Chapter 19 - Chapter 19: The Test of the Black Heir

A/N:📢 Release Schedule Update

The release schedule has been adjusted for this week.

🔹 This week:

3 chapters will be released on Webnovel

🔹 Reader Goal (Power Stones):

Top 50 by the end of this week → 3 chapters again next week

Top 30 by the end of this week → 1 chapter every day next week 🔥

🔹 If goals are not met:

Webnovel will return to 1 chapter per week

P@treon will continue with either

3 chapters per week, or

7 chapters per week (if top 30 achieved)

Your support directly decides the pace of the story.If you want faster releases—power stones matter 💎🔥

Let's see how far we can push it this week.

______________________________

Alastair's POV

Yesterday still felt unreal.

We had met Arcturus Black.

Not a name in a history book.

Not the half-mythical patriarch whispered about in pureblood circles.

The man himself.

And the strangest part?

The moment I spoke my name, his attention had shifted completely.

Up until then, he had been assessing Blake—carefully, coldly, like a man weighing a priceless artifact for cracks. He had listened to her answers, measured her posture, tested her resolve.

Then I introduced myself.

And it was as if the room had tilted.

His eyes had lingered on me far longer than courtesy demanded. Not curiosity. Not disdain.

Recognition.

Something old stirring behind his gaze, pulling his thoughts away from the conversation at hand.

After that, whatever discussion followed with Blake felt… perfunctory. Polite small talk. Questions asked out of obligation rather than interest. His mind was elsewhere—clearly replaying names, memories, connections he hadn't expected to resurface.

When he finally rose to leave, it was abrupt.

"Kreacher will come tomorrow," he had said to Blake, voice once more firm and authoritative."To escort you to Grimmauld Place. Your heirship will be finalized officially."

Blake had nodded, stiff but composed.

Then—almost as an afterthought—his gaze flicked to me.

"You are invited as well."

Not a request.

Not a courtesy.

A statement.

And just like that, he had gone.

Now, the "tomorrow" he'd spoken of had arrived.

The orphanage room felt smaller than ever as Blake and I stood side by side, dressed neatly, bags packed, words scarce. The air carried a tension neither of us tried to break.

Kreacher appeared without warning.

Pop.

The little house-elf bowed deeply, eyes shining with fierce pride.

"Young Miss," he croaked, then turned to me.

"And Young Master."

Blake startled slightly—then squared her shoulders.

"We're ready," she said.

Kreacher nodded.

He grabbed both our hands.

And the world twisted.

Hard.

Apparition was never gentle—but this time it felt like being squeezed through a knot in reality that resented our existence. My stomach lurched violently, my lungs protested, and for half a second I was certain I was about to disgrace myself spectacularly.

I clenched my teeth and held it in.

So did Blake—barely.

Pop.

Stone underfoot. Cold air. A sharp smell of old magic and dust.

We stood hunched for a moment, hands still locked in Kreacher's grip, fighting the urge to gag.

Blake swallowed hard.

"I hate that," she muttered.

I let out a careful breath.

"You did better than last time."

She shot me a look. "You nearly threw up."

"Nearly," I corrected.

I straightened slowly and looked up.

Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

It didn't loom.

It pressed.

The townhouse stood wedged between its neighbors like an accusation, taller and darker than the surrounding buildings, its windows grim and watchful. The brickwork was ancient, charmed to resist decay, and the very air around it felt… guarded.

Not hostile.

Judging.

As if the house itself was deciding whether we belonged.

Blake stared openly.

"This is… intense."

"That's one word for it," I murmured.

The wards prickled against my skin—not attacking, but probing. Testing blood. Intent. Lineage. The signet ring on my finger warmed faintly in response, a quiet reassurance.

Kreacher cleared his throat loudly.

"Please follow Kreacher. Mistress and Young Master are expected."

The door creaked open before either of us touched it.

Inside, the house smelled of old parchment, polish, and something metallic—like magic that had soaked too deeply into the walls to ever fade. Portraits lined the entryway, eyes tracking us with open suspicion.

A woman in one frame hissed under her breath.

"Traitors… strangers…"

Another sneered.

"The blood feels thin."

Blake flinched.

I stepped half a pace closer to her without thinking.

The ring warmed again.

Several portraits went quiet.

Kreacher shot them a vicious glare.

"Silence! The Heir is present!"

That earned us a few shocked expressions—and more than a few grudging looks of reassessment.

Blake leaned toward me, whispering,

"Is it always like this?"

"I hope not," I replied softly. "But if it is, we'll manage."

She nodded, lips pressed tight.

We moved deeper into the house, past staircases that twisted in impossible ways, past doors that clearly led somewhere else, and into a sitting room heavy with old enchantments.

Arcturus Black stood by the fireplace.

He looked exactly as he had yesterday—immaculate, composed, carved from iron and tradition. But the moment his gaze fell on us, something subtle shifted.

Not warmth.

Not yet.

But attention.

"You arrived," he said.

"Yes, Lord Black," Blake replied automatically.

He nodded once, then looked at me again—longer this time.

"Mr. Salvius–P."

The way he said it made the name feel heavier. More deliberate.

"I trust the journey was… tolerable."

"Manageable," I answered evenly.

A corner of his mouth twitched. The barest hint of amusement.

"Good. Then we may proceed."

Kreacher clapped his hands once, sharp and eager.

"The ritual chamber is prepared, Master!"

Arcturus inclined his head.

"Then let us not waste time."

Blake inhaled shakily.

I met her eyes and gave a small nod.

Whatever awaited us beyond that door—tests, judgments, expectations—we would face it standing.

Side by side.

Because this wasn't just about heirship.

It was about whether the past would claim us…

Or whether we would reshape it.

And as the door to the heart of Grimmauld Place opened before us, I knew one thing with absolute certainty—

The House of Black was about to change forever.

Blake entered first.

She didn't hesitate.

Her back was straight, her steps measured—noble etiquette drilled into instinct rather than performance. The heavy doors of the ritual chamber stood open just long enough for her to pass through, shadows swallowing her small frame.

I took a step forward to follow—

And a firm hand stopped me.

Arcturus Black.

His grip wasn't rough, but it was immovable.

The doors swung shut behind Blake with a deep, final thud that echoed through the corridor like a verdict.

I turned to him sharply.

"She shouldn't be alone in there."

His gaze never left the door.

"The Black family heirship test," he said calmly, "is not as simple as putting on a ring."

I clenched my jaw.

"It tests resolve. Ambition. Will," he continued. "It strips away what is borrowed and measures what remains. Only then can one be worthy of the House of Black."

Finally, he looked at me.

"This is her trial. She must pass it alone. Do not interfere."

I swallowed whatever argument rose to my lips.

Because I understood.

And because there was nothing—nothing—I could do now but wait.

The minutes stretched.

The house itself seemed to hold its breath.

I paced once, then forced myself to stop. Grimmauld Place was not a place that appreciated restlessness. The walls whispered faintly, reacting to unseen currents of magic flowing beneath the floor.

Ten minutes felt like an hour.

My thoughts spiraled despite my best efforts—visions of Blake facing illusions, judgments, ancestral echoes that demanded obedience rather than choice. The Blacks were not gentle in their traditions. They never had been.

I clenched my fists.

She's stronger than she knows, I told myself.She's not alone—even if I can't stand beside her.

Then—

The doors opened.

Blake stepped out.

For a heartbeat, I couldn't breathe.

She looked… different.

Not taller. Not older.

But steadier.

An heir ring gleamed on her hand—still unmistakably Black in design, ancient silver etched with runes of authority and legacy. Her posture carried a grace she hadn't been taught, something instinctive now, earned rather than borrowed.

There was resolve in her eyes.

Not arrogance.

Not defiance.

Resolve.

The moment she saw me, whatever composure she'd built shattered.

She crossed the space between us and threw her arms around me in a tight, fierce hug.

I hugged her back just as hard.

"You did it," I murmured, relief flooding my chest.

She nodded against my shoulder, breath shaky but triumphant.

Then she pulled back and turned—slowly, deliberately—to face Arcturus Black.

"Grandfather," she said.

The word landed like a challenge and a claim all at once.

"I have passed the test."

Arcturus inclined his head slightly, the barest smile touching his lips.

She didn't stop there.

"I vow to make the Black name prosper again," Blake continued, voice steady despite the pallor creeping into her skin. "But I will not follow the same ideology the family has clung to."

The smile froze.

"I will walk my own path," she said, eyes locked onto his without flinching. "If you cannot accept that—then I will never use the Black name."

The corridor felt suddenly smaller.

"I will make the name Smith resound throughout the world instead."

Silence crashed down like a wave.

She didn't bow.

She didn't look away.

She didn't soften the declaration.

She stood her ground.

For the first time since I'd met him, Arcturus Black looked… conflicted.

Not angry.

Not dismissive.

Conflicted.

The age-old certainty that had governed the House of Black for generations trembled, just slightly, on its foundations.

Slowly—very slowly—he nodded.

A concession.

Perhaps even an acceptance.

He turned to Kreacher.

"What was the name Regulus had chosen?" he asked quietly.

Kreacher bowed deeply, ears trembling.

"Lyra, Master. Master Regulus said… he would name her Lyra."

Arcturus closed his eyes for a brief moment.

Then he opened them.

"Very well," he said. "Blake Lyra Black."

The ring on his own hand pulsed, ancient magic awakening.

"I welcome and accept you as the Heir of the House of Black."

The ring on Blake's hand responded instantly—flaring with silver light. It shrank, reshaping itself to fit her fingers perfectly, resonating with her magic, with the wards of the house, with the very bones of Grimmauld Place.

The house answered.

Before the resonance could fade—

Blake lifted her ring to her lips.

My heart skipped.

"I am Blake Lyra Black," she said.

The words weren't loud.

They didn't need to be.

The magic deepened.

Not mere acceptance.

Obedience.

The wards sank into alignment with her will, acknowledging not just her blood—but her authority.

Arcturus took an involuntary step back.

"How?" he demanded, stunned. "How did you know to do that?"

Blake swayed.

Her face had gone pale, lips nearly bloodless.

"I saw Al do the same thing… in Gringotts," she said faintly.

Then her knees buckled.

I caught her before she hit the floor, heart pounding as I gathered her into my arms.

I looked up sharply.

"Explain."

Arcturus exhaled, some of the tension draining from his rigid posture.

"She overdrawn her magic," he said. "Claiming a house so deeply, so quickly—especially at her age—takes a toll. She will recover with rest."

He turned to Kreacher.

"Take her to the prepared room."

Kreacher bowed, already reaching for her.

"I have Regulus's room ready, Master. Cleaned. Warded. Warm."

With a soft pop, they vanished.

I remained standing there, the echo of Blake's declaration still humming in the walls.

Arcturus Black looked at me then—truly looked at me.

And sighed.

"Alastair," he said heavily, "we have much to talk about."

I met his gaze, unflinching.

"Yes," I replied. "We do."

Because the House of Black had just gained an heir who would not bend.

And the world—whether it was ready or not—would have to adapt.

__________________________

Support me on p@treon:

[email protected]/blaze98