Erebus Shadows of Powers

The gibbous moon hung oppressively in the sky, its pallid radiance seeping through the high arched windows of the Marrakech hotel suite, casting Ghostlight over mosaic tiles and intricate plasterwork. Its cold, cyclopean glow crawled across the carved walls and filtered through the gauze curtains, lending the room an air of dreamlike disquiet. The scent of sandalwood and distant spices lingered in the still air, mingling with the hum of city life beyond the balcony—muffled drums, a wail of music, a market still breathing somewhere in the midnight heat. Harry stood motionless, silhouetted in the moon’s pale grasp, eyes fixed on its distant, cratered face—a silent, ancient sentinel, unblinking, omnipresent, and impossibly old. It had watched over pharaohs and prophets, over mages and conquerors—those who shaped the world by will, by word, or by war.

The hush of the night settled around him like a shroud the sounds fading into the background. As he gazed, the past stirred, uncoiling from the recesses of his mind like something long-buried beneath the shifting sands of time. The moon, seemed to whisper through its bleak and deathly glow, beckoning forth memories that had slumbered in his soul like lost fragments of some forgotten incantation. They surfaced slowly, inexorably—glimpses of choices made in shadow, echoes of voices now lost to time, the spectre of his path.

The Hogwarts Library was silent at this hour, the vast chamber stretching above him in solemn grandeur. The only sounds were the faint rustle of parchment, the occasional scrape of a chair against the polished stone below, and the distant creak of wooden shelves settling under the weight of centuries. Harry sat alone in his corner on the second floor, nestled in an old armchair. Its once-plush cushions are worn from decades of use. The moonlight poured in through the arched gothic windows above, falling directly upon him like a silver spotlight. It traced the sharp lines of his robes, glinted off the edges of his open books, and cast his shadow long across the aged wooden floor. Most students had long since left for their common rooms, but Harry remained, his books spread before him. The soft glow of enchanted lanterns flickered in the distance, but he only felt the moon’s gaze upon him, cold and unrelenting. The library’s inscriptions, carved into the dark oak beams, caught the moonlight in fleeting glimpses: Scientia Sit Potentia. Doctrina Perpetua. Knowledge is power. Learning Forever. Yet his thoughts were elsewhere—adrift in the bitter storm that had plagued him since he had finished his mother’s diary. The revelation it held had left an ache that no amount of reading could ease.

“I wish I had studied more before leaving Hogwarts. I wish I had gone beyond the books we were given. I feel like I missed something—something important. But now, it’s too late.”

The silver-and-blue crest rested proudly over Harry’s heart, his open Ravenclaw robe shifting in the wind. Thunder cracked in the distance. The storm wasn’t just coming — it was nearly here.

He turned the pages with practised ease, though there was no anticipation in the motion—only quiet frustration. The Arithmancy book in his hands was nothing more than a primer, a collection of rudimentary equations and introductory formulas, teaching concepts he had mastered long before ever setting foot in Hogwarts. He recalled the Stage 1 and 2 National Curriculum assessments with fondness, having performed exceptionally. Yet his “family” had shown only contempt; they hated him all the more for his success. This book was meant for those still struggling to count, not for him. He exhaled softly, his fingers drumming once against the parchment before shutting the book with an audible snap.

Ancient Runes, at least, held promise—its cryptic inscriptions whispering of forgotten knowledge, of magic untouched by modern constraints. Magical Theory was even more compelling, its dense passages hinting at truths that Hogwarts dared not teach outright. But access remained elusive. The library held the books, but not for him—not yet. He had asked. The librarian’s response had been curt, dismissive: Too soon, Mr. Potter. Come back when you are older. As though understanding were bound by age, as though knowledge itself required permission.

The realization had come slowly at first, creeping through his thoughts in the quiet moments of lecture, in the dead air of uninspired discussions, in the monotonous repetition of spells he had already perfected. History was the only subject that truly interested him—if only it weren’t taught by Cuthbert Binns, who routinely forgot minor details and didn’t seem to realize he had new students at all. He had been patient, waiting for something more—an intellectual challenge, an advanced concept, anything to suggest that Hogwarts intended to cultivate something beyond mere competency. But now, it was undeniable.

The storm wasn’t just coming—it was nearly here and in its pressure, something in him cracked—no, crystallized. The curriculum wasn’t just slow—it was a cage Designed not to accelerate but to confine. Not to sharpen, but to dull. He saw it now, stark and irrefutable, written between the lines of the lessons, in the careful omissions of history, in the deliberate stagnation of magical education. He would not allow himself to be stalled. He would not wait for knowledge to be handed to him at the pace of the slowest student. He needed to move forward, to seize what was denied, to learn beyond the limits they had set for him. And if Hogwarts would not give him what he required, then he would find another way.

The storm had broken in earnest now—rain lashing against the arched windows in an endless deluge, as if the sky itself had decided to unburden. Thunder rolled again, slower this time, though only briefly before returning to its earlier intensity. Across the library, Alaric Selwyn sat alone beneath a reading lamp, the soft glow illuminating the edges of his parchment. An old volume on magical jurisprudence lay open before him, its margins dense with precise annotations. At his table, Harry reached for two things: the parchment he had, and his mother’s diary. The book was worn, the spine fraying, the ink smudged in places where memory had lingered too long. It carried her voice, her hopes, her regrets—a ghost far more intimate than any portrait or photograph. He packed it away with the ease of ritual, as though smuggling a forbidden idea between borrowed pages and midnight breath.

It was not a sentiment that made him carry it now. It was conviction. The diary had not only revealed what had been stolen from him—it had reminded him of who he could become. And that made it dangerous. He rose from his chair, the movement quiet but final. The library, vast and cathedral-like, seemed to tilt around him as he walked—rows of silent shelves rising like judgmental sentinels, the air thick with parchment dust and old enchantments. He crossed the stone floor with measured purpose, the long hem of his robe trailing behind like a shadow. Thunder cracked again, louder now. Selwyn looked up as Harry stopped beside his table, raising a single eyebrow. “Potter.”

"Selwyn," Harry replied evenly.

Selwyn’s gaze flickered over him as if assessing something new. Harry Potter, a Ravenclaw, not a Slytherin—yet here he was, approaching him, of all people, in the library late at night.

"Do you have a moment?" Harry asked quietly.

Selwyn leaned back in his chair, intrigued. "Depends. Is this about academics, or something more… interesting?"

Harry pulled out the chair opposite him and sat. "A solicitor. I need one. A good one."

Selwyn’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers drummed idly against the edge of his book. "Why?"

Harry considered his response. Too vague, and Selwyn wouldn’t take him seriously. Too direct, and he risked saying too much.
"Legal independence. Access to certain financial matters. Discretion."

That last word lingered, something shifting in Selwyn’s expression—a flicker of interest where before there had been only indifference. His gaze sharpened slightly, his posture straightening just enough to suggest he was now paying attention.

“You’re… what, eleven?”

Harry met his gaze evenly. “Yes. And?”

A slow smirk pulled at the corner of Selwyn’s mouth, amusement laced with something far keener. "Ambitious. Unexpected." He considered Harry for a long moment, then closed his book with a soft, deliberate thud, the movement neither dismissive nor rushed.

“You surprise me, Potter.” Selwyn tilted his head, his scrutiny more pointed now. “Had you been sorted into Slytherin, you would have fit in far better than most.”

Harry did not react immediately. He simply regarded Selwyn with that same measured intensity, as though dissecting the thought before offering his response.

“Perhaps,” he admitted, his voice calm, unhurried. “But ambition without wisdom is a blade without a hilt. Slytherin may forge leaders, but Ravenclaw sharpens minds.”

A pause not hesitation, but something else. A thought half-formed, lingering at the edge of articulation.

“Still, I wonder what might have been different.” His fingers drummed once against the table, contemplative. “If I had chosen another path, another House.”

Selwyn studied him in silence before exhaling through his nose, a sound more amused than dismissive. “Fascinating,” he murmured. “But you’re right to be careful. There are plenty of solicitors, but the good ones—ones who don’t bow to Dumbledore or the Ministry—are harder to find.”

Without looking away, he reached into his satchel, retrieving a folded piece of parchment. He held it lightly between two fingers, just out of Harry’s immediate reach.

“Eldric Rosier,” he said. “Private solicitor. No Ministry ties. He specializes in old family affairs, inheritance disputes, and financial independence cases.”

Harry took it without a word, his expression was carefully neutral, controlled. He unfolded the parchment just enough to confirm the name before tucking it into his pocket, his movements precise, unhurried. Then, with a faint, knowing smile, Harry added, "But a bird in a cage is still a bird. And sometimes, the cleverest ones learn to pick the lock."

Selwyn let out a quiet chuckle, this time with genuine amusement. “Interesting. Very interesting. Good luck, Potter.”

Harry rose, offering only a slight nod before turning toward the exit. Later, seated at his desk in the dim glow of the Ravenclaw dormitory, candlelight flickering against the parchment before him, he pressed his quill to the page. His thoughts, once restless, were now sharp, coiled into something precise.

To Eldric Rosier,
I require legal assistance regarding my education. I wish to transfer to a different institution where I can pursue a more rigorous curriculum suited to my academic needs. However, I have reason to believe that my current guardians may have the authority to prevent this. I need to know what legal avenues exist for obtaining independence over my affairs.
I require discretion in this matter. Please advise on the best course of action.
H. J. Potter

He read the letter once, twice, then sealed it and sent it off with his owl. A few days later, a dark-feathered owl delivered a formal letter to Harry. The thick parchment bore Rosier’s wax seal, and Harry’s pulse quickened as he unfolded it.

Mr. Potter,

Your request has been received and reviewed. As anticipated, your ability to transfer institutions is subject to legal constraints. Ministry records identify your legal guardians as Vernon and Petunia Dursley, per standard Muggle adoption procedures. However, this matter is considerably more complex.

In addition to your Muggle guardians, you are also subject to Magical Guardianship under Albus Dumbledore.

This is a highly irregular arrangement, as Magical Guardianship is granted only under specific conditions:

1. When an orphan has no living blood relatives capable of assuming custody.
2. When a child is pending adoption.

Yet, no formal adoption record exists in any registry.

This presents a legal contradiction, as Magical Guardianship is not designed to replace adoption but to facilitate it. The absence of an adoption record suggests that you should have been legally claimed—either by a suitable relative or through a formal adoption process. The fact that this did not occur raises significant legal concerns, particularly regarding whether this process was neglected or deliberately obstructed.

I will conduct further inquiries into this matter. However, at present, be advised: that a transfer to another institution requires the signed approval of both the Dursleys and Albus Dumbledore.

That said, alternative legal avenues may exist. I will update you accordingly.

Now, regarding your inquiry into alternative institutions; Durmstrang Institute presents the most viable option given your stated objectives. Unlike Hogwarts, where the curriculum has been progressively diluted to align with contemporary educational sensibilities, Durmstrang fosters an academic environment built on rigour, mastery, and unrelenting discipline. Students are expected to push themselves well beyond conventional thresholds; those who cannot endure are left behind. Failure is not accommodated. Strength and ambition are not merely cultivated—they are demanded.

By contrast, Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, while equally structured, adheres to a more classical pedagogical framework—one that emphasizes refinement, precision, and structured excellence. While its academic standards surpass those of Hogwarts, it does not instil the same unyielding pursuit of magical advancement that defines Durmstrang.

Given your inclination toward an unrestricted, advanced approach to magical education, I believe Durmstrang aligns most closely with your ambitions.

I will proceed with my investigation into the legal irregularities surrounding your guardianship. Until then, I advise you to consider your next steps carefully.

Eldric Rosier

Rosier was dressed with the precise elegance of a man who understood the power of presentation. His pinstripe suit, tailored to perfection, draped over his frame with effortless refinement, the subtle vertical lines elongating his silhouette. The gleam of his polished Oxford shoes caught the light with each measured step, their sharp precision a reflection of the man himself. A silver pocket watch chain glinted from his waistcoat, a quiet but deliberate symbol of tradition and wealth. Yet, it was the round-tinted glasses—perfectly set upon the bridge of his nose—that lent him an air of quiet inscrutability. Their polished lenses, always immaculately clean, obscured the sharp calculation lurking beneath, giving nothing away. Whether they were meant to shield his gaze or obscure his intent, none could say, but they transformed every glance into a measured assessment, every pause into a deliberate moment of control. With them, Eldric Rosier was less a man and more a cypher—polished, poised, and impenetrable.

He stepped into Gringotts Wizarding Bank, the muffled echo of his footsteps swallowed by the plush carpet that lined the grand marble hall. The scent of aged parchment and ink lingered in the air, mingling with the cold, metallic tang of ancient enchantments woven into the very walls. Here, power was not spoken—it was measured in silence, in gold, in the calculating gazes of those who ruled not through magic alone, but through wealth that outlasted empires. The scent of aged parchment, metallic ink, and old wealth permeated the air, an intoxicating reminder that power was not merely wielded—it was owned. The architecture of Gringotts had always fascinated him. A monolithic tribute to dominion and finance, its towering bronze doors gleamed under enchanted chandeliers, their delicate, wrought-iron filigree betraying an artistry that was almost anachronistic. The interior, however, belonged to an era untouched by modern whimsy—the austere grandeur of the early twentieth-century banking empires, where fortunes were secured behind thick walnut desks, and business was conducted in hushed, reverent tones.

Rosier moved past rows of brass-buttoned chairs and polished counters, where low-ranking clerks bent over heavy ledgers, the scratching of quills a mechanical symphony of record-keeping. Goblins watched with shrewd, predatory attentiveness, their gnarled fingers dancing over parchment that dictated the fates of men more powerful than kings. Here, the Ministry was irrelevant, bloodlines meant everything, and wealth was both shield and blade. He was swiftly ushered into Sharpfang’s office, a chamber that might have belonged to a London financier in 1920, if not for the faint hum of enchantments woven into the thick, oil-rubbed mahogany furniture. Sharpfang’s attire was a study in understated precision, a reflection of both his meticulous nature and the old-world traditions of his kind. His trousers were loose but expertly tailored, allowing ease of movement without sacrificing decorum. A crisp white shirt, immaculately ironed, lay beneath a charcoal vest that bore the faint sheen of well-maintained fabric. Sleeve garters clasped his shirt at the elbows, keeping the fabric taut, while suspenders—functional yet elegant—ensured a perfect fit. Every element of his attire spoke of a time when craftsmanship mattered when even the smallest details were a declaration of authority.

The goblin sat behind a vast, brass-inlaid desk, his razor-sharp nails tapping against the parchment before him, each motion deliberate, as if calculating which secrets to unveil and which to withhold. The room smelled of aged parchment, ink, and the faint metallic tang of old wealth—of gold counted and recounted, of fortunes shifting with the turn of a ledger page.

“Mr. Rosier,” Sharpfang greeted, his voice like rusted steel—harsh, unyielding. “You requested an inquiry into the boy’s financial holdings and inheritance rights.”

With an almost ceremonial air, he unfurled a roll of enchanted parchment, the ink shifting subtly as his sharp eyes skimmed the delicate script. Rosier remained silent. Experience had taught him that goblins worked within their own rhythm—rushing one was a misstep no competent solicitor would make. Sharpfang’s long, yellowed nail traced an entry that flickered faintly with age. His expression darkened—not with surprise, but with something else. Interest. Calculation.

“Curious,” the goblin muttered, his voice almost a growl. “Mr. Potter is not only the heir to the House of Potter… but also holds an unclaimed title within the House of Black.”

Rosier stilled. A slow inhale. A careful exhale.

“Clarify,” he said, the single word carrying the weight of a man who knew that details were weapons.

Sharpfang flicked his nail again, illuminating a faded lineage inscription, the runes shimmering faintly beneath the weight of forgotten magic.

“Harry James Potter is the godson of Sirius Orion Black, recognized under the old bloodline laws of magical guardianship. In the absence of a formal adoption or will, this status grants him a legitimate claim to House Black’s inheritance and title.”

For a long moment, Rosier said nothing. A single clause. A buried tradition. A matter of precedent and oversight. And yet, the implications could not have been greater.

“Then explain,” Rosier finally said, his voice even, deliberate, “why he was placed with Muggles.”

Sharpfang’s lips curled, revealing pointed teeth—not in a smile of amusement, but something colder. A banker’s amusement. The kind reserved for men who believed they understood their own ledgers until a single missing line revealed an account long left to collect dust.

“Ah,” the goblin murmured, his voice laced with something between knowing and contempt. “That, Mr. Rosier, is a question worth asking.”

A slow pause. A deliberate adjustment of the parchment before him.

“It is… highly irregular.”

Rosier’s mind sharpened, slicing through the implications like a honed blade. This was not an accident. It was not mere negligence. This was deliberate. The Headmaster had not simply placed Harry in the Muggle world for protection—he had kept him out of the Black family’s hands. Rosier felt a slow, cold certainty settle in his chest. The spellwork on the parchment did not lie. This was no clerical error. It had been an active intervention, one that had ensured that one of the most powerful wizarding legacies remained untouched, hidden, and buried under the weight of neglect. But now, the game has changed. If Harry Potter was the rightful heir to the House of Black, there was one man who could reclaim him. Rosier’s fingers flexed over the smooth leather binding of his case files, thoughts whirling behind his composed expression. He would need to act swiftly. Arcturus Black needed to be informed.

The walls of Black Manor had stood for centuries, silent witnesses to the rise and fall of empires, to whispered conspiracies and the forging of legacies. Ancestral stone, dark and unyielding, formed its towering façade, every archway and column carved with the sigils of a bloodline that had never bent, never bowed. The manor was a monument to power—cold, imposing, untouchable. The grand study, a chamber of mahogany and iron, was a place where decisions had been made that shaped the course of wizarding Britain. Here, beneath the high coffered ceiling, illuminated by the flickering light of enchanted candelabras, Lord Arcturus Black III sat in his high-backed leather chair, his fingers resting idly against the clawed armrest. A fire burned low in the marble hearth, its embers casting shifting shadows along the ornate wood panelling, the flicker of flame reflecting off the intricate gold inlay that ran along the edges of the massive bookshelves that lined the chamber.

Rosier stood before him, a sharp silhouette against the warm glow of the room, his presence an interruption yet not unwelcome. The polished surface of Arcturus’ massive oak desk, a relic older than most wizarding institutions, gleamed under the candlelight as Rosier placed the parchment upon it with practised precision. Arcturus studied the solicitor through hooded eyes, swirling his brandy in slow, deliberate motions, the amber liquid catching the fire’s glow.

Arcturus took a long, unhurried drag from his cigar, the ember flaring briefly in the dim light. Smoke curled from his lips like a slow exhale of judgment as he studied the man before him. “So,” he said at last, voice smooth but edged with quiet calculation, “you come to me claiming my House has an heir?”

Rosier, ever the pragmatist, merely inclined his head, his response measured. “Not claiming, Lord Black. Establishing.”

He didn’t look at the parchment at once. Instead, he swirled his brandy again—slow, deliberate. The fire crackled, and Arcturus leaned forward, picking up the parchment with long, aristocratic fingers, his sharp eyes scanning its contents. The room held its breath as he read, his expression unreadable save for the minute narrowing of his gaze. Then, after a long silence, he let out a low chuckle, dry as old parchment.

“Sirius’ godson?” He exhaled through his nose. “That reckless fool named a child as his heir and neglected the paperwork?”

Rosier remained impassive. “Legally, Sirius Black retains the status of Head of House. However, in his absence—” a polite euphemism for his incarceration “—the heirship should have been transferred or managed through proper channels. Instead, it was left unresolved.”

Arcturus hummed, his fingers stilling as his gaze darkened. “Dumbledore.”

A single name, delivered like a ruling from the Wizengamot floor. Rosier gave a slow nod, his tone devoid of sentiment but laden with implication. “The record indicates that no formal claim was ever filed on behalf of Potter. Instead, the child was placed under Muggle guardianship while Albus Dumbledore inserted himself as his ‘Magical Guardian’—a role that, under scrutiny, is tenuous at best.”

Arcturus scoffed, setting the parchment down with a casual flick of his wrist. The move was dismissive, but his mind was anything but. A century spent manoeuvring through wizarding politics had left him immune to surprise, but this—this was galling. “Clever,” he admitted, though his voice carried the weight of distaste. “Keep the boy ignorant, ensure his allegiances form where they are most useful. So that when he comes into his fortune, he does so with gratitude—directed toward the very man who kept him weak.”

A slow smirk ghosted across his lips.“But now,” he murmured, almost amused, “he’s sitting in Ravenclaw, writing to solicitors. That suggests he isn’t quite so ignorant anymore.”

Rosier’s thin smile mirrored his own. “More than that—he is acting. He has already begun the process of seeking a transfer to Durmstrang.”

That, at last, made Arcturus pause. His fingers traced absently over the rim of his glass, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. Durmstrang. A school where he still had influence. A school that would not bow to Ministry oversight, nor coddle a child into mediocrity. He reclined slightly, his posture at ease, but his mind was already dissecting the implications. “Interesting. The boy has some sense, then.”

The fire in the grand study crackled softly, the deep, rich scent of aged brandy and smouldering cigar smoke weaving into the air like spectres of a world long accustomed to quiet power. The dim glow of enchanted lamps reflected off the polished mahogany desk, casting shifting light over the ancestral sigils carved into its surface—generations of Black patriarchs who had ruled their bloodline with an iron will. Rosier, ever the tactician, leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable but his intent unmistakable. “If you invoke the statutes of familial adoption, you gain full legal custody. That would supersede Dumbledore’s claim, nullify any interference, and grant Potter the authority to dictate his own future.”

The words hung in the air—an argument not made, but laid out, its conclusion self-evident. Arcturus Black III, whose name had once commanded deference from Ministers and fear from rivals, said nothing at first. His fingers, long and weathered by time yet still firm in their control, tapped idly against the armrest of his chair. The Black family had never been shackled by the constraints of wizarding law. They had shaped it, weaponized it, and turned its intricacies into a fortress against those who sought to dictate their affairs. The statutes of Magical Guardianship had existed to preserve bloodlines, to keep heirs bound to their legacy.

That Dumbledore had wielded it against them—against him—was an insult layered in decades of political slight. But even Albus Dumbledore, manipulator though he was, had made a mistake. Sentiment. It was always sentiment that unravelled even the most carefully laid plans. The old fool had never accounted for what might happen if the boy woke up. And now, here he was—not yet twelve, and already reaching beyond the limitations set for him. He had been paying attention. He had been asking the right questions.

Arcturus exhaled slowly, his fingers brushing over the parchment Rosier had placed before him. The flickering light caught on the gold inlay of the Black crest—untarnished, untouched, waiting. Slowly, almost lazily, his mouth curled into a knowing smile—the kind that had sent lesser men into cold sweats during his time in the Wizengamot. He reached for a fresh piece of parchment, plucking a quill from its stand with the ease of a man who had already made his decision before the words had even been spoken. “Tell the boy to present himself. If he proves worthy, I shall claim him in name and legacy.”

Next to Harry's bed, a parchment arrived in silence. No owl, no tapping at the window—just a sudden shift in the air, like the breath of an old vault opening, followed by the faint scent of aged ink and polished iron. Harry noticed it instantly: a scroll on his desk, bound with a sigil not used by Hogwarts nor the Ministry, but one he recognized from the crests carved into the deepest walls of Gringotts. The seal was obsidian-black wax, pressed with a sigil of crossed scales and a claw. He broke it.

---

To Mr. Harry James Potter,

You are in formal breach of Gringotts Policy Directive IX-C, concerning the failure to respond to a formal notice of unclaimed heirship assets, dated seven days prior.

Your continued silence has triggered Clause 14.2: Mandatory Review of Custodial Holdings.

As such, a representative of Gringotts Bank, Notary Level III, will conduct a direct inquiry.

Please prepare yourself.

Time of Appointment: This afternoon, 4:30 PM. Location: Professor Flitwick’s study.

Failure to attend will result in temporary freezing of vault access until clarification is obtained.

---

No signature. Just the sigil. Burned in.

Harry folded the parchment with care. It was happening. He dressed quietly, robes of midnight blue, crest pinned cleanly. When the hour neared, he climbed down from the Ravenclaw tower, his steps steady, heart beating not from fear—but tension.

Harry’s eyes lingered for a moment longer than intended on the trophies—some dull with age, others gleaming under precise enchantments. It was a quiet constellation of mastery, earned not declared. He had known Flitwick was respected, but this… this was legacy etched in silver and gold. He didn’t speak, didn’t shift, didn’t allow it to break his composure—but somewhere beneath the stillness, awe unfurled like a slow breath. So much power, and not a trace of arrogance. It humbled him, though he would never admit it aloud.

“I received word that a representative from Gringotts wished to speak with you, Harry,” he said, glancing up. “They were... unusually insistent. Not entirely impolite, but quite firm.”

Before Harry could answer, the fire roared to life in the hearth, flames leaping in unnatural green. Floo-certified powder shimmered like crushed emeralds in the low light. Grellk stepped through, composed and unhurried. He wore a crisp white shirt with narrow-sleeve garters cinched at the elbows, a fitted black vest, and formal black trousers pressed to a perfect crease. His shoes were polished to a mirror shine, each step measured, deliberate. As he adjusted his silver cufflinks—each marked with finely etched goblin runes—he cast a glance around the room, sharp and appraising. He remembered that some debts never fade with time; they simply wait to be collected.

Professor Flitwick stood to the side, his posture impeccable, expression unreadable beneath decades of disciplined restraint. Behind him, forgotten and dust-covered, a framed proposal for a Duelling Elective rested against the wall—three decades of rejection in a single, silent reminder. He glanced at Harry—not soft, not stern. Just exact.

Professor Flitwick stood, half-bowing out of ancient courtesy. “Notary Grellk. You are most welcome.”

The flames surged again. Rosier followed, calm and composed, his robes settling as he stepped through with the grace of a man to whom control was second nature. He wore a three-piece suit of charcoal herringbone tweed, cut with razor precision and tailored to suggest quiet authority rather than flamboyance. A pair of circular, darkly transparent lenses rested upon the bridge of his nose—striking not for their tint, but for the delicate silver chain affixed to either temple, looping neatly behind his ears and vanishing into the fold of his collar. “Eldric Rosier,” he said smoothly, voice measured and urbane. “Legal counsel to Mr. Potter.”

Grellk stated “I am here under terms of the Ancient Banking Compact,” the goblin replied without looking at him, his voice dry and formal. His sharp eyes were on Harry. “Article Eleven, Clause Seventeen. The House of Potter has failed to respond to Gringott's correspondence. That failure is not tolerated.”

Eldric Rosier offered the smallest of bows. Impeccably dressed, his voice dripped with aristocratic calm. “A legal review of custodial holdings. Mr Potter has received no fewer than four letters in the past month—none of which have reached him. It is, I’m afraid, become a legal matter.”

Filius rose, folding his hands behind his back as he crossed the room to the hearth, where the fire’s restless glow danced across the walls, and asked, delicately but without weakness, “You’re certain this is only a financial inquiry?”

Grellk snapped the hinge of a steel scroll case open and produced a document edged in runic gold, eyes narrowing. “This is a matter of bloodline holdings. As per Gringotts-Britain Protocol 329-F, all such meetings are to be held with privacy and urgency. I will require Mr. Potter to accompany me to complete the necessary review and verification of custodial discrepancies.”

Professor Flitwick gave a slow nod, eyes drifting to Harry.

Rosier checked his watch—an old Gringotts-certified chronometer, its hands glinting with runic engravings. “Seventeen fifty-nine,” he said softly.

“I do hope you ask the proper questions,” he said, voice like a quill scratching on parchment.

Harry nodded once. “I intend to.”

Grellk stepped toward the hearth, eyes gleaming like cut garnet. His tone was clipped, his diction surgical. “Time is capital. Delay incurs cost. Departure—immediate.” Without waiting for a reply, he vanished in a twist of green fire, as efficient and irrevocable as a finalized ledger.

Rosier turned to Flitwick with a nod that was at once respectful and formal—more closing argument than courtesy. “Our appreciation, Professor. We shall consider this cooperation an informal endorsement—unless otherwise specified, of course.”

Then, to Harry, in a voice smooth as vellum and sharp as inked parchment “Clause by clause, Mr. Black. Never let them define the terms for you.”

And in a whirl of cold flame and shadow-black robes, he too disappeared. Harry remained one breath longer. Just long enough to let the silence acknowledge his choice. His gaze was unreadable. But not uncertain. And then—he stepped into the fire. And with that, the game truly began. Harry emerged into a cathedral of silence. Gringotts’ main hall was vast and cold, its marble polished to an unnatural sheen. The chandeliers above hung like frozen lightning, catching the green firelight as Rosier arrived behind him, perfectly composed. Grellk waited without turning.

“Follow,” he said crisply. “We are not here for spectacle.”

They passed towering columns and rows of goblin tellers who barely looked up—though a few sharp eyes did flicker, taking a measure of the boy in Ravenclaw robes flanked by a solicitor and a senior notary. It took less than thirty seconds to reach the iron doors at the far end—doors with no handles, no hinges, only runes and a deep sense of consequence.

Grellk held up his ringed hand. The door responded, unfolding with the quiet hiss of spell-forged stone. “In here,” he said. “Private Floo access. Vault-cleared destination.”

The chamber beyond was sparse—walls of slate, a single brass inlay of the Gringotts crest, and a circular hearth glowing with prepared flame. The room smelled faintly of parchment, dragon ash, and old magic.

Rosier checked his chronometer. “Eighteen-oh-one.”

He turned to Harry.“Next step. He knows you're coming.”

Harry’s only reply was a step forward, measured and calm. Rosier followed. Together, they took their places in front of the fire. Rosier gave Harry the nod. Harry pinched the Floo powder between his fingers.

“Black Manor,” he said.

Black Manor had stood for centuries, its foundations laid in an era where power was not given, but seized, its walls carved with the sigils of a bloodline that had never yielded. The vast corridors, adorned with dark oak panelling and flickering torches that cast elongated shadows across polished obsidian floors, stretched endlessly, an architectural testament to both lineage and unshakable dominion.

Arcturus Black III sat behind his imposing mahogany desk, a relic of a bygone century, its clawed feet rooted deep into the Black family legacy. Behind him, stained-glass windows filtered dim light through intricate patterns of ancestral crests, their colours muted by the heavy storm rolling over the sky outside. The scent of aged parchment, cigar smoke, and old magic clung to the air like an echo of history refusing to be forgotten. He studied the boy before him with the same keen, dissecting gaze he had once reserved for rivals in the Wizengamot—assessing weaknesses, weighing potential. Rosier was standing to the side, silent as polished obsidian, observing with the detached acuity of a man measuring whether the iron in the boy's spine would hold under legacy's weight. Harry Potter did not flinch beneath his scrutiny. He wore his mask well—calm, composed, his stance exact. But Arcturus had lived too long, seen too many boys try too hard. For the briefest instant, something flickered behind those green eyes—uncertainty, perhaps, or wonder. It was gone before it settled, smoothed over like ink under a drying spell. But Arcturus had seen it. The crack was hair-thin, but it was there. And it told him far more than words would’ve.

“So, you want to leave Hogwarts?” His voice was smooth, the weight of his years evident in the deliberate cadence of each word.

Harry’s reply was just as steady. “Yes.”

A simple answer, but not a desperate one. That was something. Arcturus exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “And why should I assist you?”

Harry did not rush to answer. He stood with the quiet confidence of someone who understood the value of measured words. “Dumbledore has placed obstacles in my path under the pretence of guidance. Hogwarts, for all its prestige, is built to produce mediocrity, not mastery. The House of Black holds the means to correct that oversight. I am here because I prefer to take control of my own future rather than leave it in the hands of those who would squander it.”

A long silence stretched between them. Arcturus leaned forward slightly, his sharp eyes narrowing—not with scepticism, but with the curiosity of a man examining an artefact of unknown origin. His gaze drifted, deliberately, to Harry’s hands. The skin along his fingers, his knuckles—rough. Not the soft, untarnished hands of a boy raised in privilege, nor even the calloused grip of a duelist. These were the hands of someone accustomed to labour. The realization sent a slow, calculating shift through Arcturus' thoughts. This was not just about Hogwarts. His mind turned over the details—the Muggles, the placement, the deliberate severance from his heritage. Dumbledore had placed him there. Left him there. Arcturus' lips curled slightly in understanding. So that was the game. Then, with a dry, knowing chuckle, he leaned back into his chair. “Cunning, ambition, and intelligence. And here I thought the Potter name had made you soft.”

He tapped two fingers idly against the desk, considering. The boy’s words were not mere arrogance; they were a statement of intent. And intent, when properly guided, was the foundation upon which power was built. His decision was already made. “Very well. You will be adopted into the House of Black. That will remove Dumbledore’s claim over you.”

Harry let out a slow breath—not in relief, but as if something had settled into place, like the final click of a warded lock yielding to the correct sequence. It was not the exhalation of someone released from pressure, but the quiet composure of a player who had just moved a decisive piece on the board, knowing the game would shift because of it. He returned to Hogwarts through the same green fire that had carried him away, robes whispering like a shadow against stone, his expression unreadable—except to those who understood the significance of silence. Arcturus, meanwhile, turned to Rosier with the weight of dynastic authority, his voice low but absolute. “You will remain,” he said, not as a request but as a pronouncement. “there are matters we must discuss.”

The true wielders of power in the wizarding world were not the loudest voices in the Wizengamot chambers nor the ministers who postured before the press. Power belonged to those who controlled the levers behind the scenes, who had the means to apply pressure without ever lifting a wand. Lord Arcturus Black III had long mastered the game. He had lived through wars, outlasted ministers, and built a network of favours, blackmail, and quiet coercion so vast that it stretched across generations. And now, he would use every last thread of it to strip Albus Dumbledore of his hold over the Black heir and solidify Harry Potter as his own. If Arcturus had attempted to remove Dumbledore’s control through a purely legal route, he would have been met with a wall of bureaucracy, obstruction, and Ministry red tape.
Instead, he did not ask for permission. He ensured compliance.

The morning before the hearing, a quiet but effective campaign was set into motion. Private letters, coded messages, and whispered reminders of old favours reached the desks of the most influential Wizengamot members.

To Lord Greengrass: A reminder that the Black family held the documents proving his father’s tax evasion.

To Lord Nott: The Black family had covered up an incident involving an unregistered duel—one that had ended with a dead body and no consequences.

To Lady Zabini: A well-placed note that read: "We both know how your third husband died. So does the Black family."

To ex-Minister, Millicent Bagnold: A simple, understated message: "A certain vote you cast in 1974 was not entirely of your own volition. Consider that before making your next decision."

By the time the Wizengamot convened, the opposition was silent.

Lucius Malfoy sat in the Wizengamot, his expression carefully composed, yet the sharp glint in his eyes betrayed his unease. The reappearance of the House of Black had sent ripples through the chamber, unsettling those who had long believed the old dynasty to be a thing of the past. For thirteen years, Arcturus Black had been nothing more than a relic—a man whose once-commanding presence had withered into near irrelevance, his silence mistaken for resignation, his absence interpreted as surrender.

Yet now, as Arcturus sat once more in his ancestral seat, there was no trace of the dying man they had grown accustomed to ignoring. The difference was stark. Before, he had seemed like a man half in the grave—tired, indifferent, watching from the shadows as the world shifted around him. His last appearance in the chamber had been unremarkable, his voice absent from votes that once would have shaped the course of wizarding Britain. But this was not the Arcturus Black of thirteen years ago. This was Lord Black, restored, resurgent.

The weight of his presence was palpable, pressing against the room like a held breath before a storm. He had not spoken yet—not truly. He had not needed to. His very presence in the chamber was a statement in itself. A statement that carried a silent but undeniable message: The House of Black has returned, and it will not be ignored. Lucius Malfoy’s fingers curled subtly over the polished armrest of his seat, his mind already racing through the implications. He had seen Arcturus Black wither—seen him as a man at death’s door, a relic of a bygone era who had resigned himself to irrelevance. And yet, even then, Lucius had never felt entirely at ease. There was something about the Blacks, something that lingered beneath the surface, unbroken even in apparent decline.

Arcturus had not been absent out of weakness, nor had his retreat been the resignation of a dying man—it had been something else. A pause. A calculation. Or so Lucius told himself. Perhaps he was merely rationalizing his own inaction, overanalyzing the years of Black silence, second-guessing whether it had been a deliberate strategy or simply surrender. But now, with the claiming of Harry Potter as his heir, there was no more room for doubt. The Black name was no longer a fading shadow in the halls of power. Arcturus had returned, and the future of the Wizengamot would bend to his will once more.

Malfoy understood political manoeuvring better than most. He had worked tirelessly over the past decade to solidify his influence, ensuring that his voice carried weight in these chambers. He had shaped alliances, cultivated debts, and positioned himself as an indispensable force within the aristocracy. But Arcturus Black’s resurgence threatened to shift the balance—for if the Blacks were truly back, then the weight of their name alone could reshape the political landscape overnight.

For now, Arcturus simply watched. His sharp, calculating gaze drifted over the gathered lords and ladies of the Wizengamot, as though he were measuring their worth, assessing their usefulness or irrelevance. It was a gaze that had once struck fear into the chamber, and now, after more than a decade, it was back. Lucius could not yet discern what game Arcturus intended to play—but he knew, beyond doubt, that the old man had not returned to sit idly by.

No one spoke in defence of Dumbledore’s guardianship. The vote was unanimous. Dumbledore was out. And no one—not even the so-called Leader of the Light—could challenge the decision without implicating themselves in something far worse. Of course, stripping Dumbledore of control was only the first step. Harry, legally, was still a minor. Without the proper manoeuvring, he could simply end up back under Ministry oversight, a ward of the state—a pawn to be used however they saw fit. Arcturus preempted this entirely. Before the Ministry could even consider stepping in, a formal motion was raised in the Wizengamot:

"The House of Black, being an ancient and sovereign family, invokes its right to claim its own lost heir."

"The child known as Harry James Potter has Black lineage through magical guardianship and Blood, which remains legally binding in the absence of a recognized will."

"As Lord Black, I declare my intent to recognize him as heir, securing his rights under the traditions of the Sacred Twenty-Eight."

This motion was met with no resistance. Not because there was no one who objected—but because no one dared.

Albus stepped forward. “He is still a Hogwarts student,” he said, calm but firm. “And the term is ongoing. I will be taking him back to school.”

But Arcturus did not so much as flinch. “No,” he said smoothly, with the quiet power of someone unafraid of consequence. “You forget, Chief Warlock—under the laws of House Authority, I have the right to summon my heir for instruction in his duties. A right long respected by this very body.”

“That custom is traditionally invoked when the heir is of age,” Dumbledore countered.

“And yet, it is not bound by age,” Arcturus replied, voice sharp and unyielding. “only by blood and by name. Both of which he now bears as mine.”

He turned toward Harry, who stood quietly near the edge of the dais. “The weekend is hardly a disruption. I will have my time with my heir—time to educate him in matters Hogwarts cannot. Or would not.”

There was no argument left. The silence that followed was not uncertainty—but resignation. Harry walked to Arcturus without a word. Dumbledore watched him go, the folds of his robes unmoving, the eyes behind the glasses narrowed—calculating. The doors to the chamber opened wide, and together, Harry and Arcturus stepped into the corridors of power.

The House of Black had always known that power was more than inheritance—it was identity. For Harry to truly be one of them, the magic that bound the Black lineage together had to accept him. In the depths of Black Manor, within a chamber older than the Ministry itself, the ritual took place. The very air was thick with the weight of generations, of names whispered in history’s annals—some revered, some reviled, but all etched into the lineage of power.

The room, circular and lined with polished obsidian, bore the inscribed names of every heir to the House of Black dating back to the Middle Ages. The stone pulsed faintly, thrumming with the ancient enchantments woven into the family’s bloodline. Here, history did not merely exist—it judged. At the chamber’s center stood an ornate silver basin, filled with a potion that gleamed with unnatural light—an alchemical blend meant to do more than simply recognize an heir. It would bind Harry to the Black name, weaving his magic into the very foundation of the family’s legacy.

Arcturus Black III stood before him, as he had before many heirs in his lifetime—though never one quite like this. His gaze swept over Harry, noting the unwavering set of his shoulders, the quiet certainty in his stance. But once again, it was his hands that caught Arcturus’ attention. The roughness, the signs of labour. They were not the hands of a boy raised in privilege, nor those of an heir who had been nurtured in the careful refinement of high society. They were a mark of what had been denied to him. And that, more than anything, angered Arcturus.

Dorea’s grandson had been left to be shaped by unworthy hands. The thought settled into his bones like ice, but his voice remained level, absolute. “Do you accept the name of Black, not as a title, but as a responsibility?”

Harry’s response was not hesitant. “I do.”

Arcturus took the ceremonial dagger from its velvet stand—a blade older than some wizarding dynasties, its edge kissed by centuries of power and sacrifice. The Black family had always understood that blood was not just inheritance—it was currency, it was power, it was binding. Without hesitation, he drew the blade across his own palm first. Thick, dark blood dripped into the basin, and the potion hissed in response, swirling as if tasting something it had long craved. Then, he took Harry’s hand, pressing the cool edge of the dagger against his palm. Harry did not flinch.

A single drop of his blood fell into the basin, and the change was immediate. Magic rippled through the room, a low hum that rolled through the walls, the floors, the very foundation of the manor. The potion surged upward, twisting into a liquid tendril of silver that coiled around Harry’s wrist, slithering up his arm like a living thing. It burned—not painfully, but with an intensity that sank into his very marrow. Arcturus raised his chin, his voice steady as he spoke the words that would alter the course of history.

“By blood and by name, by legacy and by will, let the House of Black claim its rightful heir.”

A shockwave of magic pulsed outward. The chamber recognized him. The ancestral wards of Black Manor shifted, realigning, adjusting, folding themselves around the boy like a cloak. It was subtle but undeniable—where before Harry had been merely a guest, he was now something more. And then, the final testament. Arcturus turned his gaze to the stone wall where the names of the Black heirs were carved—the ledger of bloodlines that had stood longer than any wizarding institution. The stone trembled. At first, the inscription appeared as it always had:

Harry James Potter.

Then, like ink dissolving in water, the letters wavered, twisted, and reshaped themselves into something new.

Harry James Black.

Arcturus exhaled—not in relief, but in deep, deliberate satisfaction. His gaze lingered on the name etched into stone, the firelight catching in the grooves as though the wall itself had bled to accept it.

“It is done,” he said, his voice like old granite—weathered, unyielding. The words hung in the chamber not as a celebration, but as a reckoning.

He looked to Harry then, studying him with the calm scrutiny of a man who had seen empires rise and fall—who knew the difference between inheritance and worth.

“The name is yours,” he said at last, the faintest edge of promise curling at the rim of his tone. “meaning lies not in the past, but in what we do next.”

Harry did not speak, but Arcturus saw it—the faintest curl of a smirk at the corner of his lips. The boy understood what had just happened. Somewhere beyond these walls, Albus Dumbledore would soon feel the shift. Arcturus studied him, then gave the smallest nod of approval. The Weekend at Black Manor bore no resemblance to the structured trivialities of Hogwarts. Here, in the ancestral seat of a dynasty that had endured centuries of political machinations, power was not merely discussed—it was embodied, wielded, and cultivated with precision. The lessons imparted were neither dictated by the rigid syllabi of a bureaucratic institution nor diluted for the sensibilities of the mediocre. Instead, they were imparted through a subtle interplay of authority, perception, and controlled dominance.

Lord Arcturus Black III did not instruct in the manner of a professor, nor did he condescend to explain the obvious. Instead, he demonstrated, his every movement, word, and silence calculated for maximum effect. Etiquette, as he taught it, was a manifestation of control, an instrument through which one commanded deference and shaped discourse before a single spell was cast. Presence was a weapon, wielded with nuance, and power was not something one merely possessed but something one exuded, demanded, and expected. Harry listened. He observed. He adapted. He carried himself with deliberate composure, his speech measured, his gaze unwavering, his movements calibrated to reflect both deference and quiet authority. He was no longer a boy caught between the dictates of an institution and the expectations of others. He was something more—something self-defined.

It was during one such evening, after a protracted discussion on social manoeuvring and political discretion, that Arcturus took notice of Harry’s lingering gaze upon one of the darker sections of the Black Library.
Harry had not reached for a book, nor had he spoken, yet his intent was discernible—a precise, calculated interest, evident only to those who understood what to look for. A flicker of recognition passed through Arcturus’s gaze, accompanied by a subtle exhalation that was neither approval nor reprimand but something in between. Without ceremony, he stepped forward, his fingers brushing against the spines of tomes whose contents had shaped generations of sorcerers, before retrieving a volume and turning it in his hand.

A dark leather-bound tome, silver-embossed, the year barely visible beneath the wear of age—Dark Arts: Grade One. Published 1912.

"This," Arcturus intoned, his voice edged with both gravity and expectation, "is where you begin."

Harry accepted it without hesitation, the weight of the book anchoring in his palm with a significance that needed no articulation.

Arcturus studied him for a moment longer before continuing, his voice devoid of indulgence yet carrying an implicit warning. "I will not limit you." A simple declaration, but one that held implications far beyond its surface.

"However, knowledge without foundation is both dangerous and ineffective. Some books do not instruct—they presume. They assume the reader understands the risks, the intricacies, the consequences."
A pause. A measured shift in his posture conveyed the unspoken understanding that Harry was neither a fool nor a child.

"I will show you how to approach them. But first, the rudiments. Mastery is not achieved by vaulting over the fundamentals but by cementing them so deeply into one’s being that they are instinct rather than knowledge."
There was no need for gratitude, no expectation of fawning appreciation. Harry merely inclined his head—not as a student receiving instruction, but as an heir acknowledging a mentor.

As he turned, book in hand, Arcturus added, almost in afterthought, his tone tinged with the faintest trace of amusement. "I have written an index for this library. It is housed in the cabinet by the fireplace. I suggest you familiarize yourself with it—efficiency is paramount."

And with that, Arcturus resumed his seat, his attention shifting back to the documents spread before him, as though the exchange had been of no great consequence. Harry did not speak. He did not need to. As he departed, the tome pressed firmly against his palm, a realization settled within him—a conviction, solidified and absolute. This was how it should have always been. Not rote learning, but understanding. Not restriction, but discernment. Not blind adherence to doctrine, but the pursuit of true mastery.
Hogwarts had given him walls; the House of Black had handed him the key.

Albus Dumbledore sat quietly in his office, the usual comforting presence of softly ticking instruments and gently humming portraits now distinctly absent, drowned beneath the weight of troubling memories. The shadows seemed deeper tonight, pooling heavily in the corners of the room and around the edges of his desk, as though reflecting the darkness that had begun to unravel his carefully laid plans.

He had meticulously orchestrated Harry’s upbringing: Sirius Black was imprisoned in Azkaban, and denied any opportunity to raise his godson; all adoption requests from prominent wizarding families were quietly redirected or conveniently lost. The boy’s placement with the Dursleys had been deliberate—an environment calculated to keep him compliant, malleable, and ultimately grateful for the rescue. Dumbledore had imagined himself as the steady, kind figure Harry would inevitably turn to, a trusted grandfatherly mentor guiding a vulnerable child along a carefully chosen path. But now, as he stared silently into the crackling fire, Dumbledore recalled the cold, absolute certainty in Arcturus Black’s declaration before the Wizengamot.

The old wizard’s fingers tightened around the edges of his desk, knuckles whitening beneath the strain. He had underestimated Arcturus Black’s willingness—and, more dangerously, his capability—to reclaim the boy. The Wizengamot had been silent, not out of indecision or fear, but rather because no counterargument existed. The ancient authority of the Black family had superseded every safeguard Dumbledore had so carefully erected.

His plans had relied upon Harry remaining ignorant of his heritage, cut off from familial allies powerful enough to challenge Dumbledore’s influence. Yet, in one stroke, Arcturus had undone a decade’s worth of careful manipulation. The wards had shifted, the magic rewritten. Harry Potter no longer existed as a vulnerable orphan guided by Dumbledore’s kind hand. Instead, Harry James Black had risen—protected, armed with knowledge, and fully beyond Albus’s reach. Dumbledore’s gaze shifted to the window, the night outside now a thick, oppressive blackness, mirroring the dark and unwelcome realization inside him. He had miscalculated gravely, and the repercussions were only just beginning.

The thick parchment bore the Durmstrang crest, its deep crimson wax seal unbroken, the sharp lines of Igor Karkaroff’s name scrawled with deliberate authority. The owl that had delivered it lingered on the stone balustrade, its amber eyes gleaming in the dim candlelight of Black Manor’s grand study. Harry sat at the vast mahogany desk—his desk now, as much as it was Arcturus’s—his fingers tracing the parchment’s edge before breaking the seal. The wax cracked a sharp, deliberate sound that echoed faintly against the coffered ceiling and dark panelling. He unfolded the letter, eyes scanning its contents with the same quiet intensity that had come to define him. The words were precise, their weight unmistakable.

Mr. Black,

Your application to Durmstrang Institute has been formally reviewed and provisionally approved. However, in light of both the academic calendar and the exceptional nature of your transfer request, a preliminary examination shall be required to ascertain your aptitude and ensure your seamless integration into our advanced curriculum.

This assessment is non-negotiable. You are expected to exhibit demonstrable proficiency in all core subjects, as well as the intellectual rigour necessary to engage with an uncompromising standard of magical education. Additionally, given the unique focus of our institution, an evaluation of your aptitude in the Dark Arts will be conducted. Durmstrang does not accommodate students who lack either the will or the capacity to pursue magic in its purest, most unrestrained form.

Your examination date shall be communicated in due course. Ensure you are adequately prepared.

Headmaster Igor Karkaroff

Arcturus observed Harry with a calculating eye as the boy finished reading the letter, his expression composed yet sharpened with thought. The flickering fire cast elongated shadows along the dark panelling of the Black study, the weight of history pressing in from every carved crest and inscribed lineage. The parchment trembled slightly under Harry’s fingertips—not from hesitation, but from the sheer weight of implication.

“They will test me in the Dark Arts,” Harry said, the words measured, contemplative.

Arcturus inclined his head. “Of course. Durmstrang does not waste time gauging the limits of its students. They will test you for aptitude—not just in conventional subjects, but in how well you grasp magic as a force to be wielded.” His gaze flickered towards the Dark Arts: Grade One, 1912 Edition, its embossed silver title catching the dim light. “You will not be asked about the ministry-approved incantations or their half-hearted countermeasures. They will assess your ability to think beyond restrictions.”

Harry gave a single nod, his mind already moving forward. He had expected no less.

“But that will not be enough.” Arcturus reached for his glass, swirling the brandy once before setting it down untasted. “They will evaluate your understanding of magical philosophy as much as spellwork. The ability to perceive magic, not simply use it. You will take the Mind Arts—they are indispensable.”

Harry’s gaze sharpened slightly. “They are illegal in Britain.”

Arcturus smirked. “And what of it? They are not illegal in Durmstrang, nor are they optional if you intend to excel. Legilimency is not merely about reading minds—it is about understanding them. Occlumency is not just a shield—it is control.” He leaned back, studying the boy in front of him. “Those without such training are at the mercy of others, their thoughts laid bare for those who know where to look.”

Harry’s fingers tapped once against the armrest of his chair, processing.

“Ancient Linguistics as well,” Arcturus continued smoothly, moving on as if his previous declaration required no further discussion. "language is the key to unlocking forgotten knowledge. The older the spell, the less likely it is to conform to modern theory. Latin alone will not serve you. You will need Akkadian, Norse, various Runic dialects, and—if you have true ambition—Hieroglyphic, Hieratic, and Demotic Egyptian."

Harry did not argue. He had read his mother’s words—the regret of knowledge not pursued. He would not make the same mistake.

Arcturus watched as the realization settled in the boy’s expression, the gears turning behind those clever green eyes. Good. Let him think. Let him plot his own trajectory, carve his own path.

Finally, Harry exhaled, deliberate and steady. “Then I will be ready.”

Arcturus smirked, reaching once more for the heavy tome on the desk, pressing it forward with a single finger.

“Then read faster, grandson. Tomorrow, we begin in earnest.”

The study was dim, lit only by two long tapers of enchanted wax and the embers curling low in the hearth. Outside, the storm rolled in from the sea, thunder rumbling like some ancient thing turning in its sleep. The northern wing of Black Manor had always been colder, built of deeper stone, the kind that remembered.

Harry sat with his back straight, ink on his fingers, the pages before him crowded with scripts older than any taught at Hogwarts. One was Old Norse, the other a priest’s hand from Hellenistic Alexandria—elegant, but obfuscated. A third carried markings that weren’t so much written as etched by magic itself, the kind of script that rearranged itself if read too casually.

Across from him, Arcturus Black observed in silence. His face, worn by years and discipline, was half-sketched in shadow.

"That line there," Arcturus said finally, tapping the upper margin, "translates three ways—depending on whether you're reading it as a scholar, a sorcerer, or a weapon."

Harry didn’t glance up. “I assume I’m expected to read it as all three.”

“You assume correctly.” Arcturus stepped away from the desk, the slow click of his cane echoing across the stone floor. He walked to the tall window, where lightning briefly etched his silhouette in silver. "Durmstrang doesn’t teach students to perform magic. It trains them to understand why magic performs them."

Harry looked up now.

“They don’t waste time with childish wandwork,” Arcturus continued. “By the time you arrive, you’re expected to understand how intent interfaces with ritual. How the lay lines beneath your feet shape the outcome of a binding. How a wand core of Thestral hair will respond differently to grief than one of the unicorns. They won’t coddle you. But they will test your will.”

"I’m ready," Harry said, quiet but firm.

“No,” Arcturus replied, turning. “You’re not. But you will be.”

He reached for a nearby shelf, selecting a slim, black-bound tome and placing it in front of Harry. The sigil on the cover shimmered like oil across obsidian.

“Comparative Rhetoric in Magical Law,” Harry read aloud. “It’s not in the Hogwarts curriculum.”

“Obviously.” Arcturus gave a faint smile—wry and cold. “You’ll need it when they test your ability to argue a binding clause mid-duel. Durmstrang teaches spellcasting not just as power—but as language. They’ll want to know you can out-think an enemy while bleeding.”

Harry’s gaze lowered to the text again, focused. Composed. “I’m not worried about the pain.”

“Good,” Arcturus said, voice clipped. “Then you’ll be fine when they put a blade in your hand and ask whether you understand sacrifice—or are merely pretending to.”

He turned away again, his voice quieter now, but no less sharp. “Hogwarts will keep you safe. Durmstrang will make you dangerous.”

Outside, the wind howled against the ancient stone, and Harry turned the page.

That morning, as Harry was returning to Hogwarts, a black-feathered owl descended through the mist, dropping a thick envelope into his hands. The parchment was heavy, sealed with crimson wax bearing the crest of the Durmstrang Institute.
Inside, the letter read.

To Mr. Harry James Black,

Following the preliminary review of your application, your entrance examination has been formally scheduled. You are to present yourself at the designated location for assessment as follows:

• Date: 15th October 1991
• Time: 16:00 sharp
• Location: Secluded estate, outskirts of Hogsmeade (Specific details will be disclosed upon arrival).

The examination will be conducted by Professor Anna Răzvan, a senior faculty member specializing in Dark Arts and Magical History. You are expected to demonstrate aptitude across the following disciplines:

Core Subjects:

• Transfiguration
• Charms
• Potions
• Defence Against the Dark Arts
• Arithmancy
• Ancient Runes
• Magical Theory

Specialized Testing:

• The Dark Arts – A rigorous evaluation of foundational and intermediate principles, spellwork application, and theoretical comprehension.

Durmstrang maintains a zero-tolerance policy for mediocrity. Should your performance be deemed inadequate, your acceptance will be rescinded. You are advised to prepare accordingly.

Note: The examination will be conducted under strict conditions of secrecy. You will be escorted by your solicitor, Eldric Rosier, to ensure all formalities are met. Arrive prepared.

Headmaster Igor Karkaroff

It was the evening of October 15th, 1991, and the village of Hogsmeade was slowly surrendering to twilight. Eldric Rosier was clad in a maroon three-piece suit, its rich fabric catching the dim light with subdued elegance. A crisp white shirt lay beneath the fitted waistcoat, accented by a sleek black tie, its knot perfectly symmetrical. The glint of a pocket watch chain gleamed against the deep hue of his vest, a subtle but unmistakable marker of refinement and old-world sophistication.

The autumn air was sharp, carrying the crisp scent of dying leaves and distant woodsmoke as Rosier led Harry Black through the winding, dimly lit backstreets of Hogsmeade. The village, still murmuring with the warmth of early evening life, gradually fell away behind them, its glow receding like a memory. Ahead, nestled against the looming edge of the Forbidden Forest, stood a secluded stone house—its silhouette half-swallowed by ivy, its presence quiet but deliberate, as though waiting for their arrival.

It was old, its walls half-swallowed by creeping ivy, its presence unassuming yet deliberate—a house forgotten, yet waiting. Harry had expected something grander, perhaps a warded fortress-like Black Manor or a secretive enclave of Durmstrang influence. Instead, the building stood quietly and patiently, much like the one waiting inside. Rosier drew the ornate watch from his waistcoat, it is ticking soft but relentless. His gaze—cold, exacting, unblinking—never shifted as he tucked it away once more. He said nothing as he approached the heavy oak door, rapping twice—short, sharp knocks. There was no delay. The door creaked open as if expecting them. Inside, the room was dim, illuminated only by flickering candlelight. The scent of parchment, aged wood, and something metallic—faint, but unmistakable—hung in the air. The study bore no excess—just a dark wood table, a few chairs, and shelves lined with tomes whose bindings were nearly as ancient as the wizarding world itself. 

Seated at the table, Professor Anna Răzvan observed them with an unsettling stillness.

The dark mascara encircling her blue eyes deepened their piercing intensity in the low light, making them seem almost otherworldly as they settled upon Harry. Framed by long, sooty lashes, they stood in stark contrast to the alabaster pallor of her porcelain-smooth skin—untouched by age or imperfection. The bold red of her lips, vivid against her ghostly complexion, lent her an uncanny semblance of life. Draped in the resplendence of a bygone era, she was a vision of meticulous, deliberate refinement, every detail of her attire an echo of a time when elegance was a discipline, not mere adornment.

Her gown, a masterpiece of Edwardian fashion, conformed flawlessly to the rigid elegance of the S-curve silhouette. The polished leather bodice, tightly corseted, sculpted her waist into a narrow shape, accentuating the graceful arch of her spine and the poised, commanding lift of her shoulders. The intricate embroidery of spiderwebs adorned the fabric, each delicate thread catching the candlelight in glimmers of obsidian radiance. The embellishments, sewn with an artistry that spoke of both wealth and generations of refinement, shimmered a testament to craftsmanship honed through time.

Over this, she wore a long, trailing robe of black silk, its high collar standing rigid against the nape of her slender neck, framing her face like the portrait of an empress untouched by time. The fabric shimmered with a dark lustre in the candlelight, flowing around her like a liquid shadow. Beneath the hem, her glossy black heels gleamed, adding to her height and furthering the illusion of a figure—a beauty that was too still, too unyielding to belong to the living.

She exhaled softly, a sound that carried no warmth. “Mr. Black. You are on time.”

Harry inclined his head in greeting.

Rosier stepped back, leaning against the bookshelves—present, but uninvolved.

Anna’s fingers drummed lightly against the polished wood of the desk, the deep crimson of her nails catching the flickering candlelight. “We will begin.”

Harry’s assessment for Durmstrang Institute was designed to test both his theoretical knowledge and practical ability, particularly in the Dark Arts—a subject Hogwarts had failed to teach but one that Durmstrang demanded mastery over.

The test was divided into three parts:

1. Core Subject Examination – Written and verbal assessment in Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Magical Theory.
2. Dark Arts & Combat Proficiency – A practical demonstration testing his instinct, spellwork, and understanding of magic as a force beyond ministry-sanctioned limitations.
3. Written and practical of the remaining Subjects.

Anna lifted a fresh parchment, her quill hovering in silence before she spoke.

Her voice was measured, coldly precise, demanding answers with neither indulgence nor expectation.

• Transfiguration – Theoretical applications of Gamp’s Law, the moral and magical consequences of sentient transfiguration.
• Charms – Spell layering, silent casting techniques, and non-verbal invocation theory.
• Potions – Potion modification, identifying rare ingredients by scent alone, and counteracting failed mixtures.
• Arithmancy – Complex number matrices and their relation to spellcasting efficiency.
• Ancient Runes: Translation of fragmented runic inscriptions, comparative linguistic breakdowns between Norse, Egyptian, and Latin script in spellcraft.
• Magical Theory – The nature of magical lay lines, the impact of wand cores on spell precision, and the interplay between ritual magic and intent.

Harry’s responses were concise, exact, and spoken with calm certainty—the product of both relentless study and the quiet, methodical instruction he had received at Black Manor.

Anna’s quill scratched across the parchment, noting his responses. She did not praise. She did not react. Then, at last, she set the parchment aside. And the room grew colder. Anna leaned forward slightly, folding her hands atop the table.

“Now, Mr. Black,” she said, her voice dipping into something almost amused, almost indulgent. “You will show me what you truly are.”

A pause. She did not raise her wand, yet the air in the room shifted, the very shadows leaning toward her. The wraith slithered forth, a construct neither living nor truly dead, its presence a shifting conflux of primordial shadows and ancient malice. The chamber dimmed as the creature unfurled tendrils of darkness, whispering in fractured tongues never meant for mortal ears, its voice rasping at the edges of comprehension—words meant to break, to unravel, to tear apart the composure of all who stood before it.

From behind her desk, Anna Răzvan watched impassively, elegant fingers steepled against polished wood, her expression untouched. She had witnessed this countless times—promising young witches and wizards brought low by something ancient and unconquerable, their poise collapsing beneath the impossible weight of manifested dread. But not this boy.

Harry’s wand was in his hand before the thought fully formed, yet there was no urgent motion, no frantic incantation. He stood perfectly still, poised yet unafraid, his eyes fixed upon the wraith with detached scrutiny. It was not courage or bravado—it was deeper, stranger. An eerie neutrality, like a mirror reflecting darkness without distortion or fear. And then the wraith hesitated.

Anna felt it before she saw it—a subtle but unmistakable ripple in the chamber's oppressive gloom. The creature’s essence faltered, a sudden, visceral recoil as if sensing something deeply wrong, something aberrant. Its whispering became uncertain, confused, hesitant; its shadowy tendrils, moments ago poised to tear at the boy’s psyche, now curled back upon themselves, unwilling—or unable—to advance.

Anna narrowed her eyes, attention sharpening with renewed intrigue.

This wasn’t merely magical aptitude. It wasn’t a matter of nerve or bravado. Something else lived within this child—a hidden force, slumbering yet dangerous. Something that resonated with the darkness the wraith itself embodied, something older, crueller, infinitely more powerful.

The wraith, an entity forged from nightmare and malice, had met its superior—and instinctively recoiled.

A faint smile touched Anna’s lips, more thoughtful than amused. She flicked her fingers dismissively, and the wraith dissolved, not into violent dispersal, but into wary silence, as though relieved to be excused from a confrontation it could not win.

She wrote calmly upon her parchment:

Harry James Black — Pass.

Lifting her gaze to the boy once more, she spoke quietly, with a measured edge of curiosity:

“You really should have been enrolled at Durmstrang from the start.”

And for the first time, she understood why she found him tolerable. He carried within himself a darkness not of his making, and in that darkness lay power—a power Durmstrang would know precisely how to cultivate. By the time it ended, Harry’s breathing was steady, though his magic still thrummed beneath his skin—sharp, disciplined, alive. He had already passed the written examination with precision; it had earned no praise, only silent acknowledgement. Now, after the practical, Anna regarded him in a long, unreadable quiet. Then, without ceremony, she signed the parchment and pressed her wax seal into place. She looked up.

“There is a shadow that clings to you, deeper than the night, older than your years,” she said lightly, but not without weight. “I wonder, Mr. Black—does it belong to you?”

She tilted her head just slightly, as though the question amused her. “And more importantly… are you certain you command it, rather than it, you?”

Anna let the thought hang, then added, with her usual composure, “Regardless, you have met my standard. I shall see you at Durmstrang.”

The door unsealed behind him with a quiet click, releasing the thick stillness of the room. Harry stepped out into the cold with a mind sharper than when he’d entered. Rosier straightened from where he leaned, his watch already tucked away.
He said nothing at first. His eyes flicked over Harry, pausing briefly—not at the boy’s wand, still in his grip—but at the quiet, unreadable expression on his face.

Finally, Rosier spoke, his voice low, almost reverent. “Interesting,” he murmured, more to himself than to Harry.

A wind stirred the trees behind them, and Harry felt it then—the chill had nothing to do with the night. “There is a shadow that clings to you…” Anna had said. Deeper than the night. Older than your years. And worse—“Does it belong to you?”

He didn’t know. But she did. Harry didn’t speak. The question still hung in the back of his mind. "And more importantly… are you certain you command it, rather than it, you?"

Long after curfew had passed, Harry Black made his way quietly back to Hogwarts.