I didn't read the rest of the parchments.
Not today.
They sat there on Arcturus' desk—neatly stacked, heavy with ink, memory, and blood—but I couldn't bring myself to open another one. The massacre, the Occamies, my parents' final stand… it was too much to take in one night. Too much truth, arriving all at once, with no regard for how much a person could carry before breaking.
And right now, there was something more important than the past.
Blake.
I gathered the documents carefully, aligning the edges as if order alone could keep the weight of them contained, and slid them back beneath the desk drawer where Arcturus had taken them from. It felt wrong to leave them unfinished—but it would feel worse to lose myself in them while Blake lay unconscious somewhere in this house.
I stood, joints stiff, muscles sore in that strange way that came not from physical exertion but from emotional strain. Grimmauld Place creaked softly around me, the old house responding to movement like a living thing stirring in its sleep.
When I opened the study door, the corridor beyond was dimly lit by wall sconces that burned with a muted blue flame. The atmosphere had changed since earlier. The hostility—the subtle pressure that had once pressed against my magic like a warning—was gone.
Not warmth.
But acceptance.
As if the house had recalculated something fundamental.
"Kreacher," I called softly.
POP.
He appeared instantly, bowing so low his nose nearly brushed the carpet.
"Master Alastair called?"
"Where's Lord Black?" I asked.
Kreacher straightened just enough to answer properly.
"Master Arcturus has already departed," he said. "Master does not reside at Grimmauld Place. This is a family seat, not his home. Master lives at his villa in Wiltshire."
That… surprised me less than I expected. Grimmauld Place didn't feel like a home. It felt like a relic—one that demanded reverence, not comfort.
"He only comes to London when family matters or political affairs require his presence," Kreacher continued, eager now, as if unburdening himself of instructions.
"Before leaving, Master Arcturus said he would visit often. To spend time with Young Miss before she departs for Hogwarts."
Something in my chest eased at that.
For all his severity, Arcturus wasn't abandoning her.
"And," Kreacher added quickly, eyes bright, "Master also said you may both remain here until term begins. Young Miss and Master Alastair are to be considered adopted in muggle world. The matron at the orphanage will remember signing documents. There will be no complications."
I stared at him.
"No need to return to orphanage," Kreacher finished proudly. "Kipp and Liri have already transported your belongings. All possessions have been placed in assigned rooms."
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
"Thank you, Kreacher," I said sincerely.
The elf beamed, ears twitching with pride, then vanished with a satisfied POP.
I turned toward the staircase.
Each step creaked underfoot, echoing softly through the house. Grimmauld Place felt less oppressive now—but heavier, in a different way. As if it had accepted Blake as its future… and was now watching me, measuring what kind of presence I would be.
Blake's room—Regulus' old room—sat at the end of the second-floor corridor.
The realization struck me only as I stood outside the door.
Regulus' room.
The room of a boy who had never grown old. A boy whose daughter now slept within walls that had once belonged to him.
The door was ajar.
I pushed it open gently.
Blake lay asleep on the bed, blankets pulled up to her chest, dark hair fanned across the pillow. Her breathing was slow and steady. Peaceful, for the first time since the heirship trial.
I felt the knot in my chest loosen.
She looked younger like this. Less like an heir of an ancient house, less like the girl who had stared down Arcturus Black without blinking. Just Blake. Just a girl who had been thrown into a world of names and legacies far too quickly.
I pulled a chair closer and sat down quietly.
For a long moment, I did nothing but watch her breathe.
Then, carefully, I reached into my bag and withdrew the book I'd taken from the Salvius vault.
Lineages and Oaths of the Old Houses.
The leather cover was worn smooth by generations of hands. The spine creaked faintly when I opened it, as though even the book remembered how old it was.
I began to read.
Not quickly. Not hungrily.
Steadily.
The text was dense, written in precise, almost clinical prose. It spoke of family foundations, blood oaths, magical compacts that predated the Ministry itself. Of how ancient houses rose—not merely through power, but through adaptability.
Again and again, the same pattern appeared.
Families that survived were not the most rigid. They were the most disciplined.
They bent without breaking.
Those that clung to ideology above reality… vanished.
I read about houses that no longer existed—names erased from history not by war alone, but by stagnation. By mistaking tradition for truth.
It wasn't comforting.
But it was clarifying.
Time slipped by unnoticed.
The candles burned lower. Shadows shifted.
A soft rustle pulled me from the page.
Blake stirred.
She frowned slightly, one hand lifting to her temple as if the world were too bright even with her eyes still closed.
"…Water," she murmured.
Before I could rise—
POP.
Kipp appeared at the bedside, holding a glass of water with both hands like it was a sacred offering.
"Water for Young Miss," he squeaked.
Blake blinked at him, then managed a faint smile.
"Thank you, Kipp."
She took the glass, drank slowly, and sighed.
Her eyes found me.
"You're still here," she said quietly.
"Wasn't going anywhere," I replied.
She shifted, propping herself up against the pillows. She looked pale, drained—but present.
We sat in silence for a bit.
Then, gently, I asked, "What happened in the test?"
She froze.
Not in fear—just consideration.
"I… can't tell you," she said after a moment.
I nodded immediately. "That's fine."
"But," she continued, fingers brushing the ring now fitted perfectly to her hand, "I can tell you what it showed me."
I closed the book and gave her my full attention.
"It showed me," she said slowly, "that surviving as a Black isn't about blood. Or tradition. Or obedience."
Her voice steadied as she spoke, growing more certain.
"It showed me that only people with strong will and resolve survive in this family. Everyone else either breaks… or turns into something ugly trying not to."
I listened.
"And I showed it," she said softly, "that I don't have to follow the same path my ancestors did. The one that destroyed them."
She met my eyes.
"I told it I'd make my own path. Even if I had to walk it alone."
Pride flared sharp and sudden in my chest.
"That sounds exactly like you," I said.
She huffed a tired laugh. "I nearly passed out doing it."
"You did pass out," I reminded her gently.
"Worth it," she muttered.
We shared a quiet smile.
The storm had passed—for now.
Outside the window, Grimmauld Place creaked softly, ancient wards shifting, recognizing change.
And for the first time since everything began—
Neither of us felt alone.
Not anymore.
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