The first snowfall of late 1990 arrived in France a little later than usual. According to Grandpa, though, it was still more punctual than the Hogwarts Express.
After a picture-perfect white Christmas stuffed with plum pudding and mulled wine, Julien's parents—Altair and Clara—finally packed up and took him on the long journey back to Britain.
Château Vigne Noire's wines had already claimed a permanent spot on the finest tables in Bordeaux. Muggle food critics were calling it "velvet on the tongue, with a finish like moonlight on water."
Grandpa, Grandma, and Dad had all spotted the perfect moment to bring that "almost magical" elegance to Britain. After all, what country needed a touch of refined acidity more than one that put three sugars in its tea?
Julien wasn't surprised. Only he knew Grandpa's real reason. Business was part of it, sure—but the bigger one was simple: Hogwarts was in Britain.
Alphard had dropped more than one hint.
"Beauxbatons? Pfft. Those girls in blue skirts need orchestral accompaniment just to cast a Levitation Charm. Too theatrical."
Julien couldn't agree more.
Besides, what self-respecting transmigrator would go to Beauxbatons? How would the memoir even sound? My Years as the Campus Heartthrob at Beauxbatons? (Okay, maybe not bad for a spin-off, but the second-hand bookshops in Diagon Alley would never stock it.)
After heartfelt goodbyes—Grandma Élodie slipping him a tin of "anti-seasickness mints" at the last second—Julien boarded the ocean liner to Southampton with his parents.
Black smoke curled from the funnels, slowly turning the rolling Bordeaux vineyards and red-tiled roofs into a watercolor painting. Then they blurred into silhouettes, and finally melted into the gray-blue horizon.
Julien leaned against the cold railing, sea wind whipping salty spray across his face, his slightly wavy hair sticking to his forehead. In his mind, though, memories of the winery kept replaying:
Copper-red vines in autumn, the old oak bench in the back garden where Grandpa taught him constellations, the swirl of Léa's skirt as she stomped away, and the neighbor girl who swore dandelions could sing.
Ten years of what he'd once thought was just an ordinary childhood now glowed with a golden edge—more accurately, with glowing magical runes.
"Already homesick?" Mom Clara came over and draped a thick wool shawl across his shoulders. It carried her faint gardenia scent, chasing away the chill of the sea wind.
Dad Altair stood a little farther up the deck, chatting with the crew. His dark-green suit fluttered in the breeze; every movement still carried that unmistakable Black-family posture—straight-backed and quietly proud.
His eyes, though, weren't the deep, ancient-well kind Grandpa had. They were the sharp yet gentle eyes of a successful merchant—the only Black raised entirely in the Muggle world, who'd never held a wand or touched magic's secrets, yet could sell a bottle of red for the price of a Galleon.
Julien nodded, fingers absently tracing the button on his cuff.
"Yeah… a little." That cuff was Grandpa's special design—one quick tug and the willow wand hidden in the forearm sleeve would slide right into his hand. Julien made a mental note to copy the trick when he got his school robes.
He paused, trying to sound casual.
"Dad said the Black family doesn't have any relatives left in Britain anymore. Mom… do we know anyone else there?"
Grandpa had already told him the full Black history, of course. He knew Narcissa Malfoy was a Black, and Bellatrix Lestrange was rotting in Azkaban—both part of the "lunatic branch" Grandpa had strictly forbidden him from ever approaching. Sirius hadn't been mentioned for some reason. And the other disowned one, Andromeda… supposedly she'd married a Muggle and vanished. (Grandpa had no idea her daughter Tonks was a witch.)
Having been burned off the tapestry himself, Alphard wanted nothing more than for his grandson to stay far away from the old feuds. "Just live your own life," he always said.
Clara's expression softened with a touch of nostalgia. She reached out and gently ruffled his hair; the warmth of her palm sank through the strands.
"We do, actually. My distant cousin, Petunia Evans. She married a Mr. Dursley and lives in Little Whinging, Surrey."
Her voice faltered for half a second, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her eyes.
"I know she had a younger sister… we played together as children. But she passed away very early. Petunia never wants to talk about it. Oh—Petunia's family has a boy about your age. You two could become friends when we get there."
Evans? Dursley? Little Whinging?
The names clicked like a key in a lock, swinging open a dusty vault in his memory. No wonder his mother's maiden name had sounded familiar.
Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. The one who'd eventually finish Voldemort.
Grandpa had calculated everything—except that his own daughter-in-law was related to Harry Potter's mother. Which made Julien—Caelum Julien Black—Harry's distant cousin.
(And Draco Malfoy was technically his cousin too. The wizarding world really was just one giant dysfunctional group chat. Fanfics hadn't lied.)
Julien clenched his fingers inside his pockets, forcing his face to stay blank. He lowered his head obediently.
"Alright, Mom."
The sea wind kept howling, but Julien's blood was suddenly racing. Every late-night obsession with the Harry Potter world back in his previous life was crashing straight into reality.
—
Deep inside a vast ancient castle in the Scottish Highlands.
Dumbledore's silver beard nearly brushed the open page as his long fingers slowly traced a brand-new name in the Book of Admittance.
Then his hand froze.
Caelum Julien Black was etched clearly on the parchment, ink still fresh, right at the bottom of the newest line.
His brilliant blue eyes widened behind half-moon spectacles.
The Black family? That ancient, pure, and steadily withering family tree—its last branches had already snapped. Sirius in Azkaban, Regulus long dead… the lament for "the last Black" had been sung years ago.
So who was this child…?
His gaze shifted to the nearby Quill of Acceptance. It had just finished recording and now stood contentedly beside the inkpot, tip still glowing faintly—the telltale shimmer of ancient protective magic resonating.
The Quill never made mistakes. Did this boy truly carry Black blood… yet had somehow been completely forgotten or hidden from the wizarding world?
Or was he simply a Muggle who happened to share the surname? Black wasn't rare among Muggles. But Caelum… that name…?
Dumbledore gave a small, wry smile and shook his head. Better send Minerva. Oh no—Snape would probably start brewing poison the second he heard the word "Black."
With a soft chuckle, the headmaster decided: yes, Minerva could handle this one.