds the bones, Aaya. Mine decides what dress they wear."
Aaya looked at him, her expression shifting from amusement to something deeper. A recognition of a peer.
"You would do well in the Americas," she said softly. "The Skin-Walkers would hate you, but they would respect you. You change things without breaking them."
"I think," Vega said, turning to look at her, his grey eyes catching the light of the golden smoke, "that is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me."
The Doorway to the Entrance Hall
Walburga Black stood in the shadows of the archway, her hands gripping the velvet of her dress so tightly her knuckles were white.
She watched the display with a mixture of horror and disdain.
She saw the girl—this savage from the colonies—making clicking noises like an insect. She saw the lack of a wand. She saw the raw, unfiltered manipulation of the elements. It was messy. It was primal. It was, in her eyes, utterly undignified.
Mongrel magic, she thought, a sneer curling her lip. Dirt magic.
But what disturbed her more was Vega.
Her son, the Heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, was sitting on the floor—on the floor!—laughing with the girl. He was using his gift, the sacred Metamorphmagus blood-trait, not to intimidate or deceive, but to make pretty colours.
He looked relaxed. He looked... happy.
Walburga felt a cold knot of fear tighten in her stomach. She had spent eleven years trying to hammer the boy into a weapon of cold iron. She had tried to instill the proper rigidity, the necessary cruelty.
But watching him weave violet light into the girl's smoke, she realized with a jolt that the hammer hadn't worked. He wasn't iron. He was water. And every time she struck him, he simply splashed, moved around the blow, and settled into a new shape she hadn't authorized.
"He lacks discipline," she hissed under her breath to the empty hallway.
But deep down, looking at the golden halo floating between the two children, she knew it wasn't a lack of discipline. It was an abundance of something she couldn't control.
The Library, Second Floor
Arcturus Black stood by the window, swirling a glass of amber Firewhisky. Beside him, Chief Thomas Thunder-Hawk smoked a long, thin pipe that smelled of sage and sweetgrass.
They weren't looking at papers. They were looking down into the reflection of the Great Hall, visible through a clever bit of architectural scrying Arcturus had installed in the windowpane years ago.
They watched the violet and gold smoke swirl around the children.
"Your daughter has the thunder in her blood, Thomas," Arcturus noted, his voice low and appreciative. "That requires no wand. That is the Old Way. The pact between the blood and the sky."
Thomas nodded slowly, exhaling a plume of sage smoke. "The Thunder-Hawk line has guarded the storms of the Dakota plains for six centuries. The wand is a useful tool, Lord Black, but the magic... the magic must live in the breath. If you need a stick to talk to the wind, you are not shouting loud enough."
Arcturus chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. "Indeed. My daughter-in-law believes magic is a series of Latin instructions. She forgets that before Rome, there was the forest."
He took a sip of his drink, his sharp eyes fixed on Vega.
He watched the boy lean in, whispering something that made the formidable Aaya Thunder-Hawk—a girl who could summon lightning—giggle and cover her mouth. He saw the way Vega sat, entirely at ease, weaving his own fluid magic around hers, not fighting for dominance, but dancing with it.
Arcturus had expected Vega to be powerful. He had ensured it.
But he hadn't expected this.
"He charms her," Thomas observed, a hint of amusement in his deep voice. "My Aaya is not easily impressed. She usually strikes boys with static shocks if they bore her. Your grandson remains un-singed."
"He doesn't try to overpower her," Arcturus analyzed, his predator's mind dissecting the interaction. "He adapts to her. He validates her power and adds to it. That is a dangerous skill, Thomas."
"Dangerous?"
"Diplomacy," Arcturus corrected, a wolfish smile touching his lips. "The ability to make a sovereign power feel understood. To make an ally out of a threat without drawing a blade."
Arcturus watched Aaya lean closer to Vega, fascinated by the changing colours of his eyes.
"I spent my life ruling through fear," Arcturus mused, turning away from the window. "I made the world respect the name of Black because they were terrified of what we would do in the dark."
He looked at Thomas, raising his glass in a toast.
"But that boy..." Arcturus gave a short, wry chuckle, shaking his head. "He is going to walk into rooms I had to break into. He is going to create alliances that would have taken me decades of blackmail to forge. And he is going to do it by making them laugh."
"He will be a great wizard," Thomas agreed.
"He will be a devastating one," Arcturus corrected, finishing his drink. "God help the witches of Europe, Thomas. The boy is going to break hearts from London to St. Petersburg, and they will thank him for the privilege."
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