September 6, 1969The Study, Number 12, Grimmauld Place, London
Arcturus Black sat beneath the oppressive portraits of his ancestors, the shadows of the study doing little to soften the heavy silence that defined Grimmauld Place. He was reviewing a complex, multi-generation contract concerning the Black estate's holdings in France, a document that required an absurd amount of concentration, but his focus was fractured. The cause was simple: the lack of a proper letter from Vega. The school had provided the standard weekly report, a desiccated list of academic achievements—Oustandings across the board—but these data points told him nothing of the boy himself, nothing of the heir's mind at work.
Kreacher, with a quiet cough of a pop that disturbed the dust motes but little else, arrived with the morning post. The stack was its usual medley of administrative drudgery and high-stakes financial correspondence. At the very top, however, lay a letter of heavy, creamy stationery, sealed with a simple, elegant wax impression of a raven—Vega's chosen, youthful crest. It was a seal of pretense and flair, a perfect reflection of the child's evolving public image.
Arcturus set down his quill. He didn't rush. He picked up the letter, turning it over once in his hand, feeling the thickness of the paper, a quality he had specifically instructed the boy to use. He didn't break the seal with a crude movement or a dramatic gesture. Instead, he simply pressed his thumb and forefinger against the wax, sending a focused, silent trickle of internal magic into the material. The seal melted, reforming into a liquid film that peeled away from the parchment, dissolving the barrier without a sound.
He unfolded the lengthy, heavily-inscribed paper. The script was a confident, flowing hand, perfected over years of tutoring, but imbued now with a distinct, almost lyrical rhythm that spoke of a pleasant disposition. Arcturus began to read.
Grandfather,
I hope this letter finds you well and that the French property issue is proving to be less tedious than I suspect. I often find myself thinking of the way the air in the Study compresses, the wards a living thing around us, and I find a certain quiet comfort in that memory. Hogwarts is many things—a glorious ruin, a hive of emerging political currents, and a remarkable, living museum of magical history—but it is not quiet. I suspect it may never be.
I have settled into the dungeons. The atmosphere is, predictably, conducive to a certain sort of ambition. I find that Slytherin, beyond the predictable posturing, is an excellent environment for study. It is a place where one learns, very quickly, that every interaction is a negotiation, and every alliance is an investment. It is not the savage den of vipers that Mother occasionally described, but a rather well-organized mechanism of self-advancement. The students here understand that their family names are not crowns, but tools, and they are learning, with varying degrees of success, how to wield them.
You requested a detailed account of my primary magical studies, and I am happy to oblige. The curriculum here, I am pleased to say, is substantially more rigorous than the home tutelage, simply due to the sheer variety of magic on display.n
Professor McGonagall's class has immediately captured my attention. Transfiguration, fundamentally, is the magic of elemental control—not merely changing one object into another, but understanding the essence of both. The raw magical power required is substantial, but the precision necessary to avoid disaster is the true craft. I believe this discipline is, for me, more than just a course of study; it is an exercise in self-control and applied theory of the highest order. It is, perhaps, the closest I will come here to understanding the principle of my own nature.
My initial practical exercise—transfiguring a simple matchstick into a needle—was illuminating. The initial attempts by many of my classmates resulted in either nothing or, more commonly, a half-formed, hybrid object: a matchstick with a needle's point, or a needle of charred wood. The magic was there, the intent was present, but the conceptual definition was lacking. The difficulty lies not in the want to change it, but in the complete, flawless visualization of the new object's fundamental truth. The perfect needle is not simply thin and metallic; it is defined by its ability to pierce and its role in weaving. It is an instrument of delicate penetration and structure.
When I finally succeeded, it was not through brute force, but through a conscious relaxation of the internal pressure, much as you taught me with the subtle control of my own abilities. I allowed the energy to flow, and for a brief moment, held the concept of wood and the concept of steel in perfect, opposing clarity in my mind, and let the magic fill the void between them. The resulting needle was, I am told, flawless. I received full marks. McGonagall is an exceptional practitioner, possessing a flint-like precision that is entirely admirable. She is not easily impressed, which makes her approval all the more valuable.
The theoretical aspects are more fascinating still. The principles of Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration—specifically the exceptions—are tied to a metaphysical understanding of creation that feels profoundly ancient. If we cannot fully create life, or food from thin air, or gold, what does that say about the limits of the human (or wizard) will?
Charms is a subject I find possesses a great deal more charm, pardon the pun, than is given credit for. The work of Professor Flitwick is excellent, focused on the efficient and elegant application of incantation and wand movement. While Transfiguration is about change, Charms is about influence—imparting a temporary, focused will upon an object without fundamentally altering its nature. It is the magic of suggestion and enhancement, which, in the social sphere, is perhaps the most useful magic of all.
Our initial spell was the Wingardium Leviosa. Again, the class was a study in human error. The simple, rhythmic 'swish and flick' is easy enough to replicate, yet most struggled. They focused on the lifting, the sheer force, which is the incorrect approach. The proper execution, as I demonstrated, is to visualize the reduction of weight to the point of near-zero, and then guide the object with the lightness of a whisper. It is a conversation with the object's molecular structure, not a command.
Flitwick, to his credit, understands this distinction perfectly. He is a small man with a deceptively large magical reservoir, and his lectures on the subtle nuances of Latin phrasing and wand-wood resonance are excellent. He treats the classroom like a laboratory of applied linguistics and physics, not merely a preparatory course for the OWL examinations. He is a master of applied grace, and I respect his dedication to the subtle art of the craft.
Potions is taught by Professor Slughorn. I have taken your lessons to heart: one should never judge a book by its gilded cover, especially when that book is bound in velvet and prone to collecting particularly influential students. Slughorn is, by all accounts, an extraordinarily accomplished Potion Master. His history in the field is impressive, and his knowledge of rare and dangerous ingredients is encyclopedic. He is a man who understands that the difference between an antidote and a poison is often a single, almost imperceptible drop, and that kind of precision requires a lifetime of dedication. His skill is undeniable.
He is, however, also deeply human—a man who cherishes nostalgia and the anticipation of future greatness. He collects people with the same focused, appreciative air that he collects rare crystal vials. I find his 'Slughorn's Gatherings' to be an amusing social experiments. He is building a network of future power brokers, a subtle, long-term political arrangement disguised as a dinner party.
Slughorn is a valuable resource, and I intend to treat him with the respect and sincerity his professional standing merits.
My cousins are, as ever, their own unique spectacle of the family's more theatrical elements. I see them regularly in the common room and in the hallways. Observing them provides a continuous, valuable education in the various facets of our lineage.
Narcissa is already cultivated an aura of untouchable, almost bored perfection. She watches the social hierarchy with an almost mercenary focus, aligning herself only with those she deems appropriate future allies—currently, the Malfoy boy, Abraxas's son, seems to be her focus. Her ambition is quiet, expressed not through words, but through association.
Andromeda remains the quiet center, the unlit candle. She is, I believe, the most intelligent of the three, possessing a sharp, almost cynical eye that misses nothing. She avoids the political fray with a quiet determination, immersing herself in the less glamorous studies, particularly Ancient Runes. She appears to find the theatrics of the common room tiresome.
Bellatrix, as I must now report, is an entirely different issue. She is not quiet. She is a storm, Grandfather. Her presence in the common room is a disruptive force, a constant, aggressive buzzing of restless, unchanneled power. She seeks conflict not for a strategic end, but for the sheer visceral pleasure of the fight. Her recent obsession with the theoretical return of a 'Dark Lord' is, frankly, alarming.
She speaks of him in hushed, reverent tones, a misplaced religious fervor that I have only ever seen in the most ancient portraits in the Drawing Room at Grimmauld Place. She is gathering a small, volatile coterie of like-minded students, mostly those with a deep insecurity they mask with aggressive posturing. Their goal is not to preserve the old world, but to burn the new one. It is a philosophy driven entirely by emotion, by a kind of panicked, hysterical nostalgia that I find repugnant. She presents a terrifyingly potent combination of considerable raw magical power and a complete lack of philosophical direction.
This leads me to the crux of my concern, Grandfather. Who is this figure? The zeal he inspires is palpable, even among the older students who should know better. They treat his name—or lack thereof—with a deference that is entirely disproportionate to any tangible action he has taken. He is an unknown quantity, a variable that is gaining weight and mass daily. I have begun a systematic, discreet effort to trace the core of his influence—the specific rhetoric, the immediate goals, and most importantly, the psychological vulnerabilities he is exploiting in the student body.
He may be, as you once taught me, merely a passing phenomenon, an 'ill-advised mushroom' that will wither under the light. But his ability to galvanize the most unstable elements of our society—those with power, but no control—makes him a dangerous kind of fool. We must know the architect of this zealotry. I cannot afford to be studying the subtle mechanics of Charms if the foundations of our world are being eroded by an uncontrolled political fire in the common room.
Please advise on the extent of his current reach within the adult political sphere. Any data you can discreetly provide would be of immense value to my ongoing assessment.
I send my sincerest, most affectionate regards to Mother. Please tell her the school cuisine is entirely too bland, and I look forward to the next shipment of house-made biscuits. I remain committed to making you proud.
Your devoted Heir,
— Vega Arcturus Black
P.S. On a final note, one of the portraits in the Slytherin common room is remarkably well-preserved. It is a portrait of a Black ancestor, a man named Corvus, who appears to have been a rather prolific alchemist in the 17th century. I have noticed a subtle, shimmering effect around the gilt frame, particularly when a student of potent elemental magic walks by. I believe there may be a dormant enchantment there, perhaps keyed to the bloodline. I will continue to observe it. A minor curiosity, but a charming one.