Power demands foundations — wealth, influence, and ancient blood to bend before my will.
My destination was obvious: the House of Black.
A family once feared, now fractured. Their vaults deep. Their magic old. Their blood too proud to imagine kneeling to a greater power.
I walked.
Miles turned into days. This body was powerful, yes — but my magic was newborn, still coalescing. Necromancy alone would draw attention I didn't yet want. So I crossed fields and roads until London's skyline bled through the horizon like jagged teeth.
At last, I stood before Number 12, Grimmauld Place — the ancestral heart of the Black family, invisible to the eyes of lesser mortals. The Fidelius enchantment shimmered like a veil.
"Show yourself," I commanded, voice low and cold.
The wards rippled — confused, resistant. It took two days of silent warfare.Two days of unraveling spells older than Voldemort's ambitions.Two days of dissecting enchantments layer by layer, until—
A gap. A secret door in the armor.
I slipped through.
The interior greeted me with dust, decay, and hostility.
A crack — and then a snarl.
Kreacher — the twisted, hateful elf — appeared, eyes burning with fury at the intruder.
"Filthy wizard! Thief! Kreacher will kill—"
His curse died on his forked tongue as I raised a hand.
Necromancy surged.Bones rattled.A skeletal warrior burst from the darkness — iron remains from a forgotten battle, now risen in perfect obedience.
The skeleton's bony hand wrapped around Kreacher's throat. The elf dropped, unconscious, like a discarded rag.
I walked past without a second glance.
Deeper inside — a study, walls lined with portraits of Blacks long-dead. One watched me with arrogant suspicion, black eyes blazing.
Phineas Nigellus BlackHeadmaster. Proud ancestor. Dumbledore's informant.
A liability.
His painted mouth opened — too slow.A flick of necromantic fire — silence.The portrait cracked and blackened into ash.
One more spy eliminated.
I turned to the desk.
There sat a ring — ornate, obsidian, cold.The Black Family Ring, symbol of dominion and heritage.
I examined its enchantments. Ancient runes danced under my gaze, scripts for lineage confirmation and blood authority. A complicated lock — but locks are just challenges.
Beside me stood a cabinet, sealed in dust, filled with vials of old blood.Black ancestors preserved for blood-magic rituals.
Perfect.
I selected one with potent purity still glowing faintly inside.
The ritual was elegant in its simplicity — a necromantic gene-binding spell.I let the blood hover, circle, then thread itself into my veins like liquid shadow.
Bone-deep power answered.
My blood changed.My name changed.Reality changed.
→ Auron Soran-Black→ Recognized Heir of the House of Black→ Eligible: Lordship Ascension
The ring vibrated… then leapt onto my finger of its own accord.
The manor shuddered.Walls bent like kneeling soldiers.Wards roared and then went silent.
The house belonged to me.
And from the ring's internal space — a book emerged into my palm:
The Black Family Grimoire
Leather bound. Sealed with curses and secrets. Filled with customs banned by the Ministry — blood magic, shadow magic, spells of control and dominion.
My lips curled.
"I take what others let rot," I whispered.
The Blacks had hoarded power without vision.I would restore purpose.
Not the light they abandoned.Not the darkness they feared.
But dominion.
I slid into the lord's chair and laid the Grimoire open before me.Page after page of ancient spells, forgotten pacts, cursed rituals…
Wealth. Influence. Forbidden knowledge.
The first stones of a new Mordor.
And all of it… mine.