The death of Walburga Black in 1985 went unnoticed by most. No public mourning, no headlines. Just the silent end of a bitter woman in a crumbling house full of shadows and regret.
For Thomas, though, it was a signal. He didn't fully understand why, but something inside him shifted. A quiet pulse in his veins, like a memory not his own, stirred.
He was seven years old—his sixth year in the orphanage.
In that time, his magical abilities had advanced far beyond what anyone might expect from a child, especially one without a wand. His talent in levitation had evolved to near perfection. Every object he touched bent to his will with discipline and intent. He trained daily, in secret, while others slept or bickered or cried in the dark.
And Alaric was always there, watching him with awe.
They trained together now. Thomas taught him physical discipline first—push-ups, handstands, breathing techniques, control of movement. Alaric struggled at first, but his loyalty made him relentless.
"Come on," Thomas said calmly, watching him sweat. "Again."
"Yes, sir," Alaric replied breathlessly, trembling arms pushing against the cold tile floor. His body screamed, but his eyes never left Thomas.
Their training had moved beyond just magic. Thomas believed strength was more than spells—it was will, control, presence. He had taught Alaric how to disarm an attacker with a twist of the wrist, how to shift weight in a fall, how to move silently and strike quickly.
In their room, they'd cleared space for a makeshift sparring circle. Thomas guided him through knife training using dull wooden replicas he had crafted himself. The rhythm was precise, like a dance. Each movement sharp. Calculated.
Alaric's thoughts, though he never voiced them aloud, swirled with admiration.
He's seven. Same as me. But he moves like a grown man. Like he's done this a thousand times. Like he knows things even adults don't.
To Alaric, Thomas was more than a friend or mentor. He was a symbol of what was possible—someone untouchable, unshakable, unbreakable.
And yet, Thomas rarely smiled. His sense of humor was dry, his words chosen with surgical precision. Alaric had learned to recognize the rare moments of amusement—usually when someone else embarrassed themselves or when Thomas made a biting remark that went over the adults' heads.
But something else had changed.
That day, Thomas stood still in the attic room, eyes closed, breathing slow. He felt it.
A call.
No… a connection.
The death of Walburga had left behind a vacuum in the ancient protective wards tied to the Black bloodline. And it resonated with him. His magic stirred, almost instinctively, reaching for something… someone.
And then, for the first time, he spoke aloud:
"Kreacher."
The name came from deep within, as if it had always been there.
Silence.
Then—pop.
The elf appeared in the corner of the attic, hunched, old, and clutching a filthy cloth. His wide eyes fixed on Thomas, and for a second, he said nothing. Just stared.
Then he knelt. Slowly.
"That call… That magic," he croaked. "It is the same as my master… the same as young Master Regulus."
Thomas narrowed his eyes. His heartbeat remained calm, but inside, the puzzle clicked.
Regulus. It was always him. Not Sirius. Regulus.
He didn't show any emotion. Just nodded once. "You're late."
Kreacher looked up, puzzled. "Master Regulus is gone… You are—?"
"His son."
The elf burst into tears, his body shuddering as he bowed even lower, forehead pressed to the floor.
"My fault, my fault… Kreacher failed him, Kreacher couldn't save him…"
Thomas stepped forward, placed a hand on the elf's shoulder. "He died with honor. And his legacy won't end in that cave."
Kreacher looked up, hope flickering in his eyes. "You know… about the locket?"
"I do. And I know it wasn't destroyed." Thomas's voice was low. Controlled. "But that's not our mission. Not yet."
Kreacher nodded fiercely. "Then we must leave, Master. This place is no home for you."
Thomas looked at Alaric, who stood frozen near the bed.
"He's coming too," Thomas said.
Kreacher hesitated. "But he—"
Thomas's gaze hardened.
"He is my right hand. My brother in all but blood. If I am a Black, so is he. You will respect him."
The elf blinked, then bowed toward Alaric. "As Master commands."
Within an hour, they had packed everything: the wooden knives, the hand-stitched training garments, a torn book of magical theory Thomas had "borrowed" from the local library. Then came the illusion.
Kreacher transformed into a respectable older gentleman with slick hair and a gray suit. With a forged magical document and a Confundus charm on the matron, the adoption process took five minutes.
Nobody questioned it.
With a pop, they vanished from the orphanage and appeared inside Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.
The air was thick with dust and the scent of old parchment. Cobwebs covered the portraits. The chandelier creaked ominously.
Alaric stared around in awe. "This is your house?"
Thomas walked ahead, calm and confident. "No. It's our fortress."
Kreacher led them through the dark halls, pointing out rooms. The grand dining hall. The library. The potions cellar. The ritual chamber.
And then—the training room.
Ancient runes on the walls. Weapons lining the racks. A reinforced floor etched with dueling circles. It had once belonged to the Blacks who believed in combat over politics.
Thomas stepped onto the center ring, removed his coat, and looked at Alaric.
"Ready for the next level?"
Alaric grinned. "Yes, sir."
The two began to spar, Thomas dodging and striking with graceful precision. Alaric was getting better, reading his movements, pushing forward. Laughter echoed once as Thomas tripped him, catching him before he hit the floor.
"Don't anticipate. Read me," Thomas said.
"Yes, sir."
From the hallway, Kreacher watched silently, eyes wide with reverence and nostalgia.
"Just like Master Regulus," he whispered to himself.
That night, Thomas sat at the long dining table, legs crossed, flipping through a book from the family library. Alaric slept upstairs, exhausted.
Kreacher stood nearby, holding a tray with tea.
"I need something," Thomas said without looking up. "A formal robe. For you."
"Master?"
"With the Black crest. You're family now. You serve no other."
Kreacher sniffled again. "Yes, Master Thomas. Right away."
As the elf vanished with a pop, Thomas leaned back in the chair.
The house was his now.
The legacy of the Blacks was no longer dying.
It was being reborn—in silence, in discipline, in shadow.