Arcturus Black's POV
Arcturus Black sat behind the heavy oak desk in his study, quill poised above a stack of unopened correspondence.
The desk had once belonged to his father.
The study—paneled in dark wood, lined with shelves of ancient grimoires and family ledgers—had belonged to the Blacks for generations longer than most families could remember.
The House of Black did not borrow history.
It was history.
Yet today, as parchment lay ignored beneath his fingers, Arcturus found that his thoughts refused to settle.
He set the quill down with a soft tap.
The Black family was one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Once a sprawling, powerful lineage with branches woven through nearly every old pureblood house, they had shaped Wizengamot votes, Ministry policy, and magical theory for centuries.
Now?
Now there was only him.
Arcturus Black.
Head of House.
Last free bearer of the name.
The irony of it tasted bitter.
Cygnus—dead.
Walburga—dead.
Orion—dead.
Regulus—dead.
Bellatrix—Azkaban.
Sirius—Azkaban.
Andromeda—burned from the family tapestry by Walburga's own hand.
The Blacks had not fallen in battle like the Prewetts.
They had rotted from the inside.
Arcturus leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, eyes drifting to the great family tapestry hanging across one wall. Burn marks scarred the fabric where names had once been.
Too many.
He had warned Walburga.
He had warned her again and again.
Do not bind the family to the Dark Lord.
Do not confuse blood with righteousness.
Do not sacrifice your children on an altar of ideology.
She had never listened.
And in the end, she had lost all of them.
His thoughts drifted, as they often did these days, to Andromeda.
Andromeda Tonks.
Burned off the tapestry. Disowned. Exiled.
He wondered—again, as he had many nights before—whether he should welcome her back. Whether the family name could survive another generation through her line.
But then the same obstacle always rose before him.
Her daughter.
Half-blood.
Raised without reverence for old ways.
A child of compromise.
Arcturus's jaw tightened.
Blood mattered.
It had always mattered.
And yet…
His gaze slid to another name in his thoughts.
Sirius.
A reckless boy. A foolish one. Brilliant, charismatic, uncontrollable.
He could have forgiven the muggles.
He could have forgiven Pettigrew's death.
But the Potters?
Betrayal of one's own—no matter the cause—was a sin Arcturus could not dismiss lightly.
Still…
If Sirius had only killed muggles, politics could have intervened. Evidence could have been buried. Influence applied.
But betraying James and Lily Potter?
That had sealed him.
And Regulus…
Arcturus closed his eyes briefly.
Regulus had been the obedient one. The quiet one. The son who listened.
And that, perhaps, had been the cruelest irony of all.
He had sided with the Dark Lord—yes. Died for it. Alone. Unacknowledged. His death erased by a war that cared little for motives.
Perhaps it was better that way.
Arcturus exhaled slowly, the sound heavy in the silent study.
He had withdrawn from the Wizengamot years ago—first out of grief, then out of exhaustion. What was the point of sitting among self-righteous fools who preached purity while bending the law for convenience?
The Blacks were finished.
He had accepted that.
The House of Black would pass into history—a cautionary tale, a footnote, a warning whispered to young pureblood heirs.
This is what happens when pride outweighs wisdom.
He reached for a goblet of firewhisky, swirling the amber liquid absently.
And then—
A soft, unfamiliar tug brushed against his magic.
Arcturus stilled.
Not an alarm.
Not an attack.
Recognition.
Old. Ancient. Subtle.
His brows knit together.
The sensation was distant—but unmistakable. Like a door, long sealed, shifting ever so slightly on its hinges.
The wards around Grimmauld Place did not react.
But something had changed.
Arcturus straightened slowly, every instinct honed by decades of politics and war rising to the surface. His magic—old, disciplined, and deeply entwined with the House—stirred uneasily beneath his skin.
Then—
Pop.
Kreacher appeared in the center of the study, bowing so low his forehead brushed the rug.
Arcturus's eyes snapped to him.
"What has happened?" he demanded, voice sharp despite his control.
Kreacher's ears drooped. His fingers twisted together.
"Master… blood of the Black family has appeared."
The words landed like a curse.
Arcturus froze.
"…What?" he said quietly. "Who?"
Kreacher bowed again, trembling now.
"Master Regulus's daughter."
For a heartbeat, the world stopped.
Arcturus stared at the house-elf as though he had spoken nonsense.
"Regulus… had no children," he said flatly.
Kreacher shook his head vehemently.
"Young Miss was born eleven years ago, Master. While Master Regulus was still in school."
The fire crackled loudly in the hearth.
Arcturus's grip tightened on the arm of his chair.
"He never told me," he said, more to himself than to Kreacher. "Nor his mother. Why?"
Kreacher's voice wavered.
"Master Regulus was afraid. He said the world was falling into chaos. War. He told Kreacher to send Young Miss somewhere safe. Far away. Where no one would look."
Arcturus's eyes darkened.
"And you obeyed."
"Yes, Master." Kreacher's head bowed lower. "Kreacher left Young Miss in a muggle orphanage."
The word muggle tasted foul in Arcturus's mouth.
"What of the child's mother?" he asked curtly.
"Kreacher does not know much," the elf said miserably. "Master only said… she died during childbirth."
Silence stretched.
Arcturus closed his eyes for a long moment.
Regulus. A child. And he had borne this alone.
"Then why," Arcturus asked slowly, opening his eyes again, "did the wards react just now?"
Kreacher swallowed.
"Young Miss took an inheritance test at Gringotts."
Arcturus's head snapped up.
"Inheritance test," he repeated. "So the goblins know."
"Yes, Master."
That explained it.
Gringotts blood magic was older than most wizarding laws. When a dormant line awakened—especially one bound by ancient wards—the ripple was unavoidable.
Arcturus stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor.
"Then we will go and meet this child."
Kreacher flinched.
"Master… Young Miss has already left Gringotts."
Arcturus's jaw tightened.
"Then where is she?"
Kreacher hurried forward, producing a folded scrap of parchment with shaking hands.
"This is the address of the orphanage, Master."
Arcturus took the note.
His gaze lingered on it for a long second before he folded it neatly and slipped it into his pocket.
"Tell me what you know of her," he said.
Kreacher straightened, grateful for the command.
"Young Miss was named Blake Smith by the orphanage. She grew up healthy. Strong. She showed magic earlier than most children—controlled magic. Calm magic."
Arcturus's brow furrowed despite himself.
"Early manifestation," he murmured. "Typical of strong lines."
"There was another child at the orphanage," Kreacher continued. "A boy. Magical as well. His magic was loud—violent—but Young Miss helped calm him. They are very close. Good friends."
Arcturus snorted softly.
"Hah. Friends with a muggleborn."
"Yesterday," Kreacher pressed on carefully, "they received their Hogwarts letters. Today, while wandering Diagon Alley, they learned about inheritance tests."
Arcturus's fingers tightened.
"So curiosity brought her to the goblins," he said. "Not ambition."
"Yes, Master."
The image began forming in his mind—a girl raised without name or protection, guided only by instinct and questions she could not answer.
"Tomorrow," Arcturus said decisively. "I will confirm this myself."
Kreacher blinked.
Then he nodded once.
The Next Day
Arcturus Black went first to Gringotts.
Not as a petitioner.
Not as a desperate old man.
But as Head of House.
The goblins confirmed everything with infuriating efficiency. Vault records. Blood resonance. Magical signatures.
There was no doubt.
Regulus Arcturus Black had left behind an heir.
From there, Arcturus went directly to the orphanage.
The moment he saw her, something in his chest tightened.
She looked like Regulus.
The same dark hair. The same posture when she stood still.
But her eyes—
Not cold.
Not guarded.
Bright. Curious. Alive.
Too alive for a Black.
She smiled when she spoke. Laughed easily.
Unthinkable.
And yet—
Her magic buzzed around her like a quiet hum, controlled and precise. Powerful without being unruly.
Talented.
Beside her stood the boy Kreacher had mentioned.
Arcturus's eyes narrowed almost immediately.
Muggleborn.
The scent of untempered magic clung to him—strong, old, dangerous in a way that should have nothing to do with muggleborns.
Arcturus questioned the girl carefully. Probed her intent. Her reasons. Her resolve.
He had intended to speak to her privately.
To assess her without outside influence.
That was when the boy stepped forward.
Polite. Controlled. Confident in a way no orphaned child had any right to be.
He placed a hand over his chest and bowed.
And then he spoke his name.
"I am Alastair Caelum Salvius–P. Son of Caelum Salvius and Evelyn P"
Arcturus felt it.
A jolt of recognition, sharp and unmistakable, ran through his magic.
Salvius.
A name he had not heard spoken aloud in decade.
And P—
Not Potter.
Not Prewett.
No.
Something older.
Something hidden.
Arcturus stared at the boy, truly stared for the first time.
And for the first time since the wards had stirred…
The ancient Head of the House of Black realized that Blake was not the only unexpected legacy the past had delivered.
History, it seemed, was not finished with him yet.
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