Chapter 3
The dim glow of a single overhead bulb flickered as David Calloway stepped into the cargo hold, clipboard in hand. The air smelled of salt, damp wood, and machine oil, the ever-present hum of the ship’s engine vibrating through the metal floor beneath his boots. It was just another routine inventory check, nothing out of the ordinary—except for the noise.
A soft, rhythmic hissing echoed through the cavernous space.
David frowned, pausing mid-step.
Snakes? Here?
That was impossible. The hold had been secured, the cargo checked before departure. There weren’t supposed to be any animals on board, let alone something that hissed like…
He moved cautiously, weaving through stacked crates and barrels, his pulse picking up slightly as the sound grew clearer. It wasn’t just hissing—it was melodic, almost like… a lullaby?
Then he saw it.
Curled in the shadows of the farthest corner was the largest snake he had ever seen. Its scales gleamed in the dim light, patterned in a dark, almost hypnotic pattern. But what stole the breath from his lungs was the sight of the tiny sleeping baby nestled safely within its coils.
The child—no older than a year—was completely at ease, his little chest rising and falling steadily, his fingers curled into tiny fists against the serpent’s smooth scales. And the snake…
The snake was singing to him.
Not in any way David had ever heard before, but the hissing tones had a strange, eerie cadence to them, almost as if they carried words.
"Sleep, little one, safe in my coils," the serpent whispered in its foreign, sibilant language. "No harm will come, no fear shall wake you. The stars watch above, and I watch below…"
David’s breath caught in his throat.
He took an unconscious step backward, the clipboard nearly slipping from his grasp. His mind struggled to process what he was seeing. This—this wasn’t normal. This was something out of a fever dream, something that didn’t belong in the rational world he knew.
The snake’s head lifted slightly.
Golden eyes met his.
David felt something cold crawl up his spine, an ancient, predatory intelligence staring through him, assessing, measuring.
Then, before he could react, before his mind could scream at him to run, something shifted.
A whisper of magic swept over him like a tide, warm and suffocating.
“Obliviate.”
His vision swam—
—and then he blinked.
He stood alone in the cargo hold.
The crates were undisturbed. The floor was empty.
There was no snake. No baby.
Just silence.
David frowned, glancing at his clipboard. Why had he come back here again? Something had drawn his attention, hadn’t it?
His head ached faintly.
Shaking off the strange fog creeping at the edges of his thoughts, he muttered a curse under his breath and turned on his heel, heading back toward the exit. He had an inventory check to finish.
Whatever it was that had distracted him, it clearly hadn’t been important.
“Probably drank too much of Derak’s homemade whiskey last night, ugh.” He muttered to himself.
The warm coastal air carried the scent of salt and spice as the ship docked in Mumbai’s bustling harbor. Muggle workers moved about the docks with routine efficiency, unloading cargo and shouting instructions over the hum of machinery. To the average observer, it was just another freighter arriving from Europe, another transaction in the endless flow of goods that passed through the city’s ports.
But to the Aurors of the Mumbai Department of Magical Law Enforcement, this ship was a puzzle wrapped in magic.
Auror Inspector Rajat Singh adjusted his long, dark coat, his sharp eyes scanning the ship with trained precision. Magic lingered here, faint but undeniable, whispering through the air like an unfinished spell. He didn’t like it. Magic left traces, and in India, unexplained magic often meant trouble.
Behind him, Agent Aradhya Patel examined the ship’s manifest, flipping through the pages with quick efficiency. “Cargo is standard,” she murmured. “No magical items listed. No records of wizarding passengers. By all accounts, this is an ordinary Muggle ship.”
“Except it isn’t,” Rajat said dryly, his fingers twitching toward his wand. “You feel it too.”
The third member of their team, Priya Malhotra, frowned as she closed her eyes, reaching out with her own magic. She shivered. “There was a spell here. Strong, but… not recent. It’s faded, but powerful.”
Rajat sighed, rubbing his temple. “And the source?”
Priya shook her head. “Unclear. Whatever it was, it was done carefully—whoever cast it knew what they were doing.”
Aradhya lowered the manifest, glancing up at the ship with a wary expression. “The real question is why? Why use magic on a Muggle vessel? What was being hidden?”
They had only just started their investigation, yet the situation was already raising more questions than answers.
A quiet ahem drew their attention to Aditya Banerjee, the ship’s assigned Muggle Liaison. Unlike the rest of them, he wasn’t in Auror robes, instead dressed in well-fitted Muggle attire. His job was simple: communicate with the Muggles in a way that didn’t immediately terrify them.
“Well?” Rajat asked, crossing his arms.
Banerjee adjusted his glasses. “I spoke to the crew. Only one reported anything unusual—David Calloway, a cargo inspector. He claims he thought he heard something strange in the hold a few nights ago. Something like… hissing.”
“Hissing?” Priya repeated, brows furrowing. “Like… a Parselmouth?”
“Unclear,” Banerjee admitted. “His memory of the event is odd. He doesn’t recall seeing anything, but he remembers being startled for some reason. It’s like he had a passing moment of fear but can’t place why.”
Rajat and Aradhya exchanged looks.
“Obliviation?” Aradhya asked, her voice tense.
Banerjee hesitated. “Possibly, but if so, it was subtle. Not the usual Western hack-job where they slice a memory clean out.” His lips curled slightly in distaste. “His recollection feels more like… a confused dream. A foggy moment of drunken imagination rather than outright erasure.”
The three Aurors scowled.
The Indian magical community did not use Obliviation as casually as the rest of the wizarding world. They never had. The spell was known for its dangers—too many castings, and a person’s mind would begin to break, leaving holes where memories should have been. Repeated exposure caused irreversible damage, something that many foreign Ministries ignored in favor of secrecy.
India’s approach had always been different. Their magical society coexisted with Muggles more openly, subtly influencing legends, traditions, and beliefs rather than outright erasing knowledge. If a Muggle ever saw something they shouldn’t, it was far safer to adjust the context of a memory rather than rip it out entirely.
Whatever had happened to this man, it was done with precision—not the blunt force method typical of European wizards.
“Someone was hiding something,” Priya murmured, her dark eyes thoughtful. “And they were very careful about it.”
Rajat exhaled through his nose, his instincts on high alert. “A Parselmouth, a skilled caster, and an unknown magical presence on a Muggle ship. This is bigger than a simple smuggling case.”
Aradhya nodded. “What’s our next step?”
Rajat’s gaze flickered over the ship one last time before settling on the vast, sprawling city beyond the docks.
“Find out who used magic here. And why.”
Sirius Black stepped out of the interrogation room, rolling his stiff shoulders as if shaking off the weight of the last several hours. His throat was dry from talking, his head ached from the lingering effects of Veritaserum, but he was free.
He had proven his innocence.
Peter was in chains, his pathetic excuses dismissed under the weight of irrefutable truth. The Aurors had confirmed that Peter had been the Potters’ Secret Keeper, and under the serum, he had confessed to everything. The traitor would be sent to Azkaban, where he belonged, and Sirius would not.
Yet, despite his victory, he felt no relief.
Harry was missing.
The thought gnawed at him, an unbearable weight settling in his chest. He had failed his godson once by not being there when he needed him most. He wouldn’t fail him again.
“Sirius Black?”
He turned sharply, his wand hand twitching out of habit, but it was only a Ministry clerk, a young witch holding out a parchment envelope. No Ministry seal—Gringotts.
“A letter came for you,” she said, shifting nervously under his gaze.
Frowning, he took the envelope, breaking the seal with one quick motion.
To Sirius Orion Black,
You are summoned to Gringotts at the earliest possible convenience. Head of House Arcturus Black requires your presence.
This is not a request.
Gringotts London Branch
Sirius stared at the parchment. His grandfather, Arcturus Black, was summoning him? The last time they had spoken was years ago, before Sirius had stormed out of Grimmauld Place for good. Arcturus had never seemed overly interested in his rebellious grandson—he had tolerated Sirius’s defiance in the way one might tolerate an amusing inconvenience.
Why summon him now?
More importantly—did Arcturus know something about Harry?
Shoving the letter into his coat, Sirius turned on his heel, marching toward the Ministry’s floo network. Whatever the old man wanted, he’d find out soon enough.
The goblins at the entrance barely spared him a glance as Sirius strode through the marble halls, his boots clicking against the polished floors. He was immediately escorted to a private meeting chamber, a heavy iron door closing behind him with a dull thud.
At the far end of the room, seated in a high-backed chair, was Arcturus Black.
The old man had aged since Sirius had last seen him, his once dark hair now a silvery white, his sharp aristocratic features lined with age. But his presence was as formidable as ever—his piercing grey eyes held all the weight of a man who had spent a lifetime maneuvering the labyrinthine politics of the Black family.
“Sirius,” Arcturus greeted, his voice crisp, cool, and completely unreadable. “Sit.”
Sirius crossed his arms. “I wasn’t aware we were still on speaking terms, Grandfather.”
A flicker of amusement crossed Arcturus’s face before it was gone. “You assume I summoned you for your benefit,” he said dryly. “Sit down, boy.”
Sirius clenched his jaw but sat.
The moment he did, Arcturus pushed a document across the table. Sirius glanced at it—and froze.
His name was there, written in official Black family parchment. Sirius Orion Black—Heir to the House of Black.
“What the hell is this?” Sirius snapped, shoving the paper back. “I was disowned. Remember? Dear old Mum blasted me right off the tapestry.”
Arcturus exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “Your mother,” he said, voice edged with condescension, “was never the Head of the House of Black. She had no legal authority to disown you.” He gave Sirius a withering look. “Only the Head can name an Heir. I am the Head. And I am naming you.”
Sirius opened his mouth—then closed it.
Because as much as he hated to admit it… Arcturus was right.
The Black family wasn’t just a name—it was an institution, governed by laws older than the Ministry itself. Walburga might have been a raving lunatic, but she had never held the power she thought she did.
And now, Arcturus was making his position very clear.
Sirius let out a short, humorless laugh. “You’ve got to be joking. Me? Heir to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black?” He gestured at himself. “Do I look like someone who gives a damn about family politics?”
Arcturus gave him a measured look. “No. And that is precisely why I am choosing you.”
Sirius blinked.
“I am dying, Sirius,” Arcturus said bluntly. “It will not be this year, perhaps not even the next—but I am old, and my time is ending.” His fingers tapped against the polished wood of the table. “I have no suitable successor. You will take my place.”
Sirius scowled. “Regulus is still alive.”
“Regulus is dead,” Arcturus countered sharply. “Or as good as. He disappeared months ago, and I highly doubt he will return.” His eyes gleamed. “That leaves you.”
Sirius’s stomach twisted, but he shoved the feeling aside. Regulus had made his choices. If he was truly gone… that was on him.
He exhaled through his nose. “Why should I care? What’s in this for me?”
Arcturus’s lips curled. “Harry.”
Sirius stilled.
Arcturus leaned forward, voice quiet but firm. “Harry Potter is Dorea Potter née Black’s grandson. My grandson.” His grey eyes were sharp. “You think I would not have a vested interest in his well-being?”
Sirius clenched his fists. He had forgotten. His grandmother, Dorea, had been Arcturus’s sister.
Harry was Black blood.
“I will not have my great-nephew lost to history,” Arcturus continued. “Nor will I allow you to fail him.”
Sirius’s jaw tightened. “I’m already looking for him.”
“You’ll need resources to do that properly.” Arcturus gestured to the document between them. “Sign, and you’ll have them.”
Sirius hesitated.
Everything in him screamed to refuse, to tell his grandfather to go to hell. He had spent years running from the Black family, from the expectations, the traditions, the chains.
But this wasn’t about him.
This was about Harry.
And Arcturus Black, for all his cunning, all his ruthlessness, was right.
If Sirius wanted to find his godson, to keep him safe, to ensure that no one ever took him away again—he needed power.
And the Black name? It had power.
He grabbed the quill.
And signed.