"The mark of a true leader is not calm obedience, but the beautiful madness they awaken in those who believe."- Gellert Grindelwald
September 5, 1969, The Dungeon Corridor
Lucius Malfoy walked at the head of the Slytherin column, his cane tapping a rhythmic code on the flagstones.
"Potions," Lucius announced, his voice echoing off the damp stone. "Most students mistake this subject for cooking. They think if they can follow a recipe, they can brew."
He stopped outside a door that smelled faintly of sulfur and pickled toad.
"They are wrong. Potions is chemistry with a soul. It is the art of bottling fame, brewing glory, and stoppering death. And the man behind this door is not just a teacher."
Lucius turned, his pale eyes catching the torchlight.
"Professor Horace Slughorn. Head of Slytherin House."
Lucius listed the accolades with the reverence of a curator listing the provenance of a rare artifact.
"Order of Merlin, First Class, for his contributions to the cure for Dragon Pox. Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League. Three-time recipient of the Alchemical Gold Cauldron. He corresponds with the Minister of Magic on a first-name basis and plays bridge with the editor of the Daily Prophet."
Lucius leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that was meant to be heard.
"He does not just teach. He collects. He has an eye for talent that rivals a Seer's sight. If he picks you... doors open. If he ignores you... you will find the world a very crowded, very locked place."
Vega adjusted his cuffs. He looked at the door.
"I trust," Vega said smoothly, "that he appreciates quality."
Lucius smirked. "He appreciates a Black. Especially one with a ring like that."
Potions Classroom
Slughorn's dungeon was a cavern of wonders.
Brass cauldrons bubbled on low fires, filling the air with multicolored steam. The walls were lined with glass jars containing things that floated in suspension—roots, eyes, organs, shimmering dust. It was warm, humid, and smelled of bitter chocolate and burning herbs.
And in the center of it all, looking like a walrus dressed in a velvet smoking jacket, was Horace Slughorn.
He was massive. Not in the muscular, siege-engine way of Hagrid, but in a soft, expansive way. He took up space. His waistcoat buttons looked strained, his moustache was enormous, and his eyes...
Vega clocked the eyes immediately. They were pale, gooseberry-green, and sharp as scalpels.
"Come in, come in!" Slughorn boomed, waving a hand that held a crystal goblet of pineapple? "Don't be shy! The fumes won't bite, though I can't speak for the Tentacula in the corner!"
The Slytherins filed in, taking the best tables near the front. The Gryffindors, who shared this session, took the back, looking wary of the bubbling cauldrons.
Slughorn's eyes swept the room. They didn't just look; they appraised. He was checking the stock.
His gaze landed on Cyrus Greengrass. Nod of recognition. He looked at Frank Longbottom. A thoughtful pause. Then, he hit Vega.
The pause wasn't thoughtful. It was delighted.
"Oho!" Slughorn beamed, waddling over with surprising speed. "Do my eyes deceive me, or is that the Star of the House of Black?"
He stopped in front of Vega's desk. The smell of expensive brandy and crystallized ginger wafted off him.
"Vega Black," Slughorn declared, looking him up and down. "I daresay you look just like your grandfather at this age. Less scowling, perhaps. Arcturus always did have a face like a thundercloud. How is the old Patriarch?"
"He is well, Professor," Vega replied, inclining his head. "He sends his regards. And he mentioned that your cellar contains an '48 Ogden's that is the envy of the Wizengamot."
Slughorn roared with laughter, his belly shaking. "Did he now? The old fox! He's just jealous I outbid him for the last case! You must come by my office later, m'boy. We'll discuss the finer points of vintage acquisition."
He turned to the class, beaming.
"You see? Connections! History! That is the blood of our world!"
Slughorn returned to the front.
He didn't start with a roll call. He started with a question.
"Who can tell me," Slughorn boomed, his voice echoing off the damp stone, "why we are here?"
A Ravenclaw hand shot up. "To learn to brew potions, sir."
"Technically correct, but hollow!" Slughorn cried jovially. He waddled to a cauldron that was bubbling with a pearlescent, silver steam.
"We are here," Slughorn whispered, leaning over the fumes, "because before wizards carved sticks... before we learned to shout in bastardized Latin... before we built towers... we brewed."
Slughorn turned to the class, his gooseberry eyes sharp.
"Wand magic is projective," he lectured, pacing the stone floor. "It is the imposition of human will upon the environment. You point at a cup and say 'Break'. It breaks because you imposed you will on it."
He picked up a dried root from his desk. It looked like a shriveled hand.
"But Potions? Potions is extractive. It is the understanding that the magic is not in you. It is in the world."
He held up the root.
"This is Asphodel. It grew in a meadow. It drank the sunlight. It ate the minerals of the earth. It has a soul, a memory, a chemical identity. When we brew, we are not casting a spell. We are liberating the magic trapped inside the matter."
Vega watched, fascinated.
"Ancient shamans," Slughorn continued, "didn't have Phoenix feather cores. They had cauldrons. They understood that if you take the speed of a cheetah, the sight of a hawk, and the venom of a snake, and you bind them in a liquid medium...you can drink the essence of the wild."
He dropped the root back onto the desk.
Slughorn walked to the chalkboard.
"It is a transaction," he explained, drawing a circle. "Equivalent Exchange. You cannot create power from nothing. To brew a Cure for Boils, you must sacrifice the things that cause pain and the things that soothe it."
He pointed to the ingredients laid out on the front table.
"Snake fangs. Violence. Pungent onions. Irritation. Porcupine quills. Defense. You take these aggressive elements, you subject them to heat and fluid dynamics, and you force them to negotiate a truce. The result is healing."
Vega smiled. I like him, he decided. He dresses it up in poetry, but he's teaching us the basics.
"Many of you will fail," Slughorn said cheerfully. "You will think that if you just stir it enough, it will work. You will be wrong. You must respect the ingredients. You must listen to whisper of the potion. If you insult the snake fang by crushing it poorly, the resultant brew will poison you out of spite."
He clapped his hands.
"Now! The Cure for Boils. The instructions are on the board."
"Simple ingredients. Dried nettles. Crushed snake fangs. Stewed horned slugs. Porcupine quills."
He picked up a jar of snake fangs.
"But remember: Potions is about balance. The nettles irritate. The fangs poison. The slugs soothe.
"However! Potions is volatile. If you add the porcupine quills while the fire is lit... well, let us just say the Hospital Wing will be busy. Off the fire before the quills! Remember that!"
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Vega set up his cauldron.
He lit the fire. Blue flame. Low heat.
He looked at the dried nettles on his desk.
Listen to it, Slughorn had said.
Vega picked up the nettles. He didn't just dump them in. He held them in his palm. He felt the dry, prickly texture. He let his blood-sight expand.
The nettles felt... itchy. Sharp. They held a low-grade vibration of irritation.
You want to sting, Vega thought. But I need you to scrub.
He crushed them in his hand, feeling the structure snap. He dropped them into the water.
The water turned pink.
"Crushed snake fangs," Cyrus read from the board beside him. "Vega, how fine do we grind them?"
"Dust," Vega murmured, picking up his mortar and pestle. "If you leave chunks, the venom stays concentrated. You need to disperse the aggression."
Grind. Crack. Grind.
He worked the pestle in a rhythm. He wasn't just smashing; he was coaxing. He wanted the fangs to give up their toxicity so it could be repurposed.
He added the dust. The potion turned orange.
Slughorn was drifting through the dungeon like a large, velvet cloud. He stopped at Goyle's desk.
"Too hot, Goyle! You're boiling the life out of the slugs! Simmer, boy, simmer! You're making soup, not lava!"
He drifted to Vega.
He stopped. He sniffed.
"Rosemary?" Slughorn asked, his eyes narrowing. "The recipe calls for standard bindweed."
"I used a pinch of rosemary oil from my personal kit, sir," Vega said calmly, stirring four times clockwise. "To stabilize the acidity of the snake venom. It binds the toxins faster than bindweed."
Slughorn stared at him. Then, a slow, delighted smile spread across his face.
"A modification," Slughorn breathed. "On the first day. And... yes, look at that sheen. The rosemary has calmed the surface tension."
He leaned in, his voice dropping.
"That is OWL-year thinking, Mr. Black. Understanding the why, not just the what."
"My mother prefers poisons," Vega said simply. "I learned early that stability is the difference between a cure and a funeral."
"Indeed!" Slughorn chuckled. "Indeed! Ten points to Slytherin for audacious competence!"
"Good color, Black," Cyrus noted, looking at his own muddy brown mixture. "Mine looks like swamp water."
"You bruised the nettles," Vega observed, not looking up. "You have to be gentle. They're plants, not enemies."
He stirred. Four times clockwise. Two times counter-clockwise.
The magic in the cauldron began to thicken. It wasn't just liquid anymore; it was becoming a Potion. Vega could feel the intent binding the ingredients together.
Then came the critical moment.
"Take the cauldron off the fire," Slughorn reminded loudly from the front, where he was chatting with Frank Longbottom about his parents (Aurors, famous ones).
Vega gripped the handle of his cauldron. He didn't lift it. He used a localized Levitation Charm—a precise vector, just like Flitwick taught—to hover it three inches above the burner.
The heat source removed, the potion stopped bubbling.
He picked up the porcupine quills.
One. Two. Three.
He dropped them in.
A cloud of pink smoke puffed up, smelling of roses and antiseptic.
The orange liquid turned a perfect, vivid blue.
"Exquisite!"
Slughorn was there instantly, looming over Vega's shoulder. He stared into the cauldron.
"Look at that sheen! Perfect viscosity. And the smell... you ground the fangs to a fine dust, didn't you?
Slughorn clapped a heavy hand on Vega's shoulder.
"Ten points to Slytherin! You have the touch, Vega! The intuitive touch of a genius!
The peace was shattered by a loud HISS.
Behind them, a cloud of acidic green smoke erupted.
'Amos!" a voice shouted in shock
A Hufflepuff had added the quills while the fire was still blazing. His cauldron melted into a twisted lump of pewter. The potion splashed onto the floor, eating through the stone and burning holes in the boy's shoes boils started erupting on his ankles.
"Idiot boy!" Slughorn sighed, though he didn't look surprised
"Off to the hospital wing with you! Take him Ms Carter"
As the chaos subsided, Vega decanted his perfect blue potion into a crystal phial.
He corked it. Captured magic, Vega thought. I took a snake, a slug, and a plant, and I made a miracle..
The bell tolled for the end of class. Most students hurriedly rushed out of the room, eager to escape the humid environment of the dungeons.
Vega took his time. He corked his phial of perfect, azure Cure for Boils potion, wiping the glass with a linen cloth. Beside him, Cyrus Greengrass was scowling at his own concoction, which had settled into a sludge the color of a bruised plum.
"It's the stir," Cyrus muttered, vanishing the mess with a sharp jab of his wand. "Counter-clockwise. I always rush the counter-clockwise."
"It's not the direction, Cyrus," Vega said, swinging his bag over his shoulder. "It's the rhythm.
They moved toward the door, intending to join the stream of Slytherins heading for lunch.
"Mr. Black! A moment, if you please!"
The voice boomed from the front of the room, rich and syrupy.
Vega paused. He exchanged a glance with Cyrus.
"Go ahead," Vega murmured. "Save me a seat. And don't let Rosier steal my bread rolls."
Cyrus nodded, offering a smirk that said good luck, and slipped out into the corridor.
Vega turned.
Horace Slughorn was bustling toward him, navigating the maze of desks with the surprising grace of a man who carried significant ballast. He wiped his hands on a velvet cloth, his gooseberry eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
"Professor?" Vega asked, adopting a posture of polite, aristocratic inquiry.
"Vega, my boy! Vega!" Slughorn beamed, stopping comfortably inside Vega's personal space. He smelled of expensive cologne, crystallized pineapple, and the faint, metallic tang of rare ingredients. "I simply had to commend you again. That hue of blue... I haven't seen a first attempt that stable since, well, since your Eileen Prince.
"You are too kind, sir," Vega said smoothly. "I merely followed the instructions."
"Pish!" Slughorn waved a hand dismissively. "Instructions are for the Hufflepuffs. You have the instinct. The intuition! You knew exactly when to remove the heat. That isn't reading; that is feeling."
Slughorn leaned against a desk, his expression shifting from teacher to confidant.
"I was just thinking," Slughorn said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I occasionally host... small gatherings. Informal affairs. A chance for some of the brighter sparks to rub shoulders, discuss the finer points of magic away from the curriculum. A bit of crystallized pineapple, perhaps a glass of elf-made wine for the seniors."
He looked at Vega, his eyes sharp.
"I would be delighted if you would join me. This Friday evening? Just a few select students. Lucius will be there, of course. And I believe the editor of Transfiguration Today might remain for a nightcap after his guest lecture."
Vega kept his face impassive, though his mind was dissecting the offer.
The Collection, Vega thought. He's not inviting me because I can brew a boil cure. He's inviting the Heir Ring. He's inviting the connection to Arcturus.
It was a transaction. Slughorn offered access to people, to favors, to the "back channels" of the world. In exchange, Vega offered his presence, adding value to Slughorn's portfolio.
"I would be honored, Professor," Vega said, bowing slightly. "Friday evening."
"Excellent!" Slughorn clapped his hands together. "Excellent! I shall expect you around eight. Bring that sharp mind of yours, Vega. I have a feeling you'll fit right in."
He winked.
"And do give my best to Arcturus when you write home. Tell him I'm still enjoying the Ogden's."
Vega walked out of the classroom, the heavy oak door thudding shut behind him.
The corridor was cool and empty.
Vega touched the Ring on his finger. He felt the cold platinum against his skin.
"Friday," Vega murmured to himself.
He had expected to navigate the schoolyard politics of eleven-year-olds. He hadn't expected to be drafted into the parlor games of the adults within three days.
But as he ascended the stairs toward the smell of roast chicken and the noise of the Great Hall, Vega smiled.
Let him collect me, Vega thought, the ambition in his blood purring. He thinks he's putting a trophy on his shelf. He doesn't realize he's inviting a thief into his vault.
September 5, 1969, The Lake Grounds, Twilight
The Friday evening air at Hogwarts was a feeling than the rest of the week. The heavy, academic pressure lifted, replaced by a frenetic, buzzing energy as hundreds of students realized they had forty-eight hours of freedom.
Vega walked out of the oak doors, the setting sun painting the grounds in bruised purples and blood oranges.
He found the sisters where a message delivered by a terrified fourth year Slytherin had directed him: by the edge of the Black Lake, near a cluster of weeping willows that dipped their branches into the dark water like fingers testing the temperature.
They had created a perimeter of silence around themselves. It was a Black family talent, Vega pondered amusedly, the ability to make the air around you feel so expensive that other people instinctively walked around it.
Bellatrix sat on a large, flat stone, looking out at the water. She was tossing pebbles into the lake, but she wasn't skipping them. She was blasting them. With a flick of her wrist, each stone hit the water and detonated with a small, sharp crack of force, sending geysers of water shooting up.
Narcissa stood nearby, holding a book but watching the castle with a critical eye. Andromeda was leaning against the tree trunk, looking tired.
"The prodigal cousin," Bellatrix drawled without turning around. Crack. Another geyser. "We heard Slughorn caught you. Has he pickled you in a jar yet?"
"He prefers to marinade his investments, Bella," Vega said, approaching the circle. "Tea and crystallized pineapple. The usual bribe."
"He's a leech," Bellatrix spat. She turned, her heavy-lidded eyes flashing. "He collects talent so he can sell it later. He has no loyalty to the Blood. Only to his portfolio of talents."
"He has utility," Narcissa countered smoothly. "And he has the ear of the Minister. Do not be tedious, Bella."
"Walk with us," Andromeda said, stepping away from the tree. She offered Vega a small, tight smile. "Before she blows up the Giant Squid and gets us all detention."
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They walked along the shoreline, away from the castle, toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
The conversation started with the usual pureblood metrics. betrothals, Ministry gossip, the declining standards of the curriculum. But as they walked, the tone shifted.
They passed a group of students sitting on the grass. Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors mixed. Among them was a girl with messy hair and a tie that was crooked, Mary Macdonald. She was laughing loudly, showing a Muggle magazine to a boy who looked confused.
Bellatrix stopped.
The air around her changed. The sharp, jagged electrical charge of her magic spiked. It wasn't just annoyance; it was a physical revulsion, like she had stepped in something rotting.
"Look at them," Bellatrix whispered. Her voice trembled with a suppressed violence. "Animals."
"They are just students, Bella," Andromeda said wearily, as if she had had this conversation a thousand times.
"They are thieves," Bellatrix hissed. She turned to Vega, her face twisted into a mask of beautiful, terrifying fanaticism. "Do you feel it, Vega? The static? The air around them is... dirty. It's coarse."
Vega looked at the group. He activated his blood-sight.
He saw the magic. Bellatrix was right, in a sense. The magic around the Muggle-borns was different. It wasn't the refined, disciplined stream of the purebloods who had been breeding for magical purity for centuries.
It was raw. It was chaotic. It was explosive.
But where Bellatrix saw dirt, Vega saw hybrid vigor.
He remembered his previous life. He remembered the hustle, the noise, the sheer, desperate innovation of a world without wands. These kids had that. They had a magic that hadn't been inbred into stagnation.
"It's unrefined," Vega said carefully, choosing his words like he was defusing a bomb. "But it has volume."
"It's stolen!" Bellatrix snapped. She raised her wand, pointing it at the girl's back from fifty yards away. "They steal the gift from us. They dilute the reservoir. They come here with their mud and their magazines and they act like they belong with us.
Her hand shook. She wanted to cast. She wanted to hurt.
"Bella, put it down," Narcissa said sharply, scanning the grounds for teachers. "This is not the place."
"It is exactly the place," Bellatrix whispered, her eyes burning with a feverish light. "The Dark Lord... he understands. He knows that you cannot have a garden if you do not pull the weeds."
Vega froze.
The Dark Lord?
The title hit him with a jarring note of confusion. He ran a quick mental search through the files Arcturus had made him memorize—the political players, the foreign dignitaries, the ancient threats.
Nothing.
There was no "Dark Lord" in the registry. Grindelwald was locked in Nurmengard. The current political landscape was dominated by Minister Jenkins and the old families.
Who is she talking about? Vega thought, his eyes narrowing. Is this a title? A pseudonym? A cult leader?
"The Dark Lord?" Vega asked, keeping his voice neutral. "I don't recall seeing that name on the Wizengamot roster."
Bellatrix turned to him. Her expression shifted from rage to a beatific, terrifying reverence.
"He does not sit on committees, little Prince," she breathed. "He is above their petty laws. He is the only one strong enough to do what must be done. To cleanse the House. To make us Kings again."
Vega analyzed her face. The dilated pupils. The flushed skin. The absolute conviction.
Fanaticism, he diagnosed. She's not talking about a politician. She's talking about a messiah.
This was dangerous. A new player had entered the board, someone who had already sunk hooks deep into the Black family's most volatile asset, and Vega hadn't even heard a whisper of it until now.
"Cleansing is messy business, Bella," Vega said carefully, stepping between her wand and the oblivious students. "And unknown leaders are... unpredictable variables."
"He is not unknown to those who matter," she snarled, but she lowered her wand slightly. "He offers us a world where we don't have to hide in the dark."
Vega looked back at the girl with the magazine.
"You hate them," Vega observed. "Viscerally."
"I hate the theft," she corrected.
"I don't," Vega said.
The three sisters froze. Even the wind seemed to stop.
"Excuse me?" Narcissa asked, her voice dropping to zero Kelvin.
"I don't hate them," Vega repeated. He looked at the Hufflepuff girl, analyzing her magical core again. "Hate implies fear. Hate implies that they are a threat to my existence."
He turned back to Bellatrix, channeling every ounce of Arcturus's arrogance he could muster.
"I am a Black. I hold the Ring. Why should I care if a field mouse learns to squeak?"
He tapped his temple.
"I look at them and I see... data. I see a different kind of engine. Unrefined? Yes. Ugly? Sometimes. But interesting."
He took a step closer to Bellatrix.
"You want to burn the weeds, Bella. I want to study why they grow so fast. That is the difference between a soldier and a scholar."
Bellatrix stared at him. The wand in her hand lowered completely. The violence in her eyes receded, replaced by a flicker of confusion.
She couldn't process it. She operated on a binary: Purity or Filth. Us or Them.
Vega had just introduced a third option: Specimen.
"You are cold, Vega," she murmured, shaking her head. "Maybe colder than me. But you will learn. Eventually, the weeds choke the roses. And then you have to stop studying and start cutting."
She turned and marched back toward the castle, her black robes billowing like smoke.
Narcissa followed, casting a warning glance at Vega. "Careful, Vega. Neutrality is a dangerous stance. If this... movement... gains traction, you will have to choose a side."
Andromeda lingered for a moment. She looked at the Muggle-borns, then at Vega.
"Who is he?" Andromeda whispered, asking the question Vega was thinking. "This 'Dark Lord' she talks about?"
"I don't know, Andi," Vega admitted, his mind racing. "But Bella speaks of him like a god. And that worries me."
"Why?"
"Because gods demand sacrifices," Vega said grimly.
Andromeda shivered, then turned to follow her sisters.
Vega stood alone by the lake. He watched the Hufflepuff girl turn a page in her magazine.
They have no idea, he thought. No idea that a wolf was standing ten feet away, debating whether to eat them.
His thoughts shifted, A Dark Lord, he thought, touching the cold platinum of the Ring. A shadow player recruiting purebloods. Grandfather didn't warn me about this. Either he doesn't know, or he didn't think it mattered.
Vega looked at the castle, glowing against the night sky.
It matters, Vega decided. Bellatrix is sharp, but she's brittle. If someone has cracked her, they are powerful.
He turned away from the lake. He had a letter to write. And then, he needed to find the library.
Because Vega Black did not like variables he couldn't name.
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Voldemort lurks in the shadows. Vega is trying to figure out what's going on. Hope you guys enjoy this foreshadowing!! Please donate power stones if you think the fic has some potential!!
Let me know what you think!