𝐈𝐍 𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐎 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐒

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 buzzed with the news of the Dark Lord’s defeat, a monumental event that rippled through every corner of the wizarding community. The anticipation had been for a legendary duel between Gellert Grindelwald and Albus Dumbledore, a battle many thought would decide the fate of the wizarding world. Instead, witnesses recounted an astonishing tale of an unknown boy who quite literally fell from the sky.

On that fateful day, the air was thick with tension as wizards and witches from opposing factions stood on edge, their wands at the ready, eyes fixed on the two titans poised for battle. The gathering clouds above mirrored the brewing storm below, casting an ominous shadow over the scene. The ground was charged with magic, a palpable energy that crackled in the anticipation of the duel.

As Grindelwald and Dumbledore squared off, all eyes were drawn upward by a sudden, inexplicable disturbance. From the heavens, a figure plummeted, descending rapidly until he landed amidst the crowd with a thud that echoed like thunder. The boy appeared bewildered, his eyes wide with confusion, as if he had been uprooted from another world entirely.

The crowd gasped, a collective intake of breath, as Grindelwald, ever the opportunist, seized the moment. With a flick of his wand, he unleashed the most feared curse in the wizarding world. The green light of the Killing Curse shot towards the boy, but with a reflexive agility that seemed instinctual, the boy evaded it, moving with a speed and precision that defied belief.

What followed was a duel unlike any other. The boy, seemingly fueled by an unknown force, engaged Grindelwald with a ferocity that was as mesmerizing as it was terrifying. Sparks flew as their wands clashed, the air around them shimmering with raw power. Those watching could barely follow the rapid exchange of spells, each more dangerous than the last.

The boy's magic was dark, a shadowy force that twisted and coiled like a living entity. It was unlike anything the onlookers had ever witnessed, an ancient, primal energy that seemed to draw from the depths of the earth itself. His spells were not just incantations but manifestations of a deeper, darker power, each one echoing with the weight of forgotten secrets.

Despite Grindelwald's formidable prowess, he was driven back, step by step, his defenses crumbling under the relentless assault. The boy moved with a grace that was almost otherworldly, his every motion a dance of shadows and light. It was as if the very air around him bent to his will, shaping itself to aid in his battle.

Finally, with a swift, decisive maneuver, the boy disarmed Grindelwald, sending his wand spiraling into the air before catching it with an outstretched hand. The crowd watched in stunned silence as the notorious dark wizard fell, his body hitting the ground with a finality that seemed to echo through the ages.

The boy stood over Grindelwald’s unconscious form, his breath ragged, shoulders heaving with exertion. For a moment, he remained there, a solitary figure silhouetted against the darkening sky, before his strength gave way. He collapsed to his knees, the toll of the duel finally catching up with him.

In the aftermath, chaos reigned as Grindelwald was swiftly apprehended, his defeat marking a pivotal turn in history. He was escorted to Nurmengard, his fortress turned prison, while the boy was gently lifted and taken to St. Mungo's Hospital. There, he lay in a deep, unyielding sleep, his identity as mysterious as his arrival.

The wizarding world was left to ponder the enigma of the boy who fell from the sky, his dark magic a lingering question without an answer. Whispers of his power and the duel's spectacle would echo through the annals of history, a testament to a day when the unpredictable shaped the course of destiny.

In the days following the extraordinary event, the wizarding world was abuzz with speculation. The mysterious boy who had descended from the sky, vanquishing Gellert Grindelwald, was on everyone’s lips. Yet, despite the fervor and fascination, not a single soul could identify him. This enigma, dubbed “The Heavenly Savior" for his celestial arrival, captivated the public's imagination, but left the more astute and calculating individuals, like Tom Riddle, deeply unsettled.

For Tom Riddle, a seventh-year student at Hogwarts and a master of manipulation, this unknown variable was unacceptable. In the grand chess game of life, he had always prided himself on anticipating every move, controlling the board with precision. Yet now, a new piece had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, disrupting the careful balance he had cultivated.

The Knights of Walpurgis, Tom’s inner circle, were tasked with uncovering any information about the enigmatic figure. They scoured every source, interviewed every witness, and sifted through countless rumors. The only clue they could find was the boy's striking resemblance to the House of Black, one of the most noble and ancient families in the wizarding world. His dark curls, pale ivory complexion, sharp aristocratic features, and piercing grey eyes were all hallmarks of this illustrious lineage.

Despite this lead, the House of Black themselves were perplexed. Even the heir himself confided in Tom that no one in his lineage knew of this boy's existence. It was as if a chess piece had been conjured onto the board without any origin or rightful place, defying the rules of the game.

Tom's mind was a labyrinth of strategies and contingencies. He thrived on control and foresight, each decision calculated like a chess move, always several steps ahead. This boy, however, was an unpredictable player, a wildcard that threatened to upend everything. Tom envisioned the chessboard where he was both king and strategist, each piece representing an asset or a threat. The mysterious boy was a rogue knight, capable of unexpected maneuvers, disrupting the established order.

The uncertainty gnawed at Tom, a constant itch he couldn’t scratch. He prowled the corridors of Hogwarts, his mind whirring with possibilities and potential threats. The boy's presence was an anomaly that needed to be resolved, a puzzle piece that didn’t fit yet held the potential to alter the entire picture.

Tom’s paranoia grew, his mind like a chess player surveying the board, constantly reevaluating his next move. He studied the House of Black with renewed interest, probing for secrets, looking for any sign of hidden alliances or forgotten branches of their family tree. The boy's appearance and actions had implications, ripples that could extend far beyond the immediate chaos.

As days turned into weeks, the mystery deepened. The boy remained unconscious at St. Mungo’s, his identity as elusive as ever. Tom’s frustration mounted, his patience wearing thin. To him, every unknown was a threat, every unsolved mystery a challenge to his authority and intellect.

In the quiet moments, Tom pondered the broader implications. If this boy could appear from nowhere and wield such power, what else lay beyond his sight, waiting to emerge and challenge his dominion? The thought was unsettling, a reminder that even the most skilled chess player could be taken by surprise.

Yet, amidst the uncertainty, Tom's resolve hardened. He would uncover the truth, no matter the cost. The chessboard was vast, and the game was far from over. The arrival of this mysterious boy was but one move in a larger, more intricate game. Tom was determined to master it, to ensure that when the final pieces fell, he would be the one left standing, victorious and unchallenged.

As Tom sat at the head of the long, polished table, his presence commanding and enigmatic. Around him, his most trusted allies, the Knights of Walpurgis, were engaged in a hushed discussion.

Abraxas Malfoy, with his sleek blond hair and aristocratic demeanor, leaned back in his chair, his eyes sharp and calculating. Felix Rosier, dark-haired and intense, tapped his fingers rhythmically on the table, a habit that betrayed his impatience. Cyrus Lestrange, tall and imposing, watched the proceedings with a quiet, almost predatory interest. Corban Yaxley, with his heavy brow and stern expression, crossed his arms, exuding an air of stoic authority. Thaddeus Nott, slender and observant, listened intently, his gaze shifting between the speakers.

Tom addressed them with measured words, his voice smooth and authoritative. "Our influence within the Ministry is growing, but we must remain vigilant. The unexpected can always disrupt our plans."

As he spoke, the heavy oak door burst open, slamming against the wall. Orion Black, his usually composed demeanor replaced with urgency, strode into the room. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, and his eyes blazed with intensity. In his hand, he clutched a letter, the Black family crest visible on the seal.

"Gentlemen.” Orion began, his voice cutting through the murmur of conversation. “I have news that demands our immediate attention."

The room fell silent, all eyes on Orion as he unfolded the letter. Tom’s interest piqued, his mind racing as he anticipated the revelation.

"This letter—“ Orion continued. “—is from my father. It concerns the boy—the one who fell from the sky."

Tom leaned forward, his fingers steepled, eyes narrowing with intrigue. "Go on, Orion."

Orion took a deep breath, the weight of his words hanging in the air. "The boy has awoken. He claims to be a Black.”

A ripple of shock passed through the room. Abraxas exchanged a glance with Felix, while Cyrus raised an eyebrow, intrigued. Corban and Thaddeus remained silent, absorbing the revelation.

Abraxas looked at him. “And how does your father respond to this claim?”

“He went to see the boy himself.” Orion replied, his voice tight with emotion. “The boy... he’s my brother.”

A murmur swept through the room, a ripple of disbelief and curiosity.

“Your brother?” Felix echoed, leaning forward. “How is that possible?”

Orion glanced at the letter, his expression conflicted. “The boy is a product of an affair my father had year ago in France. It happened years ago, during a time when my parents were... having difficulties.”

Felix spoke up, his tone skeptical. “And you’re certain of this, Orion? Your father is convinced?”

Orion nodded firmly. “Father wouldn’t lie about something like this. He’s acknowledged the boy as his son.”

Tom leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with intense interest. “His name?”

Orion met Tom’s gaze, the weight of the revelation heavy in the air. “Regulus Arcturus Black II.”

The name hung in the air, a revelation that shifted the dynamics of the room. Tom committed it to memory, the name echoing in his mind.

“Regulus.” Tom repeated softly, almost to himself, the syllables rolling off his tongue with a sense of fascination.

He committed the name to memory, a new piece to add to his intricate puzzle. The room buzzed with speculation, but Tom remained silent, lost in thought. He envisioned Regulus, piecing together the details from Orion’s description, his own imagination, and memories of the appearances of the members of the House of Black.

He pictured the boy’s dark curls, the way they might fall over a pale, aristocratic face. With grey eyes, sharp and piercing, like windows to a soul touched by both shadow and light. Tom imagined Regulus during his duel with Grindelwald, moving with an elegance that belied his youth, his magic a dark, swirling force that captivated all who witnessed it.

“Do you think he’s as beautiful as they say?” Felix’s voice broke into Tom’s reverie, echoing his own silent wonderings.

Tom didn’t answer immediately, his mind still painting images of Regulus. He imagined how the boy’s presence might command a room, how his magic might feel—powerful, magnetic, a force that drew others in even as it repelled them.

“Father says he resembles our family, a Black through and through.” Orion answered.

Tom’s curiosity deepened. This wasn’t just about a new player on the board—it was about understanding the nature of the boy who had disrupted his careful plans. Regulus Arcturus Black II was more than just a name. He was a mystery wrapped in power, a potential ally or adversary in Tom’s ever-expanding game.

The meeting continued, but Tom’s thoughts lingered on Regulus. He was determined to meet the boy, to see for himself what kind of wizard could fall from the sky and change the course of history. In his mind, the chessboard expanded, and Tom knew he had to be ready for whatever move Regulus might make next.

𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 slanted through the narrow window, casting harsh beams across the sterile room. Regulus stirred, a low groan escaping his lips as the light pierced his eyelids. He squinted against the brightness, a hiss slipping out as he struggled to sit up, every muscle protesting from exhaustion. His mind was a whirlwind of fragmented memories, chaotic and disjointed.

The last thing he recalled was the sensation of falling, the world spinning around him as he dueled someone trying to kill him. There had been a fierce exchange of spells, a desperate dance of survival, and then—nothing. A void filled with the echo of his own heartbeat, driven by days without food, water, or rest. His body had finally succumbed to the relentless pull of fatigue and magic.

Now he found himself in a room that smelled faintly of antiseptic, the unmistakable scent of St. Mungo’s Hospital. The crisp, white hospital robes he wore were a stark contrast to the dark, elegant attire he was accustomed to. A sense of vulnerability crept in, mingling with his natural pride, as he took in his surroundings.

His gaze fell to his arm, and a familiar dread pooled in his stomach. The Dark Mark, a symbol of his past choices and allegiances, remained etched into his skin. It was a constant reminder of the path he had walked, one that had led him to both power and peril. He was surprised, perhaps even relieved, that he hadn’t been whisked away to Azkaban. Yet, the reprieve felt temporary, a fragile moment of calm before the inevitable storm.

Regulus lay back against the pillows, the cool fabric brushing against his skin. His mind, teetering on the brink of insanity, was a battlefield of conflicting thoughts. The dark magic he had once wielded with such confidence now left a lingering stain, warping his perceptions and feeding his growing instability. He felt the edges of his sanity fraying, a testament to the infamous madness that lurked in his bloodline.

As the door swung open with a gentle creak, and a nurse stepped in, her presence heralded by the soft rustle of her uniform. Regulus blinked, taking in her attire—a style distinctly different from what he remembered. It was more formal, crisp, with a touch of vintage elegance that seemed out of place in his memory of St. Mungo’s.

Before he could voice the question burning in his mind about the whereabouts of his wand, she offered a warm smile. “We’re all relieved to see you awake.” She said, her voice soothing and melodic. “There are some people who’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Regulus stiffened, his mind immediately jumping to the worst conclusion. Surely, they were here to interrogate him about Voldemort, to pry into the shadows of his past allegiances.

But the nurse continued, her words taking a direction he hadn’t anticipated. “Everyone’s curious about you—the boy who fell from the heavens and defeated Grindelwald.”

Regulus’s heart skipped a beat, disbelief flooding his senses. Grindelwald? That couldn’t be right. He knew the history—Dumbledore had defeated Grindelwald in 1949. The timeline didn’t fit, unless...

FUCK!

A dawning realization swept over him, pieces of the puzzle clicking into place with an almost audible snap. He had somehow traveled through time, falling into an era not his own, and in the chaos, he had accidentally taken down the Gellert Grindelwald.

His mind raced, grappling with the enormity of it all. The exhaustion, the duel, the strange turn of events—it all made a twisted sort of sense now. He had been flung into a past not meant for him, and in doing so, had altered the course of history.

"You must be mistaken.” He managed, his voice a strained whisper.

The nurse shook her head gently. "There were witness to this event yet no one knows your name. We've tried to identify you, but..."

Her words trailed off, leaving Regulus to grapple with the realization that clawed at his sanity—or what is left of it that is.

"Are you alright?" She asked, her brow creasing with concern.

"I—" Regulus swallowed hard, the weight of the truth pressing down on him. "I need a moment alone."

The nurse hesitated, her eyes searching his face, and then nodded. "Of course. I'll be right outside if you need anything."

As the door clicked shut, the silence of the room closed in on him. Regulus' composure began to unravel, his mind spiraling into chaos. The sterile walls seemed to close in, the air growing thick and suffocating.

He paced the room, each step a restless echo of his turbulent thoughts. The implications of his situation were staggering. The world knew him not as Regulus Black, but as some savior.

His hands trembled as he ran them through his hair, the strands slipping through his fingers like sand. He was trapped in a past that wasn't his, a timeline tangled by his unintended arrival. The notion of having altered history, of stepping into a role he had never sought, was a heavy cloak that threatened to smother him.

Regulus paused by the window, the sunlight now a muted glow, casting long shadows that danced across the floor. His mind flickered to thoughts of home, of the time he knew. He thought of the choices that had led him here, each decision a thread in the tapestry of his life, now unraveling before him.

Yet, Regulus was nothing if not resourceful. Drawing a deep breath, he steeled himself against the storm raging in his mind. He would play the role fate had thrust upon him, using every ounce of cunning and intelligence he possessed.

He turned from the window, his resolve firming. He would uncover the truth of his situation, and if need be, find a way back to his own time. Until then, he would wear this new identity as he wore all things—with elegance and purpose.

As the nurse re-entered, Regulus straightened, his expression once more a mask of composed dignity. The questions would come, and he would face them, weaving his answers with the eloquence and charm that were his birthright.

"Thank you for waiting.” He said smoothly, meeting her gaze with a steady calm. "I'm ready to answer your questions now."

The nurse returned with a group of men, their expressions a mix of authority and curiosity. They stepped into the room, each carrying an air of importance. Regulus observed them keenly, his mind already calculating the best approach to navigate this delicate situation.

One of the men, a tall figure with sharp eyes, stepped forward. "Good afternoon. I am Inspector Caldwell. We have a few questions for you."

Regulus composed himself, exuding an air of confidence. "Regulus.” He replied smoothly, omitting his surname with deliberate intent.

Caldwell's gaze sharpened. "Regulus Black, by any chance?"

Regulus arched an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "Why would you think I'm a Black?"

The inspector exchanged a glance with his colleagues before responding. "You were wearing the signet and heir rings of the House of Black when you arrived. They were the only means we had to identify you."

Suppressing a curse, Regulus' mind raced. He needed a plausible story, a solution that would satisfy their curiosity without revealing too much. Inspiration struck, and he crafted his tale with the elegance of a seasoned diplomat.

"Ah, the rings.” He began, his tone thoughtful. "I am indeed connected to the House of Black. I am the son of Lord Arcturus Black. So I’ll put this in a term that polite society would say, a bastard.”

The men shifted, intrigued by his revelation. Regulus continued, weaving his narrative with practiced ease.

"My existence has been something of a family secret, you see. A result of an affair, kept discreet for obvious reasons.”

Inspector Caldwell nodded slowly, appearing to accept the explanation. "I see. And your belongings, including the rings and wand, are being kept safe. They'll be returned once we finish here."

Regulus inclined his head graciously, masking the relief that surged within him. "I appreciate your diligence. Now, how may I assist you further?"

The questions began, probing yet respectful, as they sought to understand the mysterious figure before them. Regulus lied with the fluidity of one who had long practiced deception, each answer crafted with precision.

"Where did you come from?"

"I was traveling abroad, on personal business."

"How did you end up here?"

"A miscalculated spell, I'm afraid. It was never my intention to cause such a commotion."

The men scribbled notes, seemingly satisfied with his responses. Regulus maintained his composure, every gesture calculated to project sincerity and confidence.

"And this incident with Grindelwald?" Caldwell pressed, curiosity piqued.

Regulus allowed a wry smile to touch his lips. "An unfortunate misunderstanding. I was merely in the wrong place at the right time."

The inspector chuckled softly, nodding as if privy to some private joke. "Quite the adventure, I must say."

"Indeed.” Regulus replied, his tone light, though his mind remained vigilant.

The questioning continued, each inquiry met with deftly spun fabrications. Regulus navigated their curiosity with the grace of a dancer, leading them away from any truths he wished to conceal.

As the session drew to a close, Inspector Caldwell regarded him with a mix of respect and intrigue. "You are quite the enigma."

"I prefer to think of myself as resourceful.” Regulus countered.

With a nod, the inspector signaled the end of their discussion. "We’ll return your belongings soon. For now, rest and recover."

Regulus offered a courteous nod, watching as the men departed. Once alone, he allowed himself a moment to breathe, the weight of the encounter slowly lifting.

The room was silent once more, the afternoon light casting gentle patterns on the floor. Regulus knew he had bought himself time, but the challenges ahead were daunting. He would need to tread carefully, blending into this era while seeking a way back to his own.

But for now, he had played his part well, leaving behind only the lingering mystery of the boy who fell from the heavens.

As the door creaked open again, and Regulus braced himself, expecting the nurse with his belongings. Instead, he was met with the imposing figures of Lord Arcturus Black and Lady Melania Black, their presence carrying the weight of regal authority. They were younger than he'd ever seen them in person, their features sharp and commanding, eyes filled with a mix of skepticism and curiosity.

Arcturus’ voice was a deep, resonant timbre, laced with an edge of disbelief. "Explain yourself, boy. There is no conceivable way you are my son."

Melania stood beside him, her gaze piercing and unyielding. "Arcturus has never been unfaithful. Yet you possess the rings of our house. We demand answers."

Regulus felt the intensity of their scrutiny, the air thick with expectation. Lying here would be futile; these were not people easily deceived. He needed a different approach, one that would earn their trust, if only temporarily.

He met their eyes with a steady gaze, his mind racing to find a solution that would turn this confrontation to his advantage. "I understand your skepticism. And I promise you, there is a truth you deserve to know—one I will share only under the strictest conditions."

Arcturus folded his arms, a gesture of both authority and impatience. "Speak plainly, then."

Regulus took a deep breath, the gravity of his decision settling over him like a cloak. "If you are willing to perform vows of secrecy, I will tell you everything, without omission."

Melania exchanged a wary glance with Arcturus, her eyes narrowing slightly. "And why should we trust you with such a request?"

"Because…” Regulus replied, his tone urgent and sincere. “What I have to tell you concerns the future of the House of Black. It is vital you listen."

After a tense moment, Arcturus nodded, his expression inscrutable. "Very well. We agree to your terms."

With a flick of his wand, Arcturus cast the spell, the magic weaving an invisible bond of trust and confidentiality around them. Regulus felt the binding take hold, a comforting assurance that his truths would remain protected.

He exhaled slowly, preparing to divulge the extraordinary tale that had brought him here. "I am Regulus Arcturus Black II, and I’m from the future—a future where our family faces grave challenges."

Their eyes widened, a mixture of disbelief and intrigue flickering across their faces.

"I was caught in a spell gone wrong.” Regulus continued, his voice steady and earnest. "It sent me through time, landing me here, in this era. The rings are mine because I am indeed a Black, though not in the way you imagined."

Melania's eyes softened, a hint of maternal concern breaking through her stern exterior. "And why should we believe such an incredible story?"

"Because I can tell you things no stranger could know. Family secrets. The tapestry in the drawing room that hides the family tree. The way you prefer your tea, with a dash of lemon. The stories you told my father, your son, Orion." Regulus answered.

Their expressions shifted from skepticism to astonishment, but they remained silent, allowing him to continue.

"In my time, the family has been misled by a wizard, a half-blood who calls himself Voldemort. He has deceived many nobles pureblooded houses, including our family, leading us down a path of destruction."

Arcturus' brow furrowed, his disbelief turning to anger. "A half-blood? Our allegiance would never fall to such deception."

Regulus nodded, understanding their shock. "He is cunning, manipulative. He preys on our traditions and ambitions, twisting them for his own ends."

Melania's eyes narrowed, her disdain for the idea evident. "And how do you fit into this?"

"I sought to change our fate.” Regulus admitted. "To save our family from ruin. But in my efforts, I was cast back in time, to this moment."

The room was thick with tension, the air almost crackling with the weight of his revelations. Regulus watched as his grandparents processed the enormity of his words, their expressions a tapestry of disbelief, anger, and a flicker of understanding.

"Why should we believe you?" Arcturus challenged, though his voice had lost some of its edge.

Regulus met his gaze steadily. "Because the rings recognized me. Because I carry the burden of our future and the knowledge of what is to come."

Silence stretched between them, heavy and profound. The Blacks were formidable figures, their loyalty to their bloodline fierce. Yet Regulus had given them a glimpse of a future they could not ignore.

Finally, Melania spoke, her voice a mixture of resignation and resolve. "If what you say is true, then we must be vigilant. We cannot allow such a fate to befall our family."

Arcturus nodded, his expression hardening with determination. "We will do what is necessary to protect the House of Black."

With that, the tension in the room eased, replaced by a shared understanding and resolve. Regulus had managed to turn potential disaster into an opportunity, forging an alliance with his grandparents.

As they departed, leaving him once more in solitude, Regulus allowed himself a moment of reflection. The path ahead remained fraught with challenges, but he had taken the first step toward altering the destiny of the House of Black.

”I fucking hate time travel…”