The Legacy of the House of Black
Polaris Black sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor of the drawing room at Grimmauld Place, his heart pounding in his chest. His new features—sharp and aristocratic—were still unfamiliar, and he had not yet fully grasped the enormity of what Kreacher had told him. But as he looked up into the proud, severe face of his grandmother’s portrait, Polaris felt a strange sense of belonging that he had never known before.
Kreacher, the ancient house-elf, hovered nearby, his bulbous eyes glinting with a mix of loyalty and cunning. The story he had just told Polaris echoed in the boy’s mind, filling him with questions.
“Kreacher,” Polaris began hesitantly, his voice still trembling from the intensity of the transformation, “if I’m really the heir to the House of Black… why was I left in that orphanage all these years? Why didn’t anyone come for me?”
Kreacher’s expression darkened, and he shuffled closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Ah, young master, it is a tragic tale indeed. Kreacher will explain everything.”
Polaris leaned forward, his curiosity piqued despite the fear still lingering in the pit of his stomach.
“Your father, Master Regulus, was a noble and brave wizard,” Kreacher began, his voice thick with emotion. “He was devoted to the Dark Lord, just as any true pureblood should be. But he saw things—terrible things—that made him question the Dark Lord’s methods. Kreacher was there, young master. Kreacher was with him on his last mission.”
“What happened?” Polaris asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Kreacher’s eyes glazed over with the memory, and his hands trembled as he recounted the tale. “Master Regulus took Kreacher to a cave, a dark and terrible place filled with the foulest magic. There was a lake in that cave, and in the middle of it was an island with a basin of potion. The Dark Lord had hidden something there—something very powerful.”
Kreacher paused, his voice catching in his throat. “Master Regulus made Kreacher drink the potion, even though it burned and made Kreacher see terrible things. But Master Regulus was kind, so kind… he promised Kreacher that everything would be alright.”
Polaris’s eyes widened as he listened, his imagination painting vivid pictures of the horrors Kreacher described. He could almost see his father, brave and determined, risking everything to defy the Dark Lord.
“When the potion was gone, Kreacher took the locket—the Dark Lord’s locket—and tried to escape. But the Inferi… the dead bodies in the lake… they attacked Kreacher. Master Regulus… he… he gave his life to save Kreacher. He was dragged under the water by those monsters… Kreacher couldn’t save him…”
Kreacher’s voice broke, and he wiped at his eyes with the edge of his dirty loincloth. Polaris felt a lump form in his throat as he imagined his father’s final moments, the terror and sacrifice.
“So… my father died before I was born?” Polaris asked, his voice thick with emotion.
“Yes, young master,” Kreacher replied, his voice softening. “Master Regulus gave his life for a noble cause, just after you were conceived. Your mother, Miss Ariadne Wilkes, was a pureblood witch of the highest order. She and Master Regulus were not married—they were merely seeing each other in secret. That is why the House of Black did not know of your existence.”
Polaris frowned, trying to make sense of it all. “But if my mother was alive… why didn’t she take me in?”
Kreacher’s eyes narrowed, his voice taking on a dark, bitter tone. “Ah, young master, that is where the treachery of the Aurors comes in. Miss Ariadne was a loyal servant of the Dark Lord, just as your father was. But the Aurors—those filthy blood traitors who serve Dumbledore—hunted her down like a common criminal.”
Polaris’s heart raced as Kreacher’s words painted a grim picture of his mother’s fate. “What happened to her?” he asked, his voice barely audible.
Kreacher spat on the floor, his eyes blazing with fury. “She was killed by that evil Auror, Alastor Moody. He is the worst of them all, young master—a half-blood with a twisted sense of justice. He killed your mother in cold blood, and you were taken away before the House of Black could even know of your birth.”
Polaris felt a cold chill run down his spine as he imagined the scene—his mother, brave and defiant, cut down by a ruthless Auror. And he, just a helpless infant, taken away to be raised among Muggles.
“But how did you find me, Kreacher?” Polaris asked, a mixture of wonder and disbelief in his voice. “After all these years?”
Kreacher’s expression softened, and he placed a gnarled hand over his heart. “The strong family magic in you, young master, called to Kreacher. As a house-elf bound to the House of Black, Kreacher is connected to all those who bear the bloodline and the name. Your magic was strong, even in that filthy Muggle orphanage. It guided Kreacher to you, just as it was meant to.”
Polaris stared at Kreacher, a sense of awe washing over him. It was as if destiny had brought them together, restoring him to his rightful place in the wizarding world. But a gnawing fear lingered in his mind—what if someone tried to take him away again?
“Kreacher,” Polaris whispered, his voice trembling, “what if… what if someone tries to take me away again? What if the Aurors find out?”
Kreacher’s eyes gleamed with a dark cunning. “Young master must be very careful, very careful indeed. Kreacher advises young master not to mention to any adult at Hogwarts that you lived in an orphanage. They may try to take you away from your heritage again.”
Walburga’s portrait, which had been watching the exchange with a keen eye, now spoke up, her voice sharp and commanding. “Kreacher is right, Polaris. The Aurors and their ilk cannot be trusted. Hogwarts has a very poor system of checking whether a wizarding boy is living with his guardians or not. The only verification is having a signed pass to be able to go to Hogsmeade in your third year. Some sacrifices will have to be made.”
Polaris turned his gaze to his grandmother’s portrait, his heart pounding in his chest. “Sacrifices?”
Walburga sniffed haughtily. “Indeed. You must not draw attention to yourself, not until you are of age. People may try to gain custody of you, to control the wealth and power of the House of Black. My brother Cygnus, for example, has long wanted to gain the estate for himself.”
Polaris’s eyes widened in shock. “But… he’s my great-uncle, isn’t he? Why would he want to take the estate from me?”
Walburga’s expression darkened, her eyes narrowing. “Because, my dear boy, there are those in the family who care more for their own glory and riches than for the honor of the Black name. Cygnus would not hesitate to dispose of you if it meant his eldest grandson Rigel Lestrange or his daughter, Narcissa Malfoy, and her son Draco could gain control of the estate.”
Polaris blanched at the thought, his stomach twisting with fear. Family members who would want him dead? It was a chilling realization.
“You mean… all these so-called family members… they can’t be trusted?” Polaris asked, his voice shaking.
“Indeed,” Walburga replied coldly. “They do not care for the Black family name. They seek only their own advancement. You must be vigilant, Polaris. Trust no one but Kreacher and the House of Black itself.”
Kreacher nodded fervently in agreement, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of pride and loyalty. “Kreacher will protect young master, always. Kreacher will serve young master until his dying breath.”
Polaris felt a shiver run down his spine. The idea of having family members who might want him dead was terrifying. But at the same time, the sense of belonging he felt to the House of Black was overwhelming. He knew that he had to protect his legacy, no matter what.
“Thank you, Kreacher,” Polaris said softly, his voice filled with gratitude. “I will be careful. I won’t let anyone take me away.”
Walburga’s expression softened slightly, and she nodded in approval. “Good. You are a true heir to the House of Black, Polaris. In slightly less than four years, you will turn eleven, and you will receive your Hogwarts letter. Kreacher will accompany you to Diagon Alley to purchase your school supplies, including your wand.”
At the mention of Hogwarts, Polaris’s eyes lit up with excitement. He had heard stories of the great wizarding school, a place of magic and wonder. But before he could ask more, Walburga’s tone turned stern again.
“But there is one thing you must understand, Polaris,” she continued, her voice reverberating across the corridors. “You must be sorted into Slytherin House. That is the only acceptable house for the heir to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black.”
“Slytherin…” Polaris echoed, his heart racing. He had heard of the different houses at Hogwarts, but the idea of being sorted into one seemed almost unreal.
“Yes, Slytherin,” Walburga repeated firmly. “It is the house of cunning, ambition, and pureblood superiority. It is the house that has produced the most powerful and influential wizards in history. And it is the house where you belong.”
Polaris nodded slowly, absorbing her words. “I understand, Grandmother. I will be sorted into Slytherin.”
Walburga’s eyes gleamed with approval, but her voice was still stern. “Additionally, you must only befriend those befitting your station—purebloods, and not from blood traitor families. I will be very disappointed to hear otherwise.”
Polaris swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her expectations. “I promise, Grandmother. I will live up to my father’s name. I won’t let you down.”
Walburga’s expression softened, and for a moment, there was a hint of warmth in her eyes. “You remind me of Regulus, dear boy. You have his determination, his strength. But remember—your uncle, Sirius, was sorted into Gryffindor, the first member of our family in history to be sorted outside of Slytherin. Look where that got him—a cell in Azkaban.”
Polaris shuddered at the thought. He had heard whispers of the infamous wizarding prison, a place of darkness and despair. The idea of ending up there, like his uncle, filled him with dread.
“I won’t make the same mistake,” Polaris vowed, his voice trembling with resolve. “I will be loyal to the House of Black. I will be a true Slytherin.”
Walburga smiled proudly, her painted features softening into something almost maternal. “That’s my boy. You will make us all proud, Polaris. You will restore the honor of the House of Black.”
Polaris felt a surge of pride at her words, but beneath it all, a flicker of doubt remained. The expectations placed on him were immense, and the path ahead was filled with dangers he could barely comprehend. But one thing was certain—he was no longer just David Reed, a forgotten orphan in a Muggle world. He was Polaris Black, heir to the most noble house in all of wizarding Britain.
Kreacher, sensing the boy’s uncertainty, stepped forward and placed a comforting hand on his arm. “Young master need not worry. Kreacher will guide young master through everything. We will prepare for Hogwarts together. Kreacher will teach you all the old family magic, and you will be ready for anything.”
Polaris nodded, taking comfort in Kreacher’s words. “Thank you, Kreacher. I’ll need all the help I can get.”
Walburga’s portrait beamed down at him, her eyes filled with a fierce pride. “You are a Black, Polaris. Never forget that. And remember—Slytherin is where you belong. Surround yourself with those who share our values, and you will rise to greatness.”
“I will, Grandmother,” Polaris promised, his voice filled with determination.
As the night wore on, Polaris and Kreacher continued to talk, discussing the history of the House of Black, the secrets of Grimmauld Place, and the legacy that Polaris was destined to inherit. And as the first light of dawn began to filter through the dusty windows, Polaris felt a strange sense of peace settle over him. He was home, at last.
But even as he drifted off to sleep in one of the grand bedrooms of Grimmauld Place, a part of him remained on edge, wary of the dangers that lay ahead. The world he had known was gone, replaced by a new reality filled with dark magic, powerful enemies, and the weight of an ancient legacy.
And as he closed his eyes, he knew that he could never go back. He was Polaris Black now, and his journey had only just begun.