"Family is a mirror that doesn't always show you what you want to see, but always shows you what you are." — Old Pureblood Saying
September 1, 1969, The Hogwarts Express, Somewhere North of St. Albans
Vega sat alone near the window, ignoring the rolling green hills of the English countryside. His attention was fixed on the mahogany panelling of the compartment wall. To the naked eye, it was just wood, varnished to a high sheen. But Vega had spent the summer learning to look with his blood, not just his retinas.
Now, stripped of the usual sensory filters, the wall was alive.
Streaming up and down the walls, invisible to the naked eye but blazing in his magical sight, were rivers of molten gold script. Ancient Norse runes, Laguz for flow, Algiz for protection, Raido for the journey, pulsed like arteries beneath the varnish. They cycled, shifting and rewriting themselves to match the velocity of the engine and the magical density of the passengers.
He traced a finger over a particularly bright cluster of Thurisaz near the window latch. The gold light flared, acknowledging his touch, a silent, static conversation between the boy and the machine. The train was singing a low, guttural song of iron and purpose, a deep, rhythmic magic that vibrated in his teeth.
It breathes, Vega realized, fascinated. It eats the coal, but it runs on the emotions of the students.
The compartment door slid open.
The sudden intrusion broke the communion. The scent of ozone and iron was instantly usurped by a heavy, suffocating wave of jasmine and expensive silk.
Bellatrix Black stood in the doorway, blocking the corridor light. She was eighteen, a striking creature of sharp angles and restless energy. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and dark, swept the small room, dissecting it. Flanking her were Andromeda, whose softer features held a guarded warmth, and Narcissa, who at fourteen was already practicing the icy, porcelain stillness of a Ming vase.
"The little Prince sits alone," Bellatrix purred, her voice a smoky drawl that seemed to lower the temperature in the room by five degrees. She stepped inside, and with a lazy flick of her wand, the door snapped shut behind her, sealing them in.
Vega marked his page in Advanced Transfiguration Theory and looked up, keeping his expression neutral. "Cousins," he greeted, his voice calm. "I was wondering when the inspection would begin."
"Inspection?" Narcissa dusted off the seat opposite him before sitting, arranging her robes with meticulous care to avoid creasing the velvet. "We are simply ensuring the heir hasn't dissolved before he reaches the castle. You look pale, Vega. Even for us."
"The sun in the Americas is harsh," Vega replied easily. "I spent my time in the shade , learning to listen."
Bellatrix didn't sit. She prowled the small space, her robes swishing around her ankles. She stopped in front of him, leaning down until her face was inches from his. The air around her crackled with a raw, jagged static.
"You feel different," she whispered, her eyes narrowing. " Blurry. Like a photograph taken while the subject was moving."
She reached out, her long, pale fingers hovering near his cheek.
"Is this the famous gift?" she mocked gently. Though the curiosity in her eyes was sharp enough to cut. "Can you decide to be someone else if the Sorting goes wrong? A Hufflepuff, perhaps?""
"I am always myself, Bella," Vega said, holding her gaze. "My skin changes. The blood stays the same."
"Does it?" She smiled, a sharp expression full of teeth. "Let's see the pulse." She grabbed his right hand. The movement was fast, predatory. She meant to squeeze, to assert dominance, to test the flinch reflex that every child in their family was conditioned to have.
She stopped.
Her fingers brushed against cold, goblin-wrought platinum.
Silence descended on the compartment, heavy and absolute. Bellatrix stared at the ring on his finger. The square-cut Onyx seemed to drink the light from the window, pulling the shadows of the room into its depths. The crest of the House of Black—the chevron, the stars, the sword—glinted in silver, cold and unforgiving.Narcissa gasped softly, a breach of etiquette she immediately corrected. Andromeda's eyes went wide.
The Heir Ring.
It was not a trinket. In the ancient, unspoken codex of their family, the wearer of that ring spoke with the voice of the Patriarch. It was a shield, a weapon, and a crown, all forged into one heavy band.
Bellatrix slowly ran her thumb over the stone. The mockery vanished from her face, replaced by a hungry, terrifying respect.
"He gave it to you," she murmured, looking from the ring to Vega's eyes. "Old Arcturus actually parted with it."
"He thought the climate at Hogwarts required... insurance," Vega said.
Bellatrix released his hand, but she didn't pull away. She looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time.
"You aren't a child anymore," she decided, stepping back and finally taking the seat next to Narcissa. She crossed her legs, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips. "Good. I was worried we'd have to babysit."
"How are the boys?" Andromeda asked, breaking the tension, her voice gentle. "Sirius was dreading the separation."
"Sirius is plotting revolution," Vega said, allowing a small, genuine smile to surface. "And Regulus is plotting how to manage the cleanup. They will survive."
"Sirius needs a leash," Narcissa commented, wrinkling her nose. "He has no appreciation for subtlety."
"He has heart," Vega countered. "Subtlety can be learned. Courage is harder to manufacture."
The door slid open again.
This time, there was no jasmine. The scent was musk and polished leather.
Lucius Malfoy stood in the frame. His prefect badge gleamed on his chest, polished to a mirror shine that rivalled his slicked-back blonde hair. He held a cane he didn't need, gripping the silver snake-head handle with practiced elegance.
He surveyed the compartment, the formidable Black sisters and the young heir. His eyes lingered on Narcissa for a beat before settling on Vega.
"Ladies," Lucius nodded smoothly. He stepped inside, extending a manicured hand toward Vega. "Lucius Malfoy. Your mother wrote to me. I've been tasked with ensuring your transition is seamless." Vega stood. He took the hand. The grip was firm, but the skin was soft. A politician's hand, not a warrior's.
"Vega Black. A pleasure."
"Please, call me Lucius," he insisted, his voice like oiled silk. "We are practically family. Or will be, soon enough." He threw a charming wink at Narcissa, who coloured slightly, studying her fingernails.
"I have reserved a seat for you in the Prefect's carriage," Lucius continued, gesturing vaguely toward the front of the train. "The Rosiers are there. Dolohov. The proper sort. We thought you might prefer the company of your peers to... isolation."
It was a clumsy play, wrapped in velvet. Come to my court. Let me parade you. Let me show the others that the House of Black walks with Malfoy.
Bellatrix watched from the corner of her eye, her expression predatory. She waited to see if the ring was just jewelry, or if the boy had the spine to match the metal.
Vega didn't look at the door. He released Lucius's hand and settled back into his seat, crossing his legs.
"That is a gracious offer, Lucius," Vega said, his tone light, conversational. "But I think I'll stay here."
Lucius blinked. The smile faltered. "Oh? Surely you don't want to sit alone? It sends a rather... detached message."
"I find the silence helpful," Vega said, glancing briefly at the golden runes flowing along the wall, unseen by the others. "The world is loud, Lucius. I prefer to listen before I speak."
"Besides," Bellatrix cut in, her voice sharp as a whip crack. "He is with family, Malfoy. Unless you think your little club is more important than the House of Black?"
Lucius paled slightly. He recovered quickly, bowing stiffly. "Of course not, Bella. Merely an invitation."
He looked at Vega one last time, reassessing. "The offer stands, should you tire of the quiet."
He retreated, closing the door.
Bellatrix let out a short, barking laugh. "You have claws," she noted approvingly. "Malfoy thinks that badge makes him a king. He forgets he's just a peacock with a shiny pin."
"He is useful," Vega murmured, opening his book again. "Peacocks make excellent alarms, provided you don't let them in the house."
Bellatrix grinned, leaning her head back against the seat. "You'll do, little Prince. You'll do."
Vega looked down at the page, but his eyes drifted back to the wall. The golden runes were pulsing faster now. Raido. The journey was accelerating.
He was in the snake pit now. But as the train hurled them toward the north, Vega felt the cool weight of the ring and the warm hum of the wand, and he knew, with the absolute certainty of stone, that he wasn't prey.
The Prefect's Corridor, Moments Later
Lucius Malfoy walked down the corridor, the silver tip of his cane clicking rhythmically against the floorboards. To any observer, his stride was casual, his expression bored.
Inside his mind, however, the abacus was clicking furiously. He was not offended. Offense was a plebeian emotion, a waste of energy best left to people like Walburga Black.
Lucius was a creature of calculation, and he had just been handed a very interesting subject.
He stepped into the small alcove between carriages, shielded from the noise of the students. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he produced a slim silver case from his robes. He withdrew a thin, black-wrapped cigarillo, imported from the Java, cured in potion fumes rather than sun.
He snapped his fingers. A small, blue flame sparked at his thumb, lighting the tip.
He took a drag, the paper burning with a silent, steady glow. He didn't exhale grey ash; he exhaled a plume of violet smoke that smelled faintly of cloves and ozone. The smoke didn't dissipate; it coiled in the air like a lazy serpent before vanishing.
Mistake one, Lucius thought coolly, watching the violet coil fade. Was assuming the boy is a child.
He had expected a naive first-year, desperate for validation, or a haughty miniature Walburga, desperate for an audience. He had prepared his pitch for either; flattery for the insecure, deference for the arrogant.
Vega Black was neither.
The Ring, Lucius mused, tapping the cigarillo against the window frame where the ash vanished upon contact. Arcturus gave him the Ring. That changed the entire board.
Arcturus Black was a paranoid, ruthless old recluse who trusted no one. If he had armed the boy with the Heir Ring, a goblin-wrought artifact of immense defensive capability, it wasn't a gift. It was a designation. It meant Vega wasn't just coming to school to learn levitation charms; he was coming as a plenipotentiary of the House.
And the rejection... it had been masterful.
A lesser boy would have sneered. A fearful boy would have stuttered. Vega had simply declined with a politeness so absolute it was almost insulting. "A King does not need a court."
Lucius smirked, taking another long draw. Arrogant little shit. But he has the spine to back it up.
He recognized the tactic. By refusing to join Lucius's circle, Vega had instantly established that he was not a satellite to be orbited. He was a gravity well of his own.
The door to the Prefect's compartment slid open behind him. Evan Rosier stuck his head out, his face flushed with the heat of the carriage.
"Lucius? Where is he?" Rosier asked, looking past Malfoy. "Did you bag the Black Heir?"
Lucius banished the half-finished cigarillo with a subtle twitch of his wandless hand, the scent of cloves lingering in the air like a perfume. He adjusted his cuffs, the mask of the untouchable Malfoy sliding back into place perfectly.
"He is indisposed," Lucius said smoothly, turning to face Rosier.
The carriage was filled with the scions of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Avery was sharpening a knife in the corner. Mulciber was tormenting a beetle with his wand. They looked up, expecting the prize.
"Indisposed?" Avery scoffed. "Is he sick? Or just shy?"
"He is currently holding court with Bellatrix and Andromeda," Lucius lied effortlessly. "Family business. You know how the Blacks get about their internal politics. I thought it best not to interrupt a war council."
The mention of Bellatrix silenced the room. Even Avery stopped sharpening his knife. Everyone knew Bellatrix Black was brilliant, beautiful, and entirely unhinged. If the boy was surviving a compartment with her, he was not to be trifled with.
Lucius took his seat by the window, crossing his legs. He accepted a glass of firewhisky from Nott, swirling the amber liquid.
He looked out the window, watching the blur of green.
He thought about the rumors whispering through his father's circles. The Dark Lord was rising. He was looking for recruits, not just thugs, but wizards of lineage and power. The House of Black had been a question mark, with Arcturus refusing to take a side and Orion paralyzed by indecision.
But this boy...
Lucius recalled the feeling of Vega's hand. The skin had been cool, the grip steady. But there was something else. A static charge. A sense of something fluid beneath the skin.
A Metamorphmagus, Lucius analyzed. Rare. Useful for espionage. And carrying a wand that felt... foreign.
Lucius took a sip of his drink.
He wouldn't try to recruit Vega again. Not directly. That would look desperate. No, the play now was observation. Let the boy navigate the snake pit of Slytherin. Let him clash with the mudbloods and the blood-traitors. Let him see that his true allies were here, in this carriage.
Lucius smiled, a cold, sharp expression that didn't reach his eyes.Vega Black wanted to be a King without a court? Fine.
Lucius would simply wait until the "King" needed an army. And then, he would name his price.
"Keep an eye on him at the feast," Lucius murmured to Rosier, keeping his voice low.
"Why?" Rosier grunted. "He's just an eleven-year-old."
"Because," Lucius whispered, watching the memory of the violet smoke in his mind's eye. "I suspect he is going to be the most dangerous thing in the castle."
September 1, 1969, The Highlands, Overlooking the Glenfinnan Viaduct
The rain in Scotland was a state of being. It soaked through wool, seeped into boots, and turned the world into a watercolour painting of greys and bruised purples.
Perched on a ridge overlooking the concrete curve of the viaduct, two figures huddled under a water-repelling umbrella charm.
One was young, shivering, and clutching a clipboard. This was Apprentice Elara Vance, fresh from the Department of Magical Transportation.
The other was old, smelling of pipe tobacco and motor oil, with a mechanical eye whirring softly in his left socket. This was Master Artificer Barnaby Halloway, the man responsible for ensuring the Ministry didn't accidentally blow up the countryside.
"It's late," Elara noted, checking her pocket watch. "Three minutes past the checkpoint."
"It is never late," Halloway grunted, tapping his pipe against his boot. "It is merely dramatic. Cyprian built it that way."
Elara looked up from her notes. "Cyprian? You mean the designer?"
Halloway sighed, the sound of a man burdened by the ignorance of youth.
"Cyprian Vane. The Mad Tinker of Manchester. The man who looked at the concept of a Portkey, called it 'spiritually rude,' and decided to build a moving castle instead."
Halloway pointed his pipe stem toward the southern horizon, where a plume of white steam was just beginning to crest the hills.
"You read the official Ministry brief, Apprentice? What does it say the Express is?"
"A modified Hallton 4-6-0 steam locomotive," Elara recited. "Enchanted for concealment and expanded capacity."
"Rubbish," Halloway spat. "That is what we tell the Muggle-born parents so they don't faint. That thing approaching us isn't a train. It's a decompression chamber."
The sound hit them first. Not the chug-chug of a piston, but a rhythmic, subsonic thrum that vibrated in the chest cavity. Thrum-thrum. Thrum-thrum.
Then, the scarlet engine burst around the bend.
To the Muggles watching from the valley floor, it was a quaint steam train. To Halloway and Elara, viewing it with the Mage-Sight, it was a blinding supernova of enchantment.
"Look at the wheels," Halloway commanded, his mechanical eye spinning and zooming in. "What do you see?"
"Runes," Elara gasped, squinting against the glare. "Gold ones. Thousands of them."
"Norse," Halloway corrected. "Vane was obsessed with the Bifrost. He knew that taking a child from a Muggle living room to a sentient castle in a single second, via Floo or Portkey, shatters the psyche. It's too fast. The mind rejects the magic."
The train roared onto the viaduct, a streak of blood-red against the grey stone.
"So he built the Express," Halloway continued, shouting over the noise. "A six-hour journey. Not for distance, girl, but for acclimation. The train eats the coal, yes, but look at the smoke. Look at the colour."
Elara looked. The steam wasn't grey. It was pearlescent, shimmering with faint, impossible colours - teal, violet, gold.
"It feeds on them," she realized, horrified.
"It feeds on anticipation," Halloway corrected sharply. "It takes their nervous energy, their raw, leaking magic, and it cycles it through the runes to fuel the engine. It's a symbiotic loop. The train burns their anxiety and gives them speed in return. By the time they reach Hogsmeade, they are empty of fear and ready for the castle."
As the carriages thundered past below them, Halloway's mechanical eye suddenly whirred loudly, the aperture contracting.
He leaned forward, dangerously close to the edge of the ridge.
"Hello," he murmured. "What is that?"
"What is what?" Elara asked, clutching her clipboard.
"Carriage four. Compartment C." Halloway pointed with his pipe.
To Elara, it looked like the rest of the train. But Halloway saw it.
The golden runic script that flowed along the side of the train, the protective enchantments Vane had laid down in 1850, was warping.
Around one specific window, the gold light wasn't just flowing; it was pooling. The runes were brightening, vibrating with a frequency that matched the engine's heart. It looked as though the train itself was curling around that specific compartment, hugging it, drawing power from something inside.
"The structural integrity is spiking," Halloway muttered, reading the data scrolling across his mechanical vision. "That section of the train is currently harder than diamond. Why is the train reinforcing itself there?"
He watched the violet smoke pouring from the funnel turn a distinct, sharp shade of teal for a split second before returning to white.
"Someone is in there," Halloway mused, a slow, professional grin spreading across his weathered face. "Someone who speaks the machine's language."
"Should we report it?" Elara asked nervously. "Is it a malfunction?"
"Malfunction?" Halloway laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "No, Apprentice. Cyprian Vane designed this train to recognize power. It seems it finally found a passenger worth showing off for."
The train finished its crossing, the red tail vanishing behind the next peak, leaving only the smell of ozone and pine in the rain.
Halloway stuck his pipe back in his mouth.
"Mark the inspection report as 'Optimal'," he ordered, turning back to the path. "And write a note to Dumbledore. Tell him the Express arrived happy. He'll know what it means."
"Happy, sir?"
"It was singing, girl," Halloway said, tramping down the wet heather. "For the first time in fifty years, the old girl was singing."
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We are almost at Hogwarts guys! Did you like my portrayal of Lucius, not a brash child like Draco, but rather an extremely cunning individual? :D
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