Arcturus led me down the corridor without another word.
Grimmauld Place felt different now—less hostile than before, but heavier. As though the house itself had accepted Blake… and was now turning its full attention on me.
We entered his study.
I had seen many old rooms in my life—libraries, offices, vault antechambers—but this place radiated something else entirely. Authority. Memory. The kind that pressed into your spine and reminded you how small you were in the long march of history.
The heavy oak desk dominated the room, scarred by age and use. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with grimoires, ledgers, and bound volumes whose spines bore names that made my instincts prickle. A tapestry hung folded to one side, burn marks visible even from here.
Arcturus moved behind the desk and gestured for me to sit.
Before I could say anything—
Pop.
Kreacher appeared, carrying a tray with two steaming cups of tea.
"Hot tea, Master," he croaked. "For calm thoughts."
He set one cup in front of Arcturus, then another before me, bowing deeply.
Arcturus nodded. "That will be all."
Kreacher vanished again, leaving us alone.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Arcturus studied me over the rim of his cup, eyes sharp, assessing—not as an enemy, not as an ally, but as a variable.
Then he reached beneath the desk and pulled out a thick stack of newspapers and parchments.
They landed on the desk with a heavy thump.
The sound alone made my stomach tighten.
"Alastair," he said at last, voice measured, "you strike me as strong-minded."
I didn't respond. I knew better than to interrupt.
"But," he continued, steepling his fingers, "you have no idea what you and Blake are walking into."
His gaze hardened—not cruel, but grim.
"Carrying the name of an ancient family does not only bring power. Or fear. Or respect."
He tapped the pile of documents once.
"It brings responsibility. Obligation. Connections you did not ask for. Enemies who smile. Allies who lie. People who will try to use you before you even understand the rules of the game."
I said nothing, but my grip on the teacup tightened slightly.
"In Blake's case," Arcturus went on, "nearly her entire family is gone. That makes her both valuable and vulnerable. To some, she will be a symbol. To others, a tool."
He leaned back.
"Your Salvius–P name will afford you a degree of protection, yes. There are still families who remember what those names meant. Who will hesitate before acting against you."
Then his eyes sharpened.
"But it will also paint a target on your back."
I met his gaze evenly.
"I expected that."
A flicker of approval crossed his face—quick, almost imperceptible.
"You will encounter people who seek to manipulate you," he said. "Those who wish to marry into your line. Those who want your loyalty. Those who want your silence."
He paused.
"They will appear the moment you set foot in Hogwarts."
That one landed harder than anything else.
"Hogwarts," he repeated quietly. "Is not merely a school. It is a breeding ground for future power. Alliances form there. Grudges too. Children play at being children—but they watch, and they remember."
He exhaled.
"There are families who remain allies to yours. The Greengrasses, for one. Old blood. Pragmatic. Cautious. They remember Caelum."
That name again.
"Others," Arcturus continued, "will test you. Some openly. Some subtly."
He looked at me pointedly.
"I will do what I can to keep politics away from you both for as long as possible. But I do not sit in Hogwarts. I cannot shield you from everything."
I nodded once.
"And Blake?" he asked quietly. "You will look after her."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," I said without hesitation.
Something eased in his posture.
He reached forward and slid the stack of documents toward me.
"These," he said, "are newspapers, in-person witness records, and other reports from the day your parents died."
The words settled into me like cold iron.
I looked down at the pile.
Old Daily Prophets. Ministry incident summaries. Handwritten testimonies. Some parchments bore spell residue marks—evidence preserved, not erased.
Arcturus's voice lowered.
"Not all of it is public. Not all of it was ever meant to be. I had these gathered… years ago. For Regulus. He never lived long enough to ask for them."
I swallowed.
"You deserve the truth," he said. "Not the Ministry's version. Not Dumbledore's silences. Not the rumors whispered in drawing rooms."
His eyes met mine, unflinching.
"You deserve to know exactly what kind of world took your parents from you."
The room felt very still.
I rested my hands on the edge of the desk, steadying myself.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
Arcturus nodded.
"Read them when you are ready," he added. "Not tonight. Not while emotions are raw. Knowledge like this cuts deeper than any curse."
He stood.
"You are not a child playing at nobility, Alastair," he said. "And Blake is not a pawn. That is why I am telling you this now."
He paused at the doorway, then spoke again—more softly.
"The old world is dying. Slowly. Painfully. And it does not like to go quietly."
His gaze lingered on me.
"Be careful in Hogwarts. Both of you."
The door closed behind him, leaving me alone with the tea, the silence—
And the weight of names that refused to stay buried.
I stayed in the study long after Arcturus left.
The tea went cold.
Slowly, carefully, I began sorting through the stack.
Newspapers first.
The headlines were clinical. Detached. Words like incident, engagement, suspected Death Eater activity—as if what had happened could ever be reduced to ink and column width.
Then came the photographs.
My breath caught.
They were black-and-white, but the violence bled through anyway.
The outskirts of a muggle settlement—trees shattered, earth scorched, ground torn open by magic far beyond casual spellwork.
Bodies.
My father's body.
I recognized him instantly—not from memory, but from instinct. Caelum Salvius lay where he had fallen, wand still clenched in his hand, robes torn and burned, face set in an expression that wasn't fear…
…but resolve.
My grandparents lay not far from him.
The Salvius patriarch—broken, but unmistakably defiant even in death.
The P family head—surrounded by the remains of spells that had detonated outward, as if he had chosen to take as many with him as possible.
And around them—
Death.
So much death.
I counted without meaning to.
Twenty-seven.
The reports hadn't exaggerated.
Death Eaters and followers lay strewn in a wide circle—some torn apart completely, others twisted into shapes that no human body should ever take.
Then I saw them.
The Occamies.
Three massive bodies, their serpentine forms sprawled across the battlefield like fallen titans. Even in death, they were magnificent—scales dulled, wings torn, magic still crackling faintly along their remains.
My pulse spiked.
Something moved inside me.
Not fear.
Recognition.
The moment I saw their bodies, a strange pressure built behind my eyes—a familiar sensation I hadn't understood at the time.
A memory surfaced.
The Salvius vault.
The pull.
My gaze snapping toward the far corner where a reinforced glass container had stood, filled with liquid—something silvery submerged within it, something that had called to me so strongly I'd almost stepped toward it without realizing.
I had ignored it then.
There hadn't been time.
Now, staring at the Occamies' corpses in these photographs, that same pull returned—stronger, sharper.
As if something inside me had answered them.
I swallowed hard, forcing my breathing to steady.
Whatever that container held…
Whatever the Salvius family had preserved…
It wasn't just an artifact.
It was connected.
To the Occamies.
To the battle.
To my blood.
I lowered the photograph slowly, hands no longer steady.
The massacre hadn't just ended a family.
It had sealed something away.
And I was going to have to go back to that vault and find out exactly what it was.
Because some legacies didn't stay buried forever.
___________________________
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