"Trust is a luxury of the common man. The powerful must rely on magic and blood." — Phineas Nigellus Black
August 15, 1969, Gringotts Wizarding Bank, Diagon Alley
Gringotts did not smell of magic. It smelled of dust, cold stone, and the metallic tang of absolute, uncompromising arithmetic.
Vega walked beside his grandfather, their boots clicking in unison against the polished marble floor. The main hall was a flurry of commerce—wizards shouting over exchange rates, goblins weighing rubies the size of dragon eggs—but as Arcturus Black approached the high counter, a lane cleared.
Wealth commanded attention, but Old Money commanded silence.
The goblin at the center podium, a wrinkled creature with ears that drooped under the weight of gold piercings, looked up. He didn't sneer. He didn't ask for a key.
"Lord Black," the goblin rasped, bowing his head low enough to expose the back of his neck—a sign of submission purchased by centuries of Black gold stored in the vaults below. "Bloodhook awaits you."
"We do not require the vault today, Gornuk," Arcturus said, his voice carrying effortlessly over the din. "We require the armory."
The Office of Bloodhook
Deep within the bank's labyrinthine corridors, far from the public carts, sat the office of the Black Family Account Manager. The room was spartan, the walls lined not with ledgers, but with weapons.
Bloodhook was ancient. His skin was the texture of parchment left out in the rain, and he was missing three fingers on his left hand—casualties of the goblin rebellions he had likely financed, then betrayed, then financed again.
"The Heir," Bloodhook grunted, his dark eyes fixing on Vega. "He has the look of the star."
"He has the wand," Arcturus corrected, taking a seat in a leather chair that looked like it had been skinned from a dragon. "And now, he requires the Ring."
Bloodhook grinned, revealing sharp, yellowed teeth. "He is young for the band, Arcturus. The Ring is heavy. It has crushed fingers before."
"He has held the gaze of the Feathered Serpent," Arcturus replied calmly. "He can handle a piece of jewelry."
Bloodhook opened a drawer in his desk. He didn't produce a velvet box. He produced a heavy, iron cube covered in runes that seemed to writhe in the torchlight. He tapped it with a long, jagged fingernail in a complex rhythm.
Click-scratch-click.
The cube hissed and unfolded like a mechanical flower.
Resting on a cushion of black velvet was the Heir Ring.
It was not gold. Gold was too soft, too vulgar for the House of Black. It was forged from Goblin-wrought Platinum, a metal that drank the light. Set into the band was a square-cut Onyx, perfectly black, bearing the crest of the House—the chevron, the stars, and the sword—etched in silver.
"The Ring of the Heir," Bloodhook whispered. "Forged in 1312 by Ragnuk the First for Cygnus Black. It has not been worn since your father died, Arcturus."
"Put it on, Vega," Arcturus commanded. "Right hand. Ring finger."
Vega reached out. The air around the ring felt cold, a localized drop in temperature.
As he slid the platinum band over his knuckle, he braced himself for a shock.
There was no pain. Instead, there was a sudden, sharp clarity.
It felt as though he had been standing in a noisy room and someone had suddenly shut the heavy oak door. The background static of his own thoughts—the teenage insecurities, the wandering attention, the Metamorphmagus sensory overload—was instantly silenced.
His mind became a library. Organized. Quiet. Defensible.
"Occlumency," Vega breathed, looking at the black stone on his finger. "It's a shield."
"It is a filter," Arcturus corrected. "It does not block your mind, Vega; it organizes it. It creates a barrier against external influence. Legilimency attacks will slide off it like water off oil. Emotional manipulation—Sirens, Veela, or Charms—will be dampened. You will feel them, but you will not be ruled by them."
"Useful for a boy who changes his face with his mood," Bloodhook cackled.
"Test the venom," Arcturus ordered.
Bloodhook reached for a small vial on his desk containing a clear, viscous liquid. He unstoppered it and held it near Vega's hand.
Immediately, the Onyx stone flared. It didn't glow with light; it pulsed with heat. A sharp, burning sensation circled Vega's finger, impossible to ignore.
"Acromantula venom," Bloodhook explained, stoppering the vial. "The Ring detects all known poisons and harmful potions within three feet of your hand. If your drink is spiked, the ring will burn. If the air is toxic, the ring will freeze."
Vega rubbed his finger, the heat fading as the vial moved away. "Paranoia forged into metal."
"Survival," Arcturus stated. "Now. The storage."
"Dimensional compression," Bloodhook said. "A pocket of space folded into the atomic structure of the stone. It is not infinite, but it is discreet."
Vega looked at the wand in his other hand. He focused his intent on the ring, a mental push similar to Apparition. Take it.
The air rippled around his hand. The English Oak wand didn't shrink; it simply ceased to be in the physical world, slipping into the shadow of the stone. Vega felt the weight of it vanish, though he could still sense its presence, tethered to the ring, ready to be summoned instantly.
"Books, illegal artifacts, emergency potions," Arcturus listed. "It will hold them. Muggles will see only a ring. Ministry detectors will scan right past it unless they are breaking high-grade goblin wards."
"And the final function?" Vega asked, summoning his wand back into his hand with a thought.
Arcturus leaned forward, his face serious.
"The final function is a coward's tool, but a survivor's necessity. It is a directional Portkey. But it is not activated by a word."
Arcturus reached out and took Vega's hand, turning it palm up.
"If you are incapacitated. If you are bound. If you are silenced. You twist the stone one hundred and eighty degrees inward, toward your palm, and you crush it against your skin."
"Where does it go?"
"Here," Arcturus said. "To the Atrium of Gringotts. Neutral ground. Protected by a treaty that predates the Ministry. No wizard, not even the Dark Lord himself, can breach the sanctity of the Bank's lobby to attack a client."
Vega looked at the ring. It was heavy, cool, and terrifyingly functional. It was a toolbox for survival in a world that wanted him dead.
"Why?" Vega asked quietly. "Wand, Ring, mental shields... Grandfather, you are arming me for a war I haven't even seen yet."
Arcturus stood up, his silhouette casting a long shadow against the weapon-covered walls.
"The war never ended, Vega. It just went quiet for a while. The House of Black has many enemies—some wear masks, some sit on the Wizengamot, and some..." he paused, his eyes darkening, "some share our blood."
He placed a hand on Vega's shoulder.
"You are going to Hogwarts. You will be surrounded by children who play at politics. But you? You will be the only one wearing armour."
Vega looked down at the Onyx. In the depths of the black stone, he saw his own reflection. His grey eyes were clear, sharp, and focused.
He closed his hand into a fist.
"I accept the weight," Vega said.
Bloodhook slammed the iron drawer shut. "Then the transaction is complete. Good hunting, Mr. Black."
August 15, 1969, The Platinum Quarter, Diagon Alley
Diagon Alley did not end at Gringotts. For those who knew where to tap the bricks—and possessed the requisite vault balance—it continued upward.
The Platinum Quarter was a floating district, a series of suspended marble promenades hovering fifty feet above the common cobblestones, accessible only by private gravity-lifts. Here, the air was scrubbed clean of London soot and scented with Himalayan jasmine.
Vega walked beside his grandfather, his eyes wide despite his training.
This was the cosmopolitan heart of the magical world. A Kitsune with nine spectral tails brushed past them, her kimono woven from moonlight, haggling in perfect Japanese with a goblin jeweller. A Djinn, floating cross-legged on a carpet of smoke, was selling bottled starlight to a group of French alchemists.
"Stop gawking, Vega," Arcturus murmured, though his tone lacked its usual bite. "It's bad form to look impressed."
They stopped at The Celestial Lotus, a restaurant that existed in a pocket dimension of perpetual sunset. The maitre d', a sentient suit of Samurai armour, bowed low and led them to a floating terrace overlooking the chaotic bustle of the lower alley far below.
Arcturus ordered with the ease of a man who owned the building. "Fire-Crab bisque for myself. And for the boy... the Hydra fillet, seared in dragon-fire. And a bottle of '28 Elf-Made Wine."
When the armour clanked away, Arcturus leaned back, the tension of Gringotts draining from his shoulders. He looked less like the Lord of Black and more like an old man enjoying a rare afternoon of sun.
"You did well with Bloodhook," Arcturus said, breaking a breadstick that sparkled with fairy dust. "Most heirs faint when they put on the Ring. The sensory dampening can be... abrupt."
"It's quiet," Vega admitted, tapping the Onyx stone. "It makes the world feel slower."
"Good. You will need that silence." Arcturus took a sip of water, his grey eyes glinting with a sudden, mischievous light. "Especially if you intend to keep company with storm-witches."
Vega choked on his water. "Grandfather?"
But the real betrayal was his scalp.
The meticulous control he had maintained all morning—the careful construction of the perfect Black Heir—shattered under the sudden flush of teenage embarrassment. In the span of a heartbeat, his hair abandoned its aristocratic midnight black. It flared into a violent, shocking bubblegum pink, rippled into a panicked, bright orange, and then settled into a deep, mortified violet.
"Grandfather?" Vega wheezed, wiping his mouth. He felt the heat radiating from his head and realized with horror and embarrasment what was happening.
He squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his fists under the table. He forced the Ring's calming influence to flood his mind, wrestling his rebellious biology back into submission. The violet faded to a deep brown, then finally, reluctantly, darkened back to a sullen, composed black.
"The Thunder-Hawk girl," Arcturus continued, watching the chromatic display with unhidden delight as he buttered his bread with agonizing slowness. "Aaya. I saw the way you looked at her. And more importantly, I saw the way she looked at you. Like she wasn't sure whether to shock you or keep you."
"We were just discussing elemental theory," Vega stammered, feeling a heat rise to his cheeks that had nothing to do with the humid weather. "She... she has an interesting perspective on wind constructs."
Arcturus chuckled—a genuine, rusty sound that transformed his severe face. "Elemental theory. Is that what the young people are calling it now? In my day, we just called it 'flirting under the guise of academic rivalry.'"
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "She is a formidable creature, Vega. High cheekbones and enough voltage to power a city. A dangerous combination. You have excellent taste. It must come from my side of the family; your father was always terrified of women with opinions."
Vega groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Please stop."
"I am merely saying," Arcturus said, leaning back as their floating plates arrived, "that alliances are forged in many ways. Some with ink, some with blood... and some with shared laughter in a thunderstorm. Do not neglect the latter. It is often the strongest binding."
They ate in a comfortable silence for a moment, the savory, spicy meat of the Hydra melting in their mouths.
"Grandfather," Vega said after a while, his voice turning serious. "The Ring. The Wand. The lessons on the Deep World. You talk about Hogwarts like it's a battlefield."
Arcturus set down his fork. The amusement vanished from his face, replaced by a granite solemnity.
"It is not a battlefield, Vega. It is a proving ground. And it is presided over by a man who could turn this entire restaurant into a flock of flamingos with a single thought."
"Dumbledore," Vega said.
"Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore," Arcturus corrected. "Do not let your mother's shrieking about 'mudblood lovers' cloud your judgement. You are entering the domain of a Titan."
Arcturus took a sip of his wine, swirling the crimson liquid.
"People call him the Defeater of Grindelwald. They call him the Chief Warlock. But those are titles. They do not describe what he is."
Arcturus looked at Vega, his expression intense.
"There are Guilds in this world, Vega. Ancient orders of magic. The Transfiguration Guild in Cairo. The Circle of Charms in Vienna. The Alchemical Brotherhood in Prague, are but a few. To be a Master in one is a life's work. Dumbledore is a Grandmaster in seven of them."
Vega's eyes widened. "Seven of them?"
"He has walked the Nevernever," Arcturus whispered, using the old term for the deepest, most chaotic layers of the Spirit World. "He has navigated the Fae courts without offering a name. He has debated philosophy with the Jade Emperor and corrected the Gobbledegook grammar of the Goblin King. He is not merely a schoolteacher. He is an apex predator of the magical arts who has decided to spend his retirement guarding children."
Arcturus pointed a finger at Vega.
"You are gifted, grandson. You have a wand that channels the wind of the Americas. You have the blood of the Metamorphmagus. You have the political weight of the House of Black. In the pond of the first years, you will be a shark."
He leaned closer, his voice hard.
"But Dumbledore? Dumbledore is the Leviathan. He sees everything. He knows when you lie. He knows when you are hiding. Do not try to play him. Do not try to outsmart him. If you have a secret, keep it behind the Ring, but do not dangle it in front of him, because he will pluck it from your mind like a ripe cherry."
Vega swallowed hard. The image of the kindly old man on the Chocolate Frog cards was rapidly being replaced by something much more terrifying.
"Is he... is he an enemy?" Vega asked.
"He is a force of gravity," Arcturus mused. Respect him. Learn from him. But never, never forget that you are a very small fish swimming in his tank."
Arcturus finished his wine and wiped his mouth with a silk napkin, the moment of intensity passing as quickly as it had arrived.
"But," the old man added, a twinkle returning to his eye, "he also enjoys lemon sherbets and knitting patterns. So, perhaps he is not entirely unknowable."
He signaled for the bill.
"Enjoy your school years, Vega. Break some rules. Charm the Thunder-girl. Learn the magic they don't teach in the books. But keep your shields up, and your eyes open."
Arcturus stood, placing a hand on Vega's head—a rare, gentle weight.
"The world is getting larger, my boy. And you are just beginning to grow into it."
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And here we are, just a few days before Hogwarts! Please Like and Comment, I would love your feedback!