Rigel entered 12 Grimmauld Place, stepping cautiously beside Arcturus. The air was thick with dust, shadows clinging to the corners like memories unwilling to leave. His green-gray eyes swept over the familiar chaos of the ancestral home, taking in the peeling wallpaper, the portraits of long-dead Blacks glaring from the walls, and the heavy, oppressive silence that always seemed to settle here.
Arcturus's presence was a dark weight at his side, polished cane in hand, black suit immaculate, eyes sharp as knives. "Stay close," he murmured, his tone more statement than request, as if reminding Rigel that here, legacy dictated every step.
Rigel followed Arcturus through the shadowed hallways of Grimmauld Place, his eyes flicking over the peeling wallpaper and the heavy layer of dust that coated every surface. This place… he muttered under his breath, voice carrying that sly, feral edge. "This place needs a clean-up… and maybe some music."
Arcturus's dark eyes narrowed, lips twitching in a faint, incredulous smile. "Music?" he echoed, his voice sharp. "Do you really think frivolity belongs here?"
Rigel's smirk widened slightly, undeterred. "Maybe not… but it wouldn't hurt. Makes ghosts easier to handle."
The old house groaned as if in quiet agreement, shadows shifting along the walls, echoing the tension and a hint of amusement between the heir and his ancestor.
One Year Later – 14 April
Finally, the ritual on which Rigel had labored for three years was complete. Seven days of anguish, sweat, and relentless pain had culminated in this moment a gift to himself for his birthday. On the desk, the list of ingredients lay like a dark testament to what he had endured:
Dragon's Blood → increases stamina, strength, and physical resilience.
Basilisk Eyes → grant resistance to petrifying gazes, enhance vision, and increase body flexibility.
Basilisk Venom + Phoenix Tears → provide immunity to poisons and stabilize the ritual.
Phoenix Ashes → accelerate regeneration and boost vitality.
Unicorn Horn Powder → binds all effects to the body without side effects, amplifying innate magic.
Wizard's Body at the Center → the final catalyst: fuses the ingredients and transfers their effects to the practitioner.
Overall Effects: enhanced body, amplified magic, special resistances, and growth of innate magic without collateral damage.
The ritual had been excruciating.
Day 1 – Preparation and ConsecrationThe magic circle glowed with a red light; dragon's blood pulsed in the air like a living heart. Every fiber of Rigel's muscles stretched and contracted in pain, tension merging into one. Breathing itself became an act of pure will.
Day 2 – Physical ReinforcementMuscles and bones strengthened, but each movement cut through his nerves like blades. His body screamed, yet Rigel forced it to obey. Fear of surrender fueled his discipline.
Day 3 – Sight and ResistanceHis eyes adjusted to basilisk venom and phoenix tears. Burning, uncontrollable tears streaked his face, inflamed skin protesting. Pain spoke, demanding surrender. Rigel answered with surgical focus.
Day 4 – Magical StabilizationPhoenix ashes and unicorn horn powder bound the magic to his body. Every heartbeat struck his mind and flesh like a hammer. The transformation sought to break him, but he endured.
Day 5 – Innate Magic GrowthMagic coursed through his veins, strengthening and accelerating regeneration. Each breath was a reminder of the price of power: relentless, pure pain, a constant call to his determination.
Day 6 – Final FusionEvery cell screamed. His mind teetered between clarity and madness. Pain became a tool, a companion. Mental resilience and self-control were the only shields against descending into oblivion.
Day 7 – CompletionThe agony peaked, a wave so infinite it felt eternal, then vanished into unreal silence. Rigel emerged transformed: stronger, more resilient, more magical. His laugh mad, light, spectral echoed through the ritual chamber, sealing his victory over body, mind, and suffering itself.
Rigel, still laughing low and teasing, began dressing in his suit. His muscles moved with a newfound elasticity, flowing and contracting with a grace that was almost unnatural. Each motion carried the echo of the ritual: controlled, precise, yet pulsing with the untamed energy now coursing through him. He could stretch, twist, and flex in ways that seemed to defy ordinary limits, yet he remained fully human in form.
A subtle but unmistakable change marked his gaze: his eyes, Avada Kedavra green at the center and rimmed with steel-gray, had narrowed into vertical, serpent-like slits, gleaming with an eerie, intelligent light. Every glance now carried a predator's focus, hinting at the extraordinary control he wielded over his body and magic.
He moved upstairs, boots clicking against the polished floor with a measured, deliberate rhythm, almost like a drumbeat in time with his pulse. At the top of the stairs, Arcturus waited, dark eyes sharp, assessing like a predator sizing up his heir.
From somewhere distant, faint but unmistakable, a song began: Back in Black (his elf happily started it, fully aware of Rigel's love for theatricality). Its riff cut through the heavy air, perfectly syncing with Rigel's eerie, victorious laugh, as if the world itself were heralding his transformation: stronger, sharper, muscles flowing with power, ready to strike.
Rigel's grin widened under the green-steel glint of his eyes, pupils slitted like a serpent's. He had endured, he had won, and now, moving toward the man who was both his ancestor and his new grandfather, he felt every fiber of his enhanced body alive with controlled, dangerous power.
Arcturus's dark eyes narrowed as Rigel reached the top of the stairs. The faint slits of his pupils glimmered in the light, an unnatural sharpness that spoke of power beyond his years.
"Impressive," he said finally, voice controlled, though a trace of tension lingered. "Your eyes… and your posture. You carry the ritual in your body. And yet… this music?" He gestured vaguely to the sound filling the air. "Is this how you announce your arrival to your elders?"
Rigel's eerie chuckle responded before words did, a low, teasing sound that seemed to ripple through the polished floors.
Arcturus studied him, calculating, intrigued, yet wary. So the Black heir returns, he thought, but not as I expected… and with far too much… character.
And so, another three years passed.
Rigel had grown, though he was still just ten, his body lithe and agile from both the ritual and the constant training. The results of the ritual were unmistakable: his movements carried a fluid, controlled grace, his muscles responsive and elastic in ways that made his mentors pause. His green-steel eyes, now permanently slitted like a serpent's, glimmered with unnerving intelligence, measuring everything, always calculating.
Mrs. Hiss coiled protectively around him, while Ethelin and Tenebris sharpened their instincts alongside him. Even the little snickletts of Mrs. Hiss now moved confidently beside Rigel, silent companions in his quiet dominance of every space he entered.
Though still a child in years, Rigel commanded attention effortlessly. The ritual, the years of instruction, and the raw energy within him lent a presence far beyond his age. He moved through the world like a storm contained within a boyish form: calculated, precise, and yet with a hint of untamed chaos.
Under Arcturus's strict tutelage, he had begun mastering the subtleties of strategy, discipline, politics, economy, dueling, and the weight of the Black legacy by reading in the library. Alone, he delved in the tomes of Serpico, practicing spell creation. Yet with the wand he had taken from the Death Eater, he felt a certain resistance and disgust, so he never advanced beyond the first round of tests.
But perhaps the most visible victory was not in battle or ritual, but in the Black home itself. Once a tomb of dust and silence, Grimmauld Place now thrummed with light, music, and motion though only the Walburga painting contributed mere noise. Osric and Merrin, the Serpico elves, had joined Kreacher in restoring it, every corner reborn from rot into something worthy of legacy.
At first, Rigel addressed him only as great-grandfather distant, formal, a title heavy with duty. Arcturus expected nothing less; his lessons were sharp, his discipline colder still, and affection was never part of the bargain.
But time reshaped them both. The boy's stubborn brilliance, his laughter at Georgei's gym, his relentless will to grow all these chipped away at Arcturus's stone carved reserve. And one evening, almost carelessly, Rigel let the word slip: Gramps.
Arcturus's gaze had hardened on instinct, but only for a moment. Then, to Rigel's surprise, the old man allowed it. He did not correct him. The title lingered, and over the months it became natural until even Arcturus himself, once untouchable and cold, responded to it with a faint softening in his eyes, as though he had accepted more than just a name.
Weekends, however, still brought him back to Georgei's gym, a chaotic sanctuary where laughter, freedom, and unpolished lessons reminded him of life outside the shadow of nobility and where he could maintain contact with the know-it-all who had become his first and only true human friend.
It was during these visits that Arcturus began to notice something unexpected.Georgei, with his rough hands, calm demeanor, and uncanny ability to understand Rigel without ever invoking magic, was more than just a caretaker. He was… reliable. Capable. Honest in a way that no Black noble had ever been. Arcturus found himself respecting the old man, first quietly, then with open acknowledgment.
One afternoon, as Rigel sparred in the ring and Georgei called out advice with the usual mix of humor and discipline, Arcturus stood at the corner of the gym, arms crossed, observing. A part of him, unspoken, felt a small, grudging amusement at the scene. "He is… well-trained," Arcturus murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "And you… you manage him better than I could."
Georgei chuckled, wiping sweat from his brow. "Don't get soft on me, Black. But I'll take it as a compliment."
And so, a strange friendship began to form, forged in the quiet understanding of a child who straddled two worlds. Arcturus realized that while Georgei was a muggle and a crude one at that, he was a man who could be trusted to guide the boy when he needed grounding, to temper the raw power of a Black heir with the steady hand of experience.
Rigel, for his part, noticed the subtle nods and rare smiles exchanged between his grandfather and Georgei. The boy didn't comment he simply kept laughing, training, growing, knowing that his world was expanding in ways even he hadn't expected.
And it was for this reason that the day of the funeral felt even more painful. Georgei had left in his dreams, a happy smirk lingering on his lips. Rigel stood near his grandfather on what had begun as a sunny day, now fading into dusk, his voice barely above a whisper.
"What a bad day for rain," he murmured, tears slithering down his cheeks.
Arcturus nodded solemnly, a drop of grief tracing the line of his own face. For a fleeting moment, his usual cold composure softened, and he shifted slightly closer to the boy. "Yes… it's such a bad day for rain, kid," he said, his voice heavy with unspoken loss, wetness streaking his aged features.
It had taken time, but Rigel's presence had chipped at the walls Arcturus had built around himself. Once distant, formal, almost untouchable, he had learned to allow a quiet warmth to show subtle, measured, yet real a grandfather in practice, if not in name, until Rigel had eventually begun calling him Gramps without hesitation. And now, Arcturus felt the weight of both loss and closeness, a rare and fragile mixture.
Before them, the tomb stood alone, its stone sharp and unweathered, as if it had only just been set into the earth. Dusk draped the world in bruised purples and molten gold, shadows stretching long across the grass. Carved into the surface was a single image: a serpent coiled elegantly around a delicate, rose like flower, the House insignia of the Serpico, its scales catching the last light, glinting faintly like iron. The petals of the flower seemed to tremble under the snake's embrace, fragile yet defiantly upright, a symbol of life entwined with cunning and danger.
"Here rests George Mallon — a friend, a man of value and discipline, and a grandfather in all but blood."
Silence hung between them, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves. The grief was shared, but so was the unshakable respect, love, and, quietly, finally, the bond of family forged through time and care.
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