The children's screams sent a ripple of alarm through the main party area.
The first to sense something was wrong was Julien's mother herself—Clara Black (née Evans).
Clara came from Surrey in England, just outside London, where plenty of the Evans family still lived nearby back then.
These days she worked as a professional wine consultant and oenologist. Back in her university years, she'd traveled to France for a wine event in Bordeaux and met Julien's father. Sparks flew, they fell hard and fast, and before long they were married in a whirlwind romance.
Not long after, their love produced Caelum Julien Black.
Today she'd been handling party setup and helping her husband charm the guests, but part of her attention had stayed on the kids in the back garden.
How to put it… Julien had always been unusually bright and mature—almost too mature. It sometimes left Clara feeling like she never quite got to play the full "mom" role.
But these past couple of days he'd been off: distant, dreamy, either sketching endlessly or lost in his own head.
Was he coming down with something?
When the sudden cry rang out from the back, her heart clenched. She hurried toward her son.
By the time she arrived, Léa's parents and a few other guests were already there.
But everything looked… normal again. No one else had seen anything unusual—except the owner of the estate.
"Julien? What happened?" Clara knelt down and wrapped her arms around his still-trembling shoulders.
The little boy's face was pale, as if he'd just run a marathon and collapsed, but his eyes were startlingly clear.
"Nothing, Mom… I just… felt a bit strange. No—more like my emotions got really intense for a second."
Léa's parents were questioning their daughter too. She answered in a small, sheepish voice, "I just told him I wanted to break up with him, and then he…"
"Ohhh! Heartbreak hits hard even at this age," one elegant lady said with genuine sympathy. "Poor little gentleman."
"Exactly," her friend added with a teasing lilt. "Tasting the bitter side of love so young."
"Give him some hot chocolate," Grandma Élodie said as she walked up. She bent down, gently stroked her grandson's hair, and smiled warmly. "It's okay, Julien. Love comes fast and goes fast, but the grapes ripen every single year."
Everyone looked at little Julien and Léa with a mix of pity, amusement, and gentle teasing.
Clearly nothing serious had happened—just the innocent crushes and playground drama of children.
Everyone except one person.
Alphard Black stood at the very back of the crowd, body rigid.
He had seen it: the hovering stone, the water flowing backward.
He had heard: his grandson's quiet words about feeling "strange" and "overwhelmed."
And he had felt it: the tidal surge of raw magic pulsing inside the boy, rising and falling like waves.
His heart nearly stopped.
Decades had passed.
Ever since his name was burned off the family tapestry (the Black family tree that magically inscribes every member at birth—and erases them forever when they're disowned in every sense, barring them from ever returning to Grimmauld Place), he had fled to France and married a Muggle woman.
Life had become good after that. He got along wonderfully with his in-laws, adored his wife, and left behind all the poisonous scheming and pure-blood politics of his old family.
He even used subtle magic to elevate the quality of his wife's family winery, turning it into a spectacular success. After his in-laws passed, he became the owner himself.
His only quiet sorrow was that when his son was born, the boy showed no sign of magical ability. Alphard had accepted that this branch of the Black bloodline had finally run dry.
Until today.
His ten-year-old grandson had just experienced an accidental magical outburst—in full view of everyone.
Alphard didn't rush forward. He quickly scanned the crowd—no wands drawn, no incantations, all Muggles.
That meant the situation was still completely contained.
He drew a deep, steadying breath, forced back the tears threatening to spill, and walked forward slowly.
"Excuse me," he said in his calm, authoritative voice. "Let me see to my little heir."
He crouched down to Julien's eye level. Inside those eyes a storm raged, but his tone stayed perfectly even.
"Tell me, child—what happened just now?"
Julien looked into his grandfather's gaze. There was no fear there—only… anticipation.
"The stones floated," he whispered so only his grandfather could hear. "The water flowed backward… And I think… that was magic, wasn't it?"
Alphard's body gave the faintest tremor. He swallowed the tidal wave inside him, stood up, and turned to the crowd with a practiced smile.
"My apologies, everyone. The boy got a little overstimulated—today's excitement was a lot for him, and he had a brief hallucination. Élodie, please look after our guests. I'm going to take him to the study to rest for a bit."
Then he leaned close and murmured a spell so softly only Julien could hear:
"Finite Incantatem."
Everything returned to normal.
He led Julien deep into the estate, to the most private study in the house—a room that smelled of old books, cedar, and the faint, lingering trace of aged wine. The perfume of time itself.
The study wasn't large, but the ceiling soared. Rough limestone walls were softened by floor-to-ceiling dark-walnut bookshelves.
The shelves weren't perfectly orderly: one alcove held geological samples, another displayed an open hand-drawn map of the vineyard.
Most books were leather-bound, gold lettering worn and faded—titles on soil science, winemaking history, local poetry.
In the center sat two faded burgundy velvet sofas facing each other.
On the raw-wood coffee table between them: a crystal decanter and a few ISO tasting glasses, bottoms still stained with last night's late tasting.
The carpet was an ornate Eastern weave in deep crimson; one dark, permanent spot marked where a bottle of 1982 Margaux had been knocked over during some long-ago celebration.
At the far end of the room was a built-in oak wine cabinet.
Alphard twisted the label on the seventh bottle in the third row—1953 vintage.
The wall slid open silently, revealing a descending stone staircase.
"Come with me, Caelum."
This time he didn't use the everyday "Julien."
Julien followed him down into the hidden chamber.
The room was small. In the center stood a walnut table. The walls were carved with star charts, serpentine runes, and the Black family crest.
On the table lay a yew wand, its tip faintly glowing.
"This was my wand once," Alphard said, voice thick with emotion. "I thought… I would never need it again."
He drew Julien close, cupped the boy's face in both hands, tears finally streaming down his cheeks.
"What you experienced was an accidental magic outburst—the kind that can happen to gifted magical children before they turn eleven. It means the purest Black blood still runs in your veins… maybe even stronger than Sirius's."
"Sirius?" Julien blurted. "The brightest star in Canis Major?"
Alphard blinked. "Ah… that's one of your uncles' names. You know how it is in our family—everyone gets named after constellations and stars. Your name follows the same tradition."
Julien nodded slowly. So it really is like I thought…
"Child, what I'm about to tell you—don't be shocked. Don't be afraid."
Julien didn't speak. He just nodded firmly, eyes shining with excitement.
"You need to know… this is a world of magic."
…