"There are wizards who read history, and there are wizards who write it in the margins of the sky." — Nicholas Flamel
August 31, 1969, Number 12, Grimmauld Place
The last day of August always felt like a held breath in the House of Black. The summer heat was dying, replaced by the encroaching damp of London autumn, and the house seemed to tighten its wards, sensing an impending loss.
In Vega's room, the air smelled of leather polish and dried lavender. Kreacher, younger then and less weighed down by the madness of the house, was snapping the brass buckles of a massive trunk made of dragon-hide.
Standing by the door, watching the process with the scrutiny of a general inspecting the troops, was Walburga Black.
She was a terrifying figure in the dim light. Her high-collared robes were severe, her hair pulled back so tightly it pulled the skin of her face taut. She looked at the trunk not as luggage, but as a payload.
"Everything is in order?" she asked, her voice clipping the silence. "The dress robes? The silver cauldron? You must not be seen using pewter, Vega. Pewter is for the tradesmen."
"It is all there, Mother," Vega said. He was standing by the window, his Metamorphmagus nature kept under strict control, his face a polite, pale mask.
Walburga crossed the room. She reached out, her long, cold fingers gripping his chin, tilting his face to the light. She searched his eyes, looking for weakness, looking for the chaos she so despised.
"You go as the Heir," she hissed, her eyes burning with a fanatical intensity. "Hogwarts has become... lax. Dumbledore allows mudbloods to sit at the high table. He tolerates filth. You will not be swayed by it."
Vega looked at her. He saw the fear behind the madness. She was terrified that the world was moving on without her, that the purity she clung to was becoming obsolete.
"I know who I am, Mother," Vega said softly. "I carry the name."
"See that you carry the weight," she released him, smoothing his collar with a possessive, aggressive affection. "The Malfoy boy, Lucius, is a Prefect. He is sound. Stick to your own kind, Vega. Do not let the House of Black be diluted."
She turned and swept from the room, the heavy velvet of her robes whispering against the floorboards.
Vega watched her go. He felt a pang of pity. She was trapped in this house, trapped in her hatred. He was leaving. She was staying behind with the ghosts.
The Library
Regulus was sitting in the high-backed leather armchair that usually belonged to Orion. At eight years old, his feet didn't touch the floor, dangling inches above the Persian rug, but his posture was a perfect, heartbreaking miniature of his father's, rigid, straight-backed, and utterly contained.
He was reading a book on Intermediate Potions, his brow furrowed in a concentration that aged him by a decade.
Vega leaned against the doorframe, watching him. Regulus was the quiet one. The observer. While Sirius screamed and broke things to make his presence known, Regulus watched, calculated, and filed away the data.
"You're reading it upside down, Reg," Vega said gently, pushing off the doorframe.
Regulus didn't jump. He rarely jumped. He slowly lowered the heavy volume. It was, of course, right-side up.
"I'm not," Regulus said, his voice small and serious. "I'm memorizing the table of antidotes."
Vega walked over and sat on the ottoman in front of him, bringing himself to eye level. "Antidotes? Planning on poisoning someone?"
"No," Regulus said, closing the book with a soft thump. He looked at Vega with grey eyes that were too old, too aware for his face. "But without you... the buffer is gone. When Mother yells, you stand in front. When Sirius breaks something, you fix it before she sees. If you go, the wall is gone."
Vega felt a sharp pang in his chest. He saw the genuine terror behind Regulus's stoic mask—the fear of being left unprotected in the crossfire between Walburga's madness and Sirius's rebellion.
Vega sighed, and then, he let the mask drop.
"Look at me, Reg," he whispered.
He reached out and took Regulus's hand. It was cold. Vega closed his eyes for a second, tapping into the fluid, restless ocean of his Metamorphmagus gift. He didn't want to be the Heir right now. He didn't want to be a Black. He wanted to be safety.
A ripple passed over Vega's features.
The severe, ink-black hair of the House of Black—so distinctive, so heavy with expectation—began to bleach away. The colour drained out, replaced instantly by a soft, warm honey-gold, the colour of the afternoon sun hitting the floorboards. The texture changed, too; the sleek, rigid styling dissolved into soft, messy waves.
He didn't stop there. He softened the sharp, aristocratic cut of his cheekbones. He rounded his jaw. He shifted the stormy grey of his eyes to a warm, inviting hazel.
He transformed himself into something the House of Black despised: something soft. Something warm.
Regulus stared, his small mouth parting slightly. He reached out, his fingers tentatively brushing the tips of Vega's golden hair.
"Better?" Vega asked, his voice sounding warmer, less resonant in this form.
"It's... bright," Regulus whispered, the tension in his small shoulders dropping an inch. "Like a lamp."
"I am not a wall, Regulus," Vega said softly, pressing Regulus's hand against his own cheek, which was now warm and yielding rather than pale and cold. "Walls crack. Walls fall down. I am not leaving you behind a wall. I am the scout."
He shifted his face back slightly, just enough to let the serious intent show through the softness.
"I am going ahead to clear the path. In four years, you will follow. And when you get there, I will have made sure the road is paved."
"Four years is a long time," Regulus whispered, his eyes lingering on the hazel warmth of Vega's iris. "Sirius will get in trouble. He doesn't think before he speaks. Mother will... she will be harsh."
"That is why I need you to be the anchor," Vega said firmly. He tapped the center of Regulus's chest. "Sirius is the fire. You are the ice. When he gets hot, you cool him down. You are the smartest Black in this house, Reg. Even smarter than me."
Regulus shook his head. "That's not true. You have the Gift."
Vega smiled, and let the magic wash over him again. The gold faded, the black returned, the sharp cheekbones re-knitted themselves under his skin. He returned to being Vega Black, but he kept his eyes soft.
"I have the Gift of Change," Vega corrected. "My face is a lie, Reg. But you? You have the Gift of Logic. You see the truth. Use it. Watch Mother. Learn her triggers. Steer Sirius away from them. Can you do that? Can you be the strategist?"
Regulus straightened his spine, looking at his brother with renewed resolve. The visual display had done its work, it had reminded him that nothing was fixed, that the heavy reality of the house could be outmaneuvered.
"I can," Regulus nodded. "I will manage the variables."
"Good lad." Vega squeezed his hand. "And write to me. Use the eagle owl. Code your letters if you have to. I will always answer."
The Roof, Grimmauld Place, London
The wind was whipping over the slate tiles of the roof, carrying the smell of rain and distant traffic. Sirius was sitting on the edge of the chimney stack, his legs dangling over the three-story drop to the pavement below.
He was throwing pebbles into the void, watching them fall.
Vega climbed out of the trapdoor, the Heir Ring on his finger humming a warning about the height, which he ignored. He sat down beside his brother.
"You're going to fall," Vega said casually.
"Good," Sirius muttered, not looking at him. His hair was a mess, his grey eyes stormy and red-rimmed. "Then I won't have to stay here with her."
"She's just a woman, Siri. A loud, angry woman."
"She's a monster," Sirius spat, throwing a pebble with vicious force. "And you're leaving me alone with her. You and Grandfather, off on your secret trips to Mexico and Gringotts. And now you're going to Hogwarts to become a big important wizard, and I'll be here learning French etiquette and getting hit with stinging hexes when I slouch."
Vega didn't scold him. He knew the feeling. The suffocating weight of Grimmauld Place was enough to crush anyone, let alone a spirit as wild as Sirius.
Vega reached into his pocket.
"I have something for you."
Sirius glanced over, suspicious. "What? A book on manners?"
Vega pulled out a small, mirrored compact. It looked like a lady's makeup mirror, but the glass was swirling with a cloudy grey mist.
"It's a Two-Way Mirror," Vega explained. "I made it. Well, I enchanted a pair of Mother's old ones. I have the other."
Sirius took it, turning it over in his hands.
"If you say my name into it," Vega said, "it will clear. You'll see me, and I'll see you. Wherever I am. In the dorms, in the library, on the Quidditch pitch."
Sirius looked up, hope warring with his anger. "Really? Even if you're in class?"
"Especially if I'm in class," Vega grinned. "If she gets too much... if the house feels like it's shrinking... you call me. I don't care what time it is. I will answer."
Sirius gripped the mirror tightly. "I hate this house, Vega. I want to burn it down."
"I know," Vega said, putting an arm around his brother's shoulders. The wind whipped their hair—Vega's shifting slightly to a lighter brown to match the sunset, Sirius's remaining stubbornly black. "And one day, maybe we will. But not yet. You have a job to do first."
"What job?"
"Pranking," Vega said solemnly. "This house is too serious. It needs chaos. I've left a stash of Zonko's products under the loose floorboard in your room. Dungbombs. Whizzing Worms. Use them sparingly. Make her life difficult, but don't get caught."
Sirius's face broke into a slow, mischievous grin—the first genuine smile he'd worn in days. "You left me ammo?"
"I left you an arsenal," Vega corrected. "You are a Black, Sirius. We don't just survive. We conquer. Even if we're just conquering boredom."
Sirius looked at the mirror, then at Vega. He leaned his head against Vega's shoulder.
"Two years," Sirius whispered. "Then I'm coming. And I'm getting into Gryffindor just to spite her."
Vega laughed, a bright sound against the darkening London sky. "If you do, I'll buy you the fastest broom in the world."
September 1, 1969, The Entrance Hall, Grimmauld Place, London
The morning was a blur of activity. The trunk was levitated. The owls were caged. The limousine was waiting.
Vega stood in the doorway, fully dressed in his travel robes, his trunk shrinking in his pocket thanks to the spatial compression of his Ring.
Kreacher was by the stove, muttering to a skillet of sausages. The elf looked ancient, his skin hanging in folds like draped linen, his ears drooping with the weight of decades of servitude to a House that was slowly going mad.
"Kreacher," Vega said softly.
The elf jumped, nearly dropping his spatula. He turned, bowing low, his nose brushing the flagstones. "Master Vega. Kreacher did not hear the young Master. Kreacher is getting old and slow, a disgrace to the House..."
"You are the heartbeat of this house, Kreacher," Vega interrupted, stepping into the room. He didn't tower over the elf; he crouched down, bringing himself to eye level. "And I am leaving you with a heavy task."
Kreacher looked up, his bulbous, watery eyes widening. "Master?"
"The House is going to be quiet," Vega said. "Mother will be... difficult. She will look for targets."
"Mistress is strong," Kreacher croaked, a devout gleam in his eye. "Mistress holds the standard."
"She holds it so tight she draws blood," Vega corrected gently. "I need you to watch the boys, Kreacher. Especially Sirius."
Kreacher's face twisted into a sour grimace. "Master Sirius is loud. Master Sirius kicks Kreacher. Master Sirius brings mud into the hall and laughs at the portraits."
"He is a puppy who doesn't know how to be a wolf yet," Vega said firmly. "He kicks because he is scared. I am ordering you, Kreacher: be patient with him. Do not hide his socks. Do not put salt in his pumpkin juice. When he shouts, give him a sandwich, not a scolding."
Vega reached out and placed a hand on the elf's bony shoulder.
"And if he is cruel to you... come to me. Do not punish him yourself. Write to me. We are a pack, Kreacher. You included. We do not bite our own."
Kreacher stared at the hand on his shoulder. Pureblood wizards did not touch house-elves. They threw clothes at them.
"Master Vega has the blood of the Old Masters," Kreacher whispered, his voice trembling. "He speaks with the weight."
"Promise me," Vega pressed.
"Kreacher promises," the elf croaked. "Kreacher will feed the loud one. Kreacher will not pinch him when he is sleeping."
"Good." Vega stood up, brushing the dust from his robes. "Keep the hearth warm, old friend."
King's Cross Station, 10:45 AM
The transition from the muggle world to the magical one was not a gentle slide; it was a puncture.
One moment, they were walking through the soot-stained, utilitarian grime of King's Cross, surrounded by commuters in grey suits checking wristwatches and reading newspapers about the economic downturn.
Then, they walked through the barrier between Platforms 9 and 10.
It felt like walking through a curtain of cold water that instantly turned into warm steam.
The sound hit Vega first.
It was a wall of noise—a cacophony of owls hooting, cats yowling, trunks rumbling over cobblestones, and the excited shrieks of children reunited after a summer apart. The air tasted of ozone, burning birch wood, and the sugary scent of magical confectionary.
And then, the visual.
The Hogwarts Express did not look like a machine built by human hands. It looked like a beast forged from blood and iron.
It was a scarlet leviathan, towering over the platform. The steam billowing from its funnel wasn't just white vapour; it shimmered with pearlescent hues, smelling of pine and adventure. The metal of the engine groaned and hissed, a rhythmic respiration that suggested the train was alive, waiting impatiently to be fed coal and distance.
Vega adjusted his senses, letting the filter of the Heir Ring drop slightly.
The magic of the train was overwhelming. He could see the containment charms woven into the steel wheels, glowing like molten gold. He could feel the expansion charms on the carriages, making them larger on the inside than the outside. The entire platform was a convergence point of ley lines, a knot in the fabric of reality designed to punch a hole through the Scottish countryside.
"Dignity, Vega," Walburga's voice cut through his awe.
She stood beside him, looking at the chaotic crowd with an expression of profound distaste. To her, this wasn't a gathering of potential; it was a zoo.
"The train is crowded," she observed, spotting a group of muggle-born parents hugging their children near a pile of mismatched luggage. "Do not linger in the corridors. Find a compartment with suitable company. The Malfoy boy is a Prefect. Sit with him."
"I will find my place, Mother," Vega said neutrally.
She turned to him. For a second, the mask of the Black Matriarch slipped. She reached out and straightened his collar, her fingers lingering on the heavy fabric. It wasn't affection—it was possession. But in that possession, there was a terrifying kind of love.
"You are the face of the House," she whispered. "Make them look."
"I always do."
She stepped back, her face hardening again. "Go."
The Hogwart Train
Vega boarded the train.
The interior was a sharp contrast to the industrial exterior. The corridors were panelled in polished mahogany, the brass sconces holding flames that burned without wicks. The carpet was a deep, plush crimson that dampened the sound of footsteps.
He walked down the corridor, his trunk floating obediently behind him.
He passed compartments full of students. He saw faces he recognized from society parties- Rosier, Nott, Greengrass. They were already clustering, forming the social hierarchies that would define their next seven years.
He saw a compartment of older students playing Exploding Snap, the cards detonating with small puffs of violet smoke.
Vega felt a strange sense of detachment. He was in this world, but thanks to the summer, thanks to the Ring and the Feathered Serpent and the deep, silent wisdom of Arcturus, he felt slightly removed from it.
The Pond, he thought. Grandfather was right. They are all swimming in circles.
He found an empty compartment near the back of the train. He levitated his trunk into the rack and sat down by the window.
Outside, the steam was thickening, obscuring the platform.
He felt the train lurch.
A deep, resonant whistle blew—a sound that vibrated in the marrow of his bones.
CHUFF... chuff... CHUFF... chuff.
The iron wheels bit into the magical rails. The station began to slide away.
Vega watched his mother. She stood alone on the platform, a dark pillar amidst the colourful chaos. She didn't wave. She simply watched him go, her expression unreadable.
As the train gathered speed, leaving the station and plunging into the dark tunnel that led out of London, Vega touched the wand in his sleeve.
The Quetzalcoatl feather woke up. It felt the motion. It felt the speed.
Finally, the wind seemed to whisper. Movement.
Vega leaned his head against the cool glass, watching the darkness of the tunnel give way to the grey, rain-slicked suburbs of London.
He was alone. He was armed. And he was free.
He took a deep breath, smelling the smoke and the rain.
"Hello, Hogwarts," he whispered to the reflection in the window. "Let's see what you've got."
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Aaand we're away folks! Vega is officially off to Hogwarts, I love worldbuilding and there is a lot to come. Hogwarts is going to be truly magical.
Please Like and Comment if you are enjoying the story! Your support is always appreciated!