House Black Ascending
Polaris Black awoke on the morning of his eleventh birthday with a sense of anticipation that thrummed through his entire body. He lay still for a moment, staring up at the dark green canopy of his four-poster bed, the silken fabric embroidered with the Black family crest—a shield with a rampant lion, a crescent moon, and a pair of crossed wands. His room, the grandest in Grimmauld Place, was a far cry from the cold, drab dormitory of the orphanage where he had spent his earliest years. Now, everything around him spoke of wealth, power, and pureblood lineage.
Polaris’s physical appearance had transformed dramatically since the day Kreacher had found him. Gone was the pale, fragile boy who had known only the loneliness of an orphan’s life. In his place was a young wizard of striking looks, with high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and a regal bearing that belied his age. His skin was still pale but had a healthy glow, and his hair, black as midnight, fell in elegant just above his ears. His eyes were a deep, stormy grey, intense and unwavering, framed by thick, dark lashes. He had grown tall for his age, slender but with a hint of strength in his limbs, as though the very blood of his ancestors had given him an aura of authority.
As he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, his bare feet sank into the plush emerald green carpet that covered the floor. The room was decorated in the finest taste, with heavy velvet curtains, polished dark wood furniture, and walls lined with bookshelves filled with ancient tomes on pureblood history and dark magic. The only light came from the candles that floated in mid-air, casting a warm, flickering glow over the room.
Kreacher, ever dutiful, had already laid out Polaris’s clothes for the day. The dress robes were of the highest quality, a deep charcoal grey with silver trim that shimmered as it caught the light. The fabric was rich and smooth, as though woven from the night itself. The robes were tailored to perfection, fitting Polaris’s slender frame like a glove, the hem falling just above the polished black boots that Kreacher had shined the night before. A high collar framed his neck, adorned with intricate silver embroidery that echoed the Black family crest, and a silver clasp shaped like a serpent fastened the robes at his throat.
Polaris dressed with care, his movements precise and deliberate, as he had been taught by Kreacher. Every detail mattered—how he tied the sash around his waist, how he adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, how he straightened the folds of the robes so they draped just so. When he was finished, he looked at himself in the tall, gilded mirror that stood in the corner of the room. A sense of satisfaction filled him as he saw the image reflected back—he looked every inch the heir to the House of Black.
“Master Polaris is looking most handsome today,” Kreacher croaked from the doorway, his large eyes gleaming with pride as he took in the sight of the young master.
Polaris turned to face the house-elf, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Thank you, Kreacher. You’ve outdone yourself, as always.”
Kreacher bowed low, his ears flapping slightly with the movement. “It is Kreacher’s honour to serve the heir of the House of Black. Young master’s breakfast is ready in the dining room, and Kreacher has prepared something special.”
With a nod of approval, Polaris followed Kreacher down the grand staircase, his robes billowing around him with every step. As they descended, the house echoed with the soft rustle of fabric and the distant crackling of the ever-burning hearths. The walls were adorned with portraits of ancestors long past, their stern faces watching over him as he passed.
When they reached the dining room, Polaris found it just as Kreacher had said—his grandmother’s portrait had been moved from its usual place and now rested on a grand chair opposite the head of the table, where Polaris always sat. The portrait was illuminated by the soft morning light that filtered through the high windows, making Walburga Black’s regal features stand out even more sharply.
“Good morning, Grandmother,” Polaris greeted her as he took his seat at the head of the long, polished table.
Walburga’s painted eyes followed his every movement, her expression as stern as ever, though there was a glimmer of approval in her gaze. “Good morning, Polaris,” she replied in her clipped, aristocratic tone. “You look very much like your father today.”
Polaris felt a warm surge of pride at her words. He had spent years wondering what his father had been like, trying to live up to the image Kreacher had painted of him. “Thank you, Grandmother,” he said, his voice steady despite the emotion swirling within him.
Kreacher stepped forward and presented a silver tray to Polaris, upon which lay a single, pristine envelope sealed with a crimson wax crest. The crest bore the image of a lion, a badger, a raven, and a serpent—Hogwarts. Polaris’s heart skipped a beat as he reached out to take the letter, his fingers trembling slightly.
He broke the seal with a quick flick of his thumb and carefully unfolded the parchment within. The letter was written in a neat, flowing script:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr. P. Black,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Polaris read the letter once, then again, his heart swelling with a mix of pride and exhilaration. This was it—the first step in fulfilling the legacy of his parents, the first step towards becoming the wizard he was destined to be.
He glanced up at his grandmother’s portrait, her painted eyes gleaming with approval. “It’s here, Grandmother. My Hogwarts letter. I've been accepted!”
Kreacher’s grin widened, revealing his sharp, yellowed teeth. “Of course you have, young master. There was never any doubt. You are a Black, and Hogwarts is your birthright.”
Polaris nodded, still staring at the letter in his hands. The thought of walking the halls of Hogwarts, learning magic, and being surrounded by other young witches and wizards was almost overwhelming. But he knew he had to live up to the expectations placed upon him—his grandmother’s expectations, his father’s, and those of the entire House of Black.
Walburga’s portrait sniffed haughtily, drawing Polaris’s attention. “Naturally, you were accepted. Hogwarts would be foolish to reject a Black. However, there are some things we must discuss before you embark on your journey.”
“I will, Grandmother,” Polaris assured her, folding the letter carefully and placing it beside his plate.
Kreacher’s grin was almost shark-like as he beamed at Polaris, his sharp teeth gleaming in the dim light. “After breakfast, Kreacher will take young master to Diagon Alley to get his school supplies, including books, uniform, and, of course, a wand.”
Polaris nodded, feeling a thrill of excitement course through him. The idea of visiting Diagon Alley, a place he had heard so much about but had never seen, filled him with eager anticipation. “That sounds wonderful, Kreacher. I can’t wait.”
As Kreacher busied himself with serving breakfast, Walburga’s portrait continued to speak, her tone as imperious as ever. “There is no need for you to get an owl, Polaris. The school has plenty of them, and Kreacher is more than capable of delivering anything you might need. House-elves can apparate inside and outside of Hogwarts, something no ordinary owl can do.”
Polaris considered her words, then nodded in agreement. “Yes, you’re right, Grandmother. There’s no need for an owl.”
Walburga’s painted features softened slightly, as if she were pleased with his response. “However,” she continued, “if you insist on getting a familiar, a cat would be the most appropriate choice. They are highly intelligent creatures and have served our family well throughout the generations. But don’t even think about getting a toad—they went out of fashion eight decades ago, and unless you want to use it for potions ingredients, it would be a waste.”
Polaris couldn’t suppress a shudder at the thought of owning a toad. “I’ll get a cat, Grandmother,” he promised, his mind already wandering to the possibilities.
Breakfast was a grand affair, as always—Kreacher had prepared a spread of food fit for a king. There were fluffy scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, freshly baked croissants, and an assortment of fruit laid out on fine china plates. A silver pot of tea sat steaming in the centre of the table, the aroma rich and inviting. Polaris ate slowly, savouring each bite, the excitement of the day ahead filling him with an almost giddy sense of anticipation.
When he had finished, Walburga’s portrait spoke once more. “It is time for you to go with Kreacher, Polaris. Everything has been prepared—Kreacher has already withdrawn money from your Black family trust vault.”
Polaris’s heart swelled with gratitude and determination. “Thank you, Grandmother. I will make you proud.”
Walburga’s eyes softened, just a fraction, as she replied, “I have no doubt you will, my dear boy. Now go, and remember—Slytherin.”
With a final nod, Polaris rose from the table, the Hogwarts letter safely tucked into his robes. Kreacher was already at the door, waiting for him with a gleam in his eye.
“Shall we go, young master?” Kreacher asked, his voice filled with eagerness.
Polaris nodded, feeling a surge of excitement. “Yes, Kreacher. Let’s go.”
The journey to Diagon Alley was like stepping into a world of wonder. The cobblestone streets bustled with witches and wizards, their robes swirling as they hurried from shop to shop. The air was filled with the scent of fresh parchment, the sound of cauldrons clanging, and the occasional hoot of an owl from the nearby owl emporium. Polaris took it all in with wide eyes, his heart racing with excitement.
Their first stop was Ollivander's, the renowned wand shop. The bell above the door tinkled softly as they entered, and the shop’s interior was just as Polaris had imagined—dimly lit, with tall shelves filled with narrow boxes stacked from floor to ceiling. The air was thick with the smell of wood and old magic.
An old man with silver hair and pale, misty eyes appeared from behind a shelf, his gaze immediately locking onto Polaris. “Ah, Mr. Black,” Ollivander said, his voice soft but carrying a weight of knowledge. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Polaris blinked in surprise. “You have?”
Ollivander nodded, his eyes scanning Polaris’s face as though searching for something. “Indeed. It’s not every day that the son of Regulus Black comes to my shop.”
A flicker of uncertainty passed over Polaris’s features, but he quickly composed himself. “I—yes, I suppose not,” he said, unsure of what else to say.
"Ah now, your father favoured a hazel and unicorn hair wand, I believe, thirteen inches, reasonably springy, and quite fine at charms work whilst your mother I remember wielding a ten inch walnut and dragon heartstring wand. She was quite the remarkable witch, rather proficient in offensive spell casting in particular."
Ollivander seemed to sense his discomfort and offered a gentle smile. “Let’s find you a wand, shall we? I suspect this one will do.” He reached up to a high shelf and pulled down a narrow box, opening it to reveal a wand made of dark alder wood, its surface polished to a gleaming finish. “Twelve and a half inches, alder, with a dragon heartstring core. A powerful wand, well-suited to those with a strong will and a deep connection to their magic. This should be quite a good wand all-round, Mr. Black.”
Polaris reached out hesitantly, taking the wand in his hand. The moment his fingers curled around the smooth wood, a warmth spread through him, and a rush of energy seemed to flow from the wand into his very being. He felt an immediate connection, as though the wand recognized him as its rightful owner.
Ollivander’s eyes gleamed with approval. “Yes, that’s the one. Alder wood is known for its unyielding nature, and dragon heartstring cores are particularly suited to wizards with a great deal of inner strength. A perfect match, Mr. Black.”
Polaris nodded, feeling a swell of pride. “Thank you, Mr. Ollivander.”
The wandmaker inclined his head. “Use it wisely, young man. And remember, the wand chooses the wizard. Yours has chosen well.”
Polaris left Ollivanders with a sense of accomplishment, his new wand carefully tucked away in the inner pocket of his robes. As he stepped outside, Kreacher appeared at his side, holding a small, black kitten with gleaming yellow eyes.
“This is for young master,” Kreacher said, his voice filled with pride. “A cat, as Mistress Walburga suggested. She is clever, strong, and loyal—just like young master.”
Polaris took the kitten in his arms, feeling the soft, sleek fur beneath his fingers. The kitten purred contentedly, rubbing its head against his chest. “Nyx,” Polaris murmured, naming her after the Greek goddess of the night. “I’ll call her Nyx.”
Kreacher beamed with approval. “A fine name for a fine creature. Nyx will serve you well, young master.”
Their next stop was Twilfitt and Tattings, an upscale robe shop that Kreacher had specifically chosen to avoid the mudbloods that frequented other, less prestigious stores. After all, which self-respecting pureblood would shop at Madam Malkin's? Kreacher shuddered. The shop was elegant and quiet, with rich fabrics draped over mannequins and a soft carpet that muffled their footsteps.
The tailor, a slender man with silver-rimmed glasses and a measuring tape draped around his neck, greeted them with a polite nod. “Good day, young sir. What can I do for you?”
Polaris stood tall, his voice steady as he replied, “I need Hogwarts robes, as well as some casual wear.”
The tailor’s eyes gleamed with professional interest as he took in Polaris’s appearance. “Of course, sir. Right this way.”
Polaris was fitted with four sets of Hogwarts robes, each one tailored to perfection, the rich black fabric flowing elegantly around him. In addition, the tailor provided him with a selection of casual robes in dark green, navy blue, black, and charcoal, as well as dress shirts in white, green, and the other colors. The materials were luxurious, soft to the touch, and clearly of the highest quality.
As Polaris admired his reflection in the mirror, a sense of satisfaction filled him. The clothes were a far cry from the tattered rags he had worn in the orphanage. Now, he looked every inch the heir to the House of Black.
“Thank you, Kreacher,” Polaris said as they left the shop, his arms laden with bags. “These are perfect.”
Kreacher’s eyes shone with pride. “It is Kreacher’s honor to serve young master. Now, we return to Grimmauld Place. Kreacher has prepared everything for young master’s school journey.”
When they arrived back at Grimmauld Place, Kreacher led Polaris to his bedroom, where a large, ornate trunk sat at the foot of the bed. The trunk was made of dark wood, intricately carved with the Black family crest, and reinforced with brass fittings.
“This was your father’s trunk,” Kreacher explained, his voice thick with emotion. “It will serve you well at Hogwarts.”
Polaris ran his fingers over the carved wood, a sense of connection to his father filling him. “Thank you, Kreacher,” he said quietly. “I hope my father would be proud of me.”
Kreacher hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty passing over his features. “Master Regulus… would be proud,” he said finally, though a part of him knew the truth—that Polaris, while now Regulus’s son by blood adoption, was not his dear Master's son by birth. But who could question that, really? All loose ends had been tied up rather nicely, what with Miss Ariadne having no close relatives remaining and birth certificates being so easy to forge. Kreacher beamed with pride, as he fondly reminisced over casting the Imperius curse on Minister Crouch's secretary. Kreacher had even taken the rice pudding she was eating!
But as Kreacher looked at the young master, standing tall and proud in his elegant robes, he couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride. The transformation was complete—the boy who had once been a lost, forgotten orphan was now the heir to the most noble house in wizarding Britain. And Kreacher had played a significant part in that transformation, a role that filled him with a sense of purpose he had not felt in years.
As Polaris looked around the room, filled with the treasures and heirlooms of his family’s legacy, he silently thanked Merlin every day that Kreacher had found him when he did. He was no longer David Reed, the nameless orphan—he was Polaris Black, and his future was as bright and full of promise as the stars in the night sky.
And as he gazed out of the window, the sky tinged with the golden hues of dusk, he felt a deep sense of contentment. His journey had only just begun, but already, he knew that he was on the path to greatness. The House of Black would rise again, and he would be the one to lead it to glory.