Bellatrix Black arrived at the manor like an approaching storm—her magic crackling almost visibly around her as she swept through the entrance hall, leaving house-elves cowering in her wake. At nineteen, she possessed a dark, wild beauty not yet ravaged by Azkaban, though her eyes already held the fanatical intensity that would define her future self.
"Little cousins!" she exclaimed upon seeing Regulus and me descending the main staircase. "The Slytherin heirs, continuing our noble traditions while my blood traitor of a sister disgraces herself with Muggle filth."
She approached with predatory grace, her heavy-lidded eyes assessing us as one might appraise valuable possessions. When she reached the bottom step, she extended her hands, rings glittering on every finger—an ostentatious display of wealth and status.
"Bella," Regulus greeted her with proper formality, accepting her perfunctory embrace. "Congratulations on your engagement."
"Thank you, darling Regulus." She pinched his cheek with uncomfortable force, leaving a red mark. "Always so proper, so perfectly Black."
Her gaze shifted to me, sharpening with sudden interest. "And Corvus... the unexpected heir to Grandfather's wand. Show me."
It wasn't a request but a demand. I drew The Serpent's Fang from its holster, presenting it with the formal respect required while maintaining proper ownership posture—a delicate balance taught by my father.
Bellatrix made no move to touch it, instead circling me to observe the wand from all angles, her breath quickening slightly at the sight of the crystalline chamber.
"Magnificent," she whispered. "The venom responds to you—see how it moves toward your hand? The wand recognizes your blood as worthy." Her eyes gleamed with an unsettling combination of pride and envy. "Our Lord will be most interested."
The casual reference to Voldemort sent ice through my veins, though I maintained careful neutrality in my expression. "The family's traditional magic is my primary interest," I replied diplomatically. "Honoring our heritage through proper application."
She laughed—a sound with little warmth. "Of course, of course. Traditional values. Heritage preservation." Her mockery was subtle but clear. "But magic serves greater purposes than mere tradition, little cousin. Power isn't meant to be preserved—it's meant to be wielded."
Before I could formulate a suitably ambiguous response, Mother appeared in the doorway. "Bellatrix, your parents have arrived. Please join us in the drawing room."
"Duty calls," Bellatrix sighed dramatically, though her eyes remained fixed on The Serpent's Fang until I returned it to its holster. "We'll talk more later, little serpent. I have so many questions about your... abilities."
As she swept away toward the drawing room, Regulus released a breath I hadn't realized he was holding. "She's always been intense," he murmured, "but something's different now. More focused. More..."
"Dangerous," I supplied quietly. "She's found purpose beyond family ambition."
Regulus nodded solemnly. "Rodolphus must be a powerful match to earn her devotion."
I doubted Rodolphus Lestrange inspired any genuine devotion from Bellatrix—her true loyalty lay with Voldemort alone. Her impending marriage was merely political alliance, consolidating pure-blood connections for the Dark Lord's cause.
"We should prepare for the afternoon gathering," I suggested, steering us away from dangerous topics. "Father expects impeccable presentation."
Throughout the day, Black Manor filled with family members and selected guests, all ostensibly gathered to celebrate Bellatrix's engagement. The atmosphere combined formal elegance with underlying tension—conversations conducted in careful euphemisms, meaningful glances exchanged during seemingly innocuous discussions of Ministry policies.
I observed it all with analytical detachment, identifying future Death Eaters among the guests—the Lestrange brothers, of course; Antonin Dolohov, whose cruel smile never reached his eyes; Augustus Rookwood, father of my dormmate, maintaining his Ministry cover with practiced ease; the Carrow siblings, already inseparable in their sadistic inclinations.
Most disturbing was seeing Lucius Malfoy escorting Narcissa through the gathering, playing the role of devoted suitor while engaging in quiet conversations with known Voldemort supporters. The contrast between his public persona—refined, aristocratic, politically moderate—and the Death Eater he would become struck me forcefully.
"Impressive turnout," commented a smooth voice beside me as I observed from a relatively secluded corner. I turned to find Rodolphus Lestrange—Bellatrix's fiancé and future accomplice in numerous atrocities—regarding me with calculated interest. "Your cousin's engagement has drawn quite the distinguished assembly."
"Family occasions have always been significant social events," I replied neutrally.
"Indeed." His dark eyes assessed me with unsettling intensity. "Though I understand tomorrow's solstice ritual holds particular importance this year. Bella mentions you play a central role despite your youth."
The deliberate probing confirmed my suspicions—this gathering served multiple purposes beyond mere celebration. I was being evaluated, tested for potential value to Voldemort's cause.
"The Serpent's Fang selected me as its wielder," I explained with appropriate modesty. "The ritual requires its specific properties."
"Fascinating," Rodolphus murmured. "Ancient artifacts choosing their masters... such occurrences often presage exceptional destinies. Someone of significant interest to our circle has similar experiences with powerful magical objects recognizing worthy vessels."
The reference to Voldemort's relationship with his wand—or possibly his horcruxes—was thinly veiled. I felt The Serpent's Fang warm against my forearm, as if responding to the dangerous conversation.
"I'm honored by the wand's selection," I replied carefully, "though I recognize I have much to learn about its full capabilities."
"Youth is no barrier to greatness," Rodolphus assured me with disturbing earnestness. "Our... association... values potential and loyalty above age or experience. Those who join early often rise highest in time."
Before this recruitment pitch could become more explicit, we were interrupted by father's arrival with Orion Black.
"Rodolphus," Father greeted smoothly. "I see you've met my son."
"Indeed. A remarkable young man with fascinating magical connections." Rodolphus smiled thinly. "We were discussing the nature of worthy vessels for powerful magic."
Father's expression remained impassive, though I detected subtle tension in his posture. "Corvus shows promise, certainly, though he has years of education before such weighty matters deserve consideration."
"Of course," Rodolphus agreed with false congeniality. "Though early identification of exceptional talent benefits all concerned." With a slight bow, he excused himself to rejoin Bellatrix across the room.
"You handled that well," Father commented quietly once Rodolphus was out of earshot. "Respectful without over-committing. Good."
"Thank you, Father."
"Be advised," he continued, voice barely above a whisper, "certain guests are particularly interested in tomorrow's ritual. Your performance must be flawless, but your involvement strictly limited to family tradition. Understood?"
The warning was clear—demonstrate magical competence without displaying enthusiasm for the dark ideologies being promoted. Father was navigating a complex political landscape, positioning our branch of the family advantageously without full commitment to Voldemort's inner circle.
"Perfectly understood," I assured him.
As the evening progressed, I maintained careful distance from the most dangerous elements while fulfilling obligations as a son of the host family. I noticed Regulus similarly engaged in cautious navigation, though Bellatrix repeatedly sought his company, lavishing him with excessive attention that carried undertones of grooming for future recruitment.
When I finally retired to my bedroom well after midnight, I found a small package on my pillow—elegantly wrapped in black silk and sealed with the Black family crest. Inside lay a slender silver dagger with runes etched along its blade and a note in unfamiliar handwriting:
For tomorrow's ritual. The instrument must match the wand in quality and intent. Our Lord approves your participation and sends regards.
The implication chilled me to the bone. Voldemort himself had taken notice of my role in tomorrow's ceremony, considering it significant enough to provide a specialized ritual tool. The dagger vibrated with subtle dark magic, clearly designed for blood-letting ceremonies.
I examined it carefully, noting how the runes pulsed faintly when brought near The Serpent's Fang—magical resonance between artifacts created for complementary purposes. The gift represented both honor and danger; accepting it implied acknowledgment of Voldemort's interest, while rejection would signal suspicious reluctance.
After careful consideration, I placed the dagger on my bedside table rather than hiding or discarding it. Open rejection would create more problems than strategic acceptance. Tomorrow's ritual had clearly taken on significance beyond family tradition—it now represented a potential initiation into Voldemort's sphere of influence.
Sleep came fitfully, troubled by dreams of serpents coiling through crystalline chambers filled with blood.
The winter solstice dawned gray and frigid, heavy clouds pressing down upon Black Manor with oppressive weight. Household activities centered entirely around preparations for the evening's ritual—house-elves cleaning the ceremonial chamber beneath the manor, family members reviewing their respective roles, guests maintaining respectful distance from the sacred preparations.
I spent the morning in Father's study, receiving final instructions on the complex wandwork required for my central role.
"The chamber beneath the manor was constructed by our ancestors when the foundations were laid," Father explained, unrolling ancient architectural plans across his desk. "Positioned at the intersection of seven ley lines, it magnifies blood magic performed during astronomical convergences."
The parchment revealed elaborate runic structures embedded in the chamber's design—protection circles, amplification nodes, and channeling conduits that would direct magical energy through precise pathways.
"Your position will be here," he indicated the central altar. "The family will form the inner circle, with witnesses positioned in the outer ring. The Serpent's Fang must remain vertical during the initial invocation, then rotate counter-clockwise as each family member provides their contribution."
I studied the diagrams with appropriate seriousness while inwardly recoiling at the ritual's darker aspects. Though technically not Dark Magic as legally defined, the ceremony clearly bordered on forbidden practices—using freely-given blood to strengthen familial wards while simultaneously binding participants to ancestral obligations.
"This dagger arrived for me," I mentioned, producing the silver instrument from my pocket. "For use in the ritual, apparently."
Father examined it with narrowed eyes, his expression revealing genuine surprise. "This is goblin-wrought silver of exceptional quality. Such gifts are... significant." He returned it carefully. "Use it as intended. The honor implied requires appropriate acknowledgment."
Throughout the day, the manor's atmosphere grew increasingly tense as evening approached. Narcissa sought me out during the afternoon, her normally composed features tight with concern.
"There will be more witnesses than initially planned," she informed me quietly as we walked through the manor's frost-covered gardens. "Important figures arriving after sunset, under disillusionment charms to avoid Ministry detection."
"Voldemort?" I asked directly, keeping my voice low.
She flinched at the name but didn't deny the possibility. "I don't know for certain. But Bella has been... expectant. Preparing as if for an inspection rather than family ritual."
"This complicates things," I observed, mentally adjusting my approach for the evening.
"Be precise but reserved," Narcissa advised, echoing Father's earlier warning. "Demonstrate competence without eagerness. There's safety in appearing useful but not ambitious at your age."
Her concern seemed genuine—protective rather than merely instructional. I wondered again about Narcissa's true loyalties in this period, before her husband's full commitment to Voldemort's service.
"I'll be careful," I promised. "Focus on family obligation rather than external approval."
She nodded approvingly. "You understand nuance remarkably well for your age, Corvus. It will serve you well in the years ahead."
As dusk approached, I dressed in the ceremonial robes laid out by house-elves—black silk embroidered with silver runes, high-collared and formal. The Serpent's Fang seemed unusually responsive, its crystalline chamber glowing with faint internal light that pulsed in rhythm with my heartbeat. The ritual dagger I secured in a sheath at my waist, its weight unfamiliar but significant.
Regulus appeared at my door as I finished preparations, similarly attired though without the additional silver embroidery that marked my central role. His expression combined nervousness with resigned determination.
"Ready?" he asked simply.
"As much as possible," I replied honestly. "Stay close to your parents during the ceremony. Focus on family bonds rather than external impressions."
He nodded, understanding my subtle warning to avoid Bellatrix's influence during the ritual. "Family first," he agreed quietly.
We descended together through the manor's main levels, past the ground floor, and down ancient stone stairs that spiraled into darkness. The air grew noticeably colder, heavy with magical residue from centuries of Black family rituals performed in these depths.
The ceremonial chamber, when we finally reached it, took my breath away despite my mental preparations. Perfectly circular, with walls of polished black stone inlaid with silver runes that glowed with inner light, it radiated magical power accumulated over generations. At its center stood an altar of obsidian, surrounded by concentric rings marked in silver on the floor.
Family members were already assembling in the inner circle—Father and Mother; Uncle Orion and Aunt Walburga; Grandfather Pollux and Grandmother Irma; Bellatrix with Rodolphus; Narcissa standing alone but positioned where Andromeda would once have completed their trio of sisters. The outer ring contained approximately twenty "witnesses," some openly visible while others remained partially concealed by shadowing charms.
With a jolt of recognition, I identified Abraxas Malfoy—Lucius's father; Nott Senior; Dolohov; and other future inner-circle Death Eaters. Among the more heavily concealed figures at the back, one stood taller than the rest, his magical presence palpable even across the chamber.
Voldemort was here. Not yet the snake-like monster he would become after his resurrection, but Tom Riddle transformed by dark magic and horcrux creation—handsome still, but with an unnatural quality that magic couldn't fully disguise.
I carefully avoided looking directly at him, focusing instead on my appointed path to the central altar. The Serpent's Fang pulsed against my arm with increasing urgency as I approached, clearly responding to the concentrated magic of the chamber.
"The hour approaches," Grandfather Pollux intoned formally once I reached the altar. "The family assembles on the longest night to renew our bonds and strengthen our protections. Who wields the ancestral focus?"
"I, Corvus Black, chosen by The Serpent's Fang, stand ready to channel the family's will," I responded with the ritual words Father had taught me.
"Present the wand," Grandfather commanded.
I drew The Serpent's Fang and held it vertically before me, its crystalline chamber now glowing visibly in the dimly lit space. A murmur of appreciation rippled through the witnesses as they observed the wand's response to the charged atmosphere.
"The vessel is worthy," Grandfather declared after examining the wand. "The chamber is prepared. Let the ritual commence as the solstice reaches its zenith."
With practiced synchronization, the family members formed a perfect circle around the altar, each taking their designated position with precise timing. Father checked a complex astronomical instrument in his hand, then nodded to Grandfather Pollux, who raised his arms to begin the invocation.
"As darkness reaches its fullness, we gather in the traditions of our ancestors," he began, his voice resonating with magical power. "We offer freely that which carries our magic, to strengthen the bonds that protect our line. Blood of the Blacks, pure and unbroken, renews our covenant with magic itself."
The silver runes embedded in the chamber walls began pulsing in rhythm with his words, magical energy visibly swirling around the circle. I maintained my position at the altar, The Serpent's Fang held perfectly vertical, its chamber now glowing bright enough to illuminate my face from below.
"Begin the collection," Grandfather instructed. "Eldest to youngest, as tradition demands."
He approached the altar first, extending his wrinkled hand palm-up. I carefully laid The Serpent's Fang horizontal across my left palm while drawing the ritual dagger with my right. The blade gleamed in the magical light, its runes momentarily flaring as it touched Grandfather's skin.
With practiced precision, I made a small incision across his palm, angling the cut to allow blood to flow directly into the crystalline chamber of the wand. The moment the first drop made contact, The Serpent's Fang emitted a low hum, its chamber seeming to expand slightly to accommodate the offering.
"Blood freely given to protect blood," Grandfather stated the ritual phrase.
"Blood accepts blood," I responded according to tradition, rotating the wand counter-clockwise exactly one-seventh of a full turn.
The pattern repeated with each family member—Grandmother Irma, Uncle Orion, Aunt Walburga, Father, Mother, Bellatrix (whose blood seemed to enter the chamber with unusual eagerness), Rodolphus (included as betrothed), Narcissa, and finally Regulus, whose young face remained admirably composed as the blade touched his skin.
With each contribution, The Serpent's Fang rotated further, its chamber gradually filling with the combined blood of the Black family. The magical energy in the room intensified, the runes on the walls pulsing faster, more vibrantly.
When Regulus completed his part, all eyes turned to me. This was the most crucial moment—as wielder of the wand, my blood would catalyze the combined magical essence, activating the ritual's purpose.
"The vessel now offers his own essence, binding the collective will and sealing the covenant," Grandfather Pollux instructed.
With steady hands, I turned the blade on my own palm, making a precise cut that was deeper than those given to others—the ritual required the central figure to provide more substantial contribution. As my blood flowed into the now-nearly-full chamber, I felt immediate magical reaction—the wand grew hot in my hand, vibrating with power as the combined blood began to swirl of its own accord within the crystal.
"Blood freely given to protect blood," I stated clearly.
"Blood accepts blood," the entire family responded in unison.
The final turn completed the rotation, bringing The Serpent's Fang back to vertical position. The combined blood within the chamber now moved like a living thing, forming intricate patterns that corresponded to the runes embedded in the chamber walls.
"Raise the wand," Grandfather instructed. "Channel the family's protection to our ancestral wards."
I lifted The Serpent's Fang above my head, concentrating on the specific wandwork Father had taught me—a complex pattern that would direct the ritual's energy outward to the family properties. The wand felt almost alive in my grasp, guiding my movements with subtle pressure, enhancing rather than resisting my control.
The crystalline chamber suddenly glowed blindingly bright, the combined blood turning molten gold as ancient magic activated within the chamber. A beam of pure magical energy erupted from the wand's tip, striking the center of the ceiling where a complex runic node absorbed and redirected it outward to the family's protected properties.
The surge of power flowing through me was unlike anything I'd experienced—raw, primal magic unconstrained by modern wandlore's limitations. For several breathtaking seconds, I felt connected to every member of the Black family, their magical signatures momentarily unified through the ritual's ancient mechanism.
As the light began to fade, the blood within the chamber gradually disappeared, absorbed into the wand itself as the magic completed its purpose. When the chamber finally cleared completely, a tangible shockwave of magic pulsed outward, confirming the ritual's successful completion.
"It is done," Grandfather Pollux declared. "The protections are renewed, strengthened by willing sacrifice and family unity."
The formal portion of the ritual concluded, though a sense of humming magical energy remained in the chamber. Family members examined their palms, where the ritual cuts had healed, leaving only faint silver scars that would fade by morning—physical markers of participation.
My own palm, however, retained a more distinct mark—a small crescent-shaped scar that glowed faintly silver. Father noticed it immediately, his eyebrows rising in surprise.
"The wand has marked you permanently," he observed quietly. "Such bonding is rare, even for family focus wielders."
Before I could respond, movement from the outer circle caught my attention. The tall, partially concealed figure—Voldemort—had stepped forward slightly, his magical presence intensifying as he focused attention on The Serpent's Fang and my marked palm.
Though his features remained obscured, I felt his gaze like a physical touch—calculating, assessing, interested in a way that chilled my blood despite the magical warmth still flowing through my veins.
Bellatrix noticed his attention and practically preened, as if her cousin's performance reflected on her own standing. "The youngest ever to complete the ritual without guidance," she announced proudly to the chamber at large. "The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black continues to produce exceptional talent."
Her proclamation was clearly intended for Voldemort's benefit, positioning me as a promising future recruit. I maintained careful composure, acknowledging the compliment with appropriate modesty while avoiding direct eye contact with the concealed figure.
"The family is dismissed," Grandfather Pollux declared. "Witnesses may remain for the secondary discussions."
This was the expected division—family members not yet directly involved with Death Eater activities would withdraw, while the inner circle stayed for what was essentially a recruitment meeting disguised as post-ritual analysis. As I prepared to follow Father toward the exit, Bellatrix intercepted me.
"You'll stay," she stated rather than asked, her hand gripping my shoulder with uncomfortable force. "Your performance warrants... further consideration."
Father intervened smoothly. "Corvus has fulfilled his ritual obligations admirably, but remains too young for extended participation. Another time, perhaps."
For a tense moment, Bellatrix seemed prepared to challenge his authority, her eyes flashing dangerously. Then, surprisingly, she relented with a tight smile. "Of course, Uncle. The boy has demonstrated remarkable control today. His future involvement will be even more valuable with... proper maturation."
The compromise satisfied both sides—Father maintaining appropriate boundaries for my age while Bellatrix secured implicit acknowledgment of future recruitment interest. I was simultaneously relieved to escape immediate Death Eater exposure and disturbed by the apparent inevitability of later involvement.
As we ascended the stone stairs back to the main manor, The Serpent's Fang hummed contentedly in its holster, seemingly satisfied by its central role in the ancient magic. The crescent scar on my palm continued to glow faintly, a permanent connection to the powerful ritual we had completed.
"You performed exceptionally," Father commented as we reached the ground floor. "The wand responded to your direction with unusual receptivity."
"It felt... natural," I admitted. "As if The Serpent's Fang was guiding me through the required movements."
"Ancient focused wands often develop such symbiotic relationships with their chosen wielders," he explained. "That scar indicates particularly strong bonding—the wand has essentially claimed you as its permanent master."
The implications were significant—beyond the usual wandlore principle that "the wand chooses the wizard," The Serpent's Fang had apparently formed a blood bond that transcended normal magical ownership. Such connection would enhance its responsiveness to my magic while potentially influencing my own affinity for certain branches of magic.
"There will be interest in your abilities following tonight's demonstration," Father continued more quietly as we approached his study. "Bellatrix's associates are always seeking exceptional talent."
"What would you advise?" I asked carefully, probing his true position regarding Voldemort's recruitment.
Father considered his response with unusual thoughtfulness. "Maintain focus on your education," he finally stated. "Cultivate magical excellence without premature allegiances. The political landscape is... evolving rapidly. Positioning oneself too definitively too early limits future adaptability."
The advice revealed much about Father's own stance—sympathetic to pure-blood causes but cautious about full commitment to Voldemort's inner circle. Unlike the Lestranges or Malfoys, the Black family was hedging its position, maintaining connections on multiple sides of the developing conflict.
"I understand," I assured him. "Academic excellence provides options."
He nodded approvingly. "Rest now. The ritual requires significant magical expenditure, especially for the central participant. We'll discuss further implications tomorrow."
In my bedroom, I examined The Serpent's Fang more closely, noting subtle changes in the crystalline chamber. Though physically empty of blood, the crystal itself had taken on a faintly reddish tinge, as if permanently altered by the ritual. When I held it, the connection felt stronger, more immediate—the wand responding to my thoughts almost before conscious intent formed.
The crescent scar on my palm glowed silver-white when brought near the wand, magical resonance establishing a physical link between wielder and instrument. I wondered what this enhanced connection might mean for my magic at Hogwarts, whether professors would notice increased power or control.
A soft knock interrupted my examination. Regulus entered without waiting for response, his expression troubled as he closed the door quietly behind him.
"They're still down there," he whispered. "Bellatrix, Rodolphus, the others. And him."
"You saw him?" I asked cautiously.
Regulus nodded, his face pale. "Not clearly—he remains partially concealed. But his magic... you could feel it, couldn't you? Like nothing I've ever encountered."
"Yes," I acknowledged, seeing no point in denying the obvious. "Very powerful, very... distinctive."
"They want us, don't they?" Regulus said after a moment. "Bella keeps telling Mother how exceptional we are, how we should receive 'special mentorship' beginning next summer."
The recruitment timeline was accelerating—in the original history, Regulus hadn't taken the Dark Mark until sixteen. If Bellatrix was already arranging "mentorship" now, his path toward Death Eater service might begin much earlier in this altered timeline.
"What we want matters too," I pointed out carefully. "And we're still students with years of education ahead. Premature commitments limit future options."
Regulus glanced at me sharply. "That sounds like something Uncle Cygnus would say. Are you quoting him?"
"Paraphrasing," I admitted. "But he's not wrong. We have time to consider our paths carefully."
"Do we?" Regulus sank onto the edge of my bed, suddenly looking much younger than his eleven years. "Sometimes I feel like our course was set before we were born. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black serving the cause of blood purity through whatever alliance best advances that goal."
His insight was painfully accurate—the family legacy constrained choices in ways that made true freedom illusory. Yet Sirius had broken free, and in the original timeline, Regulus himself had eventually found the courage to defy Voldemort at the cost of his life.
"Blood matters," I said carefully, "but how we honor it remains our choice. Sirius chose one interpretation. Others choose differently. The legacy continues either way."
Regulus considered this perspective. "You're different, you know," he finally said. "Not like other Blacks. You question things, but quietly. You observe more than you speak. The Sorting Hat took a long time with you, didn't it?"
"It considered options," I acknowledged.
"But not Gryffindor like Sirius," he pressed. "Something else?"
"Does it matter?" I deflected. "The Hat placed me in Slytherin, where I belong."
Regulus studied me for a moment longer before nodding. "I suppose not. We're both where we're meant to be. I just wonder sometimes..." He trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished.
"We should rest," I suggested gently. "The ritual drains magical energy significantly."
After Regulus departed, I stood by the window overlooking the frost-covered gardens, the crescent moon illuminating the landscape with cold light. Somewhere below, Voldemort was recruiting, planning, building the power base that would nearly destroy wizarding Britain before a child's reflected curse temporarily halted his rise.
The Serpent's Fang hummed in my hand, its connection to me strengthened by tonight's ritual. The power flowing through it during the ceremony had been intoxicating—pure, primal magic unrestrained by conventional limitations. I understood better now why dark magic tempted so many talented wizards; the raw potential, the heady sensation of magical boundaries dissolving.
Yet with that understanding came renewed determination to resist. Knowledge of the future provided perspective the others lacked—I had seen the endgame of Voldemort's rise, the destruction wrought by his ideology, the ultimate hollowness of his promises of magical supremacy.
The crescent scar on my palm continued to glow faintly, a permanent reminder of tonight's ritual and the dangerous path ahead. I had successfully navigated the first major test, maintaining my cover while avoiding direct Death Eater recruitment. But Voldemort's interest had been secured, and Bellatrix's patronage ensured continued scrutiny.
Returning to Hogwarts would provide temporary reprieve, but the foundations had been laid for increasingly difficult challenges ahead. The timeline was shifting already—Regulus being groomed earlier, Voldemort taking personal interest in potential recruits, The Serpent's Fang creating unexpected magical connections.
I would need to accelerate my own plans as well—forming strategic alliances, acquiring knowledge beyond the standard curriculum, and finding ways to subtly influence events without revealing my true knowledge or intentions.
As I finally prepared for sleep, exhaustion from the ritual settling into my bones, one certainty remained clear: the war had already begun, not just in the wider wizarding world, but for the soul of the Black family itself. And I stood at the center of that conflict, a time traveler with a serpent's wand, trying to rewrite a history stained with blood and tragedy.
The crystalline chamber had been filled tonight—a symbolic vessel channeling ancient magic. But the greater challenge lay ahead: filling the future with something better than the past I remembered.