THE ALTAR
Alphard Black’s only daughter was a mystery to most. Born in the heat of a September night in 1959, Hermione Ara Black, as she had once been known, had never known a mother. Her mother, Narcissa's aunt, had passed away in childbirth, leaving behind only whispers of her memory. Instead, she was cradled in the arms of Aimi, a house-elf who adored her as if she were the light of the Black family’s very stars.
From the very beginning, Hermione Ara’s life had always been filled with oddities. There were moments—small, inexplicable flashes—where she felt as though she knew something she couldn’t possibly know. She saw strange glimpses didn’t make sense to her, yet they often left her with an unsettling feeling. Her father, Alphard, couldn’t understand it, nor could anyone else. He would sometimes look at her with an expression of quiet confusion, wondering why his daughter—his only child—seemed to possess an awareness beyond her years, though she hadn’t been taught it. But in her heart, Hermione Ara felt it deeply. There was something different about her, and that difference was a shadow that seemed to loom over her from the moment she was born. She often felt like an outsider to her own life, but could never quite put her finger on why.
Hermione Ara’s oddness wasn’t just in the way she knew things—it was also in her extraordinary intelligence. From an early age, it was clear she possessed a sharpness that far surpassed children of her age. Her ability to comprehend complex ideas, her natural curiosity, and her quick wit made her seem like the perfect daughter in the eyes of her family. To her aunts, Walburga and Druella, this intelligence was both a source of admiration and envy. They couldn’t help but notice how Hermione Ara stood apart from the other children—seemingly gifted in ways they couldn’t fully understand. Their envy only grew as they saw how easily Hermione Ara absorbed the customs of the Black family, her quick learning making her an almost ideal representation of the family's legacy.
One particularly defining moment came when she was five. After a tantrum about not wanting to go to a playdate with the McKinnons, her first accidental magic manifested. Her father, Alphard, was not surprised by the display—at least not in the way one might expect. Instead, he was elated, seeing it as a sign of something greater. Delighted, he immediately severed ties with the McKinnon family, murmuring that this was proof that Hermione Ara was free from reading late into the night, as a gift. Aimi didn’ care for such things and still made her sleep early. That moment, although not entirely understood by the young girl, was a pivotal one that cemented her sense that she was unlike others.
Alphard Black, while not a tender father, was a practical one, caring for his daughter in the best way he knew. He wasn’t the sort to be found in the nursery, singing lullabies or tucking her in at night. That was Aimi’s job. The house-elf had taken to the role of surrogate mother with devotion. She would spend hours rocking young Hermione to sleep, humming soft melodies of the Black family, the lullaby that echoed through the walls of the grand Black estate.
Though she missed the warmth of a mother’s love, Hermione’s young world had been carefully curated. And she really did not have more examples of nice mothers since she only knew her aunts and they could be unpleasant. She had the love of Aimi, the strictness of her father, and the occasional, though not always welcome, visits of her cousins Sirius, only a couple of months younger than her, was often at her side, and together, they were a handful. Their escapades were frequent, usually involving some mischief that would leave them both running through the grand halls of the estate, hoping to escape a scolding from Alphard.
Sirius was a natural troublemaker, always sneaking around with a grin, encouraging her to do the same. He was her closest companion, but she hated the times they were caught and reprimanded. As much as she adored Sirius, the punishment was never pleasant. His carefree ways clashed with her desire for order, and it left her with a frustration that often lingered far too long for a child of six.
"Why did you have to come again, Sirius?" Hermione would mutter, her brow furrowed, when Aimi would find them tangled in the aftermath of one of their chaotic games.
He'd always shrug with a laugh, as though that would solve everything, but Hermione was not so easily convinced. She didn’t like being scolded. She didn’t like messing up, and her father’s cold, indifferent tone never helped. It made her resolve to do better, to be more precise, more perfect.
When her cousins came to visit, it was always a different experience. Narcissa, with her soft blonde curls and perfect poise, was a vision of beauty. She was quiet and serene, and Hermione loved her dearly. Even at such a young age, she treated Narcissa as if she were her guardian. It was Narcissa who would often sing the Black family lullaby as she brushed Hermione’s hair, a calming act that always made Hermione feel loved and cared. Narcissa’s presence was soothing. She represented the grace and perfection that the Black family was known for, a symbol of all the right things. Hermione often found herself wishing that Narcissa would stay longer. There was a strange peace in being near her, a calming sensation that was always missing in the presence of the more chaotic family members.
Then there was Andromeda. Sweet, gentle Andromeda. She was a bit older, but never harsh. She treated Hermione with kindness, always making sure she had something to do, something to play with. Her company was always pleasant, though at times Hermione wondered about the oddness of her quiet presence. Andromeda was always a little too thoughtful, a little too soft, a stark contrast to Bellatrix’s boldness.
Bellatrix was an odd one, even for a Black. Hermione couldn’t quite understand her older cousin. There was something unsettling about Bellatrix’s sharp eyes and sharp tongue. She wasn’t cruel to Hermione, never unkind in any direct way, but there was something darker about her. Whenever Bellatrix spoke, her voice carried an edge that sent a shiver down Hermione’s spine. It was always as though Bellatrix knew things, things she had yet to understand. And sometimes, Hermione could feel that knowledge in the air around her, something she wasn’t sure she was ready to confront. But still, Bellatrix was family.
Through it all, Hermione Ara Black grew in the shadow of the Black family name. Her perfectionist tendencies developed early, making her determined to uphold the expectations that came with being a Black. She wasn’t the first to be born into this world of ancient magic, but she was certainly going to leave her mark, whether she liked it or not.
As the years passed, from the age of six to ten, Hermione Ara began to feel the weight of her heritage more deeply. Though her heart was filled with a longing to understand, to be more, there was a constant sense that something was missing.
Yet, deep inside, Hermione Ara knew one thing for sure: the Black family had a long and dark legacy, and somehow, she would fit into it. Whether she would embrace it or challenge it, only time would tell. And at the moment she needed to proof herself.
As part of a longstanding tradition among the Sacred Twenty-Eight, there was a ceremony held when the children of the families were still infants or before they reached their Hogwarts years. It was known as the Bonding Ceremony, a sacred event that tied the kids into the very heart of the Wizarding world's pureblood society. The ceremony took place at a solenm circle of 28 ancient altars, each dedicated to one of the sacred families, where the blood of the children was mingled with the blood of their ancestors, further sealing their connection to the family and to one another. These altars, rich with centuries of history, were placed in a vast, hidden chamber deep within the Malfoy family estate, their stone surfaces worn smooth from the weight of generations past.
At the heart of the ritual, the descendants were presented before the altars, each representing a family of prominence within the Wizarding world. Their blood was mingled with that of other children, an act of blood magic designed to strengthen the ties between them, deepening the connection to the Sacred Twenty-Eight and the broader society of purebloods. This potent, ancient magic bound them to the past and secured their place in the present.
For the families, the ceremony was more than just a magical tradition—it marked a subtle introduction to society. The event allowed the children to meet one another before their time at Hogwarts, laying the groundwork for the relationships, alliances, and rivalries that would shape their futures. This was also why the ceremony remained private, with not all members in attendance. Some pureblood families, who either disregarded tradition or had been removed from society, chose to stay away. There were even some whose family lines no longer existed.
For Hermione Ara and Sirius, the ceremony was a pivotal moment that further bound their fates to the children of the other Sacred Twenty-Eight families. As they stood before their family’s altar, their blood intertwined with that of others, forging an invisible yet undeniable link. This bond, created in the heart of one of the oldest magical traditions, would follow them through life—and its significance would become apparent when they later found themselves together on the Hogwarts Express.
Sirius didn’t like being cut, and his mother didn’t care. Hermione could see it in the way Walburga barely acknowledged him, her sharp gaze focused elsewhere, as if he were a minor inconvenience rather than her eldest son. The ritual blade pressed against his palm, and he flinched. It wasn’t a deep cut, but it was enough to make his fingers curl inward.
Hermione’s stomach twisted at the sight. Alphard, standing beside her, was much more careful. He held her wrist with steady hands, making the cut with precision so the scar wouldn’t be too obvious. It stung, a sharp, burning sensation that she refused to react to. She was expected to be composed, to be perfect, to carry herself with dignity. She would not flinch the way Sirius had, no matter how much it hurt.
Now they were alone inside the circle and the spectators were in front of them, outside the ritual. Then, her blood fell. A single drop hit the altar, and as it did, something shifted.
A wave of nausea rolled through her, sharp and disorienting. It wasn’t the pain—she had endured worse, she was sure. It was something else, something deeper. The altar pulsed with ancient magic, and for a brief moment, she felt untethered, as if her very essence was being woven into something beyond her understanding. She swallowed thickly, her vision swimming.
Instinctively, she looked up, seeking stability.
Narcissa stood before the altar, watching her and Sirius with an unreadable expression. Their eyes met, and for the smallest moment, Narcissa’s features softened. A faint, reassuring smile crossed her lips, subtle yet deliberate. A silent message: You’re fine. It will pass.
Hermione clung to that small comfort. Sirius, however, was not as composed. He let out a sharp curse under his breath, shaking his stinging hand as though it would lessen the pain.
Walburga’s head snapped toward him, her lips curling into a sneer. “Enough, Sirius,” she hissed, her voice sharp as glass. “Show some dignity.”
Sirius glared at her, his jaw set tight, but he didn’t say anything more. He just clenched his injured hand into a fist, his fingers digging into the fresh wound. Hermione knew that look. He wanted to fight back, to rebel, to spit venom in return—but not here. Not now.
Just as Walburga was about to launch into another scathing remark, something unexpected happened.
Regulus, Sirius’ younger brother, had been standing quietly a few steps away, his face unreadable as always. But in a single motion, he reached out—toward Hermione. Whether he had meant to steady her or simply act on instinct, she didn’t know, but in doing so, the ceremonial dagger in Walburga’s hand accidentally nicked him as well.
A drop of Regulus’ blood splattered onto the altar.
The room went still.
A quiet murmur rippled through the gathered pureblood families. That was not supposed to happen.
Walburga’s expression darkened, her fingers twitching at her sides.
Everyone knew she had never wanted Sirius and Regulus to share this moment. It was an unspoken truth, an unspoken rule. She had worked tirelessly to keep them apart, to shape them into rivals rather than brothers. She didn’t want them bound together in loyalty, didn’t want Regulus following Sirius into whatever reckless path he chose. She wanted a son she could mold, one who would be everything Sirius refused to be.
And yet, here they were.
No one dared voice it aloud, but the truth was evident. Walburga loathed that Sirius was the heir. He had never lived up to the Black legacy in the way she wanted. He was defiant, unruly, unwilling to bend to their ways. He skipped readings, ignored his tutors, refused to attend pureblood society lessons, and worst of all—he questioned. He questioned the traditions, the beliefs, the expectations that had governed their family for centuries.
Hermione’s pulse pounded in her ears. She barely had time to process the weight of what had happened before a new pain struck her—this one different. It wasn’t just her palm anymore. A sharp, searing sensation crawled up her arm and into her head, pressing against her skull like a vice.
The altar’s magic was binding them now. The ceremony was in motion.
She swayed slightly, struggling to keep her balance.
The elders were watching, but none of them moved. They couldn’t. It was forbidden to interfere once the ritual had begun—stepping forward would break the enchantment, unraveling the ancient magic that had been sealed into the altars for generations. The weight of tradition held them in place, their gazes cold and impassive.
Sirius noticed her first.
His scowl melted into something else—something rare. Without hesitation, he reached out, his fingers gripping her wrist tightly. A second later, Regulus did the same.
For a brief moment, the three of them stood there, bound together, their blood mingling on the altar.
Bound by name. Bound by blood.
Bound by fate.
She understood now.