November descended upon Hogwarts Castle with bitter winds and early frosts, the weather mirroring the darkening mood of wizarding Britain. The Diagon Alley attack—seventeen dead, thirty-two injured, and countless traumatized—had transformed abstract concerns into visceral fear. The Daily Prophet now featured security advice alongside regular news, while Ministry posters throughout Hogsmeade displayed the faces of known Death Eaters with warnings not to approach.
Within Hogwarts, battle lines were being subtly drawn. Students from families with Death Eater connections moved in tight-knit groups, their conversations ceasing when others approached. Those with Muggle-born relatives practiced defensive spells after classes, eyes watchful for potential threats. The professors maintained an appearance of normality while doubling corridor patrols and restricting previously open areas of the castle.
I observed it all with the dual perspective of my unique position—seeing both the present tensions and their future consequences, recognizing faces that would become casualties or combatants in a war escalating beyond anyone's control.
"Barty's been acting strange," Regulus commented one evening as we worked on Astronomy charts in the Slytherin common room. "Ever since the Diagon Alley attack, he barely speaks during meals and disappears after classes."
I nodded, having noticed the same withdrawal. "His father's leading the Ministry investigation. Probably feeling caught between worlds."
"Must be difficult," Regulus agreed, surprising me with his empathy. "Having a father so publicly opposed to what many in our house support."
"And what do you support?" I asked carefully, taking advantage of the rare moment of candor.
Regulus glanced around before answering, confirming we wouldn't be overheard. "I believe in preserving magical traditions and keeping our world separate from Muggles," he said slowly. "But these attacks... targeting shoppers, killing indiscriminately..." He shook his head. "It feels more like terrorism than political action."
His perspective showed more nuance than I'd expected for this stage in his development—another sign that my presence might be influencing the timeline in subtle ways.
"Violence rarely persuades," I said. "It only entrenches opposition."
"That sounds almost treasonous in Slytherin these days," he observed with a wry smile. "Careful who hears you speaking such reason."
"Including you?" I raised an eyebrow.
"I'm still deciding what I believe," Regulus admitted quietly. "But I trust you, Corvus. More than anyone else here."
The confession carried weight—trust from the boy who would eventually sacrifice himself to strike at Voldemort's horcrux. I felt the responsibility of his confidence, wondering if I could guide him toward that eventual courage without the years of Death Eater service that had preceded it in the original timeline.
Our conversation was interrupted by Narcissa's arrival, her prefect badge gleaming in the greenish lamplight. "Letter from home," she said, handing me a sealed parchment. "For both of you, actually."
The heavy cream envelope bore my father's precise handwriting—formal correspondence rather than casual communication. I broke the seal, unfolding the letter while Regulus leaned in to read alongside me.
To Corvus and Regulus,
Recent events necessitate adjustments to holiday arrangements. The engagement celebration for Bellatrix and Rodolphus will now include an expanded guest list of significant political importance. Your presence and proper deportment are essential to family standing.
Additionally, Corvus, your mother and I require your participation in the traditional Yule ritual this year, given your inheritance of The Serpent's Fang. Prepare accordingly using the enclosed reference materials. Discretion regarding these preparations is paramount.
We have received positive reports of your academic progress, particularly in Defense Against the Dark Arts and Potions. Continue to uphold the family's standards of excellence.
Regards,
Cygnus Black III
A smaller envelope had been enclosed, containing several pages of densely written notes on traditional Yule magic—dark rituals that certainly weren't taught at Hogwarts.
"The Yule ritual," Narcissa murmured, her voice barely audible. "That's earlier than expected for your involvement."
"What does it entail?" I asked, though I had disturbing suspicions based on what I knew of Black family traditions.
"Blood magic," she replied simply. "Renewal of family protections and... other purposes. It's not discussed openly."
Regulus looked uncomfortable but unsurprised. "I'll be participating in our branch's ritual as well. Mother wrote last week."
I examined the ritual notes more carefully, recognizing elements of sacrificial magic disguised in archaic language—nothing explicitly illegal, but certainly bordering on dark arts. The Serpent's Fang would be instrumental, apparently, with its chamber used to collect and focus familial blood.
"I'll need to prepare," I said, refolding the papers carefully. "These rituals require precision."
Narcissa nodded approvingly. "I can assist with preliminary practice if you wish. The basic wandwork is similar to certain advanced charms."
Her offer surprised me—Narcissa had always seemed the least magically inclined of the Black sisters in the original timeline, more concerned with social maneuvering than magical power. Perhaps another detail overlooked in the simplified narrative I remembered.
"I'd appreciate that," I replied. "Better to arrive prepared than risk embarrassment."
"Or worse," she added meaningfully. "Magical backlash from incorrectly performed blood rituals can be... severe."
A warning and an offer of protection in one—typical of Narcissa's subtle approach. As she departed to continue her prefect duties, Regulus regarded me with newfound seriousness.
"The family's accelerating your introduction to certain traditions," he observed. "That wand truly must be significant."
"So it seems," I agreed, feeling The Serpent's Fang warm slightly against my forearm, as if acknowledging our discussion. "I suspect the holiday gathering will involve more than celebrating Bellatrix's engagement."
"Almost certainly," Regulus concurred. "Father mentioned 'associates' attending our celebrations as well. I think... I think we're being assessed."
As potential recruits for Voldemort's cause, he meant, though he wouldn't name it directly. The realization chilled me. In the original timeline, Regulus had joined the Death Eaters at sixteen, the youngest ever marked. Was that process beginning already, accelerated by the escalating conflict?
"We'll navigate it together," I assured him, making a silent vow to protect my cousin from the fate that had originally awaited him. "Family first, remember?"
He nodded, relaxing slightly at the reminder of our agreement. "Family first."
Defense Against the Dark Arts became increasingly practical as autumn deepened, with Professor Harbinger adjusting the curriculum to emphasize protective spells and basic dueling techniques. Though officially maintaining that these changes were standard progression, the timing suggested response to external events rather than planned pedagogy.
"The Shield Charm forms the foundation of modern magical defense," Harbinger explained during a November lesson, pacing before the blackboard where he'd diagrammed the spell's magical architecture. "While first-years typically focus on theory rather than application, recent... educational reviews... suggest earlier practical introduction may prove beneficial."
Beneficial for survival, he meant, though Ministry educational guidelines prevented him from explicitly connecting classroom instruction to the brewing war.
"Partners will practice basic defensive positioning while I assess individual aptitude," he continued. "Black and Potter, station one. Crouch and Lupin, station two..."
As the class divided into assigned pairs, I found myself facing James Potter, whose expression combined competitive interest with wary assessment. Though Sirius had maintained casual friendly contact since our flying session, his closest friends remained more reserved in their acceptance of a Slytherin Black.
"Heard you've already got a decent shield," James commented as we took positions at our assigned practice area. "Sirius mentioned it."
"Basic fundamentals only," I replied modestly, though in truth, The Serpent's Fang had proven extraordinarily receptive to Shield Charms, creating barriers of unusual resilience with minimal effort on my part.
"Well, let's see it then," James challenged with good-natured confidence. "I'll cast, you block. Nothing dangerous—just the Knockback Jinx we've been practicing."
I nodded agreement, raising The Serpent's Fang in the defensive position Harbinger had demonstrated. James's spell technique was impressively refined for a second-year, his casting fluid and powerful as he sent a controlled "Flipendo!" in my direction.
"Protego," I countered, carefully modulating my intent to produce a shield appropriate to a first-year's abilities—solid but not impenetrable.
The blue light of James's jinx struck my shield and dissipated with a faint shimmering effect, the barrier holding easily against this basic attack. James nodded appreciatively.
"Not bad at all," he acknowledged. "Let's try something with a bit more punch."
For the next several minutes, we established a rhythm of increasingly powerful offensive spells met with proportionally strengthened shields. I maintained the appearance of effort, though in truth The Serpent's Fang required minimal direction to produce effective protection. The wand seemed to anticipate each incoming spell, warming in my hand with what almost felt like excitement at the combat exercise.
"You've got natural talent for defense," James observed during a brief rest. "Ever consider what you might do after Hogwarts? Auror material, I'd say."
The question caught me off-guard—this casual discussion of future careers with someone who, in the original timeline, would never reach his mid-twenties. James Potter would die at twenty-one, murdered in his own home while trying to protect his wife and son.
"I haven't decided," I managed, pushing away the grim knowledge. "Though I'm interested in protective magic generally. You seem destined for the Quidditch pitch."
He grinned, predictably pleased by the Quidditch reference. "Professional flying would be brilliant, but my dad thinks I should aim for the Ministry—Potter family tradition and all that. Maybe the Department of Magical Games and Sports as a compromise."
Such normal ambitions, so disconnected from the shortened future that awaited him. I felt a surge of protective determination—perhaps this was one death that could be prevented, one tragedy averted if I manipulated the timeline carefully enough.
Our practice resumed with renewed focus, my shields strengthening unconsciously as I contemplated ways to alter the future. James, interpreting my intensity as competitive spirit, increased his offensive creativity, incorporating unexpected angles and timing variations that reflected his natural dueling instinct.
"Excellent work, gentlemen," Professor Harbinger commented, pausing to observe our exchange. "Potter, your offensive variety shows remarkable innovation. Black, your shield stability suggests advanced understanding of magical resistance principles."
He made a notation on his clipboard before adding more quietly, "Five points to both houses. Continue with this progression—it may prove more valuable than any examination score in the current climate."
The grim undertone of his praise confirmed what many suspected—our education was being subtly reoriented toward practical survival rather than academic theory. As Harbinger moved to the next station, I caught Sirius watching our practice from across the room, approval evident in his expression.
By the lesson's end, I had gained not only practical experience but something potentially more valuable—a tentative respect from James Potter that might eventually provide access to his inner circle. Such connections could prove essential to my long-term goals of altering the timeline's darkest outcomes.
As students gathered their belongings, Barty approached hesitantly, his expression troubled. "Could I speak with you? Privately?"
The request was unexpected—Barty had been increasingly withdrawn in recent weeks, participating minimally in dormitory conversations and disappearing for long periods. I nodded, signaling Regulus to go ahead without me.
When the classroom emptied, Barty glanced nervously at the door before speaking. "My father sent a letter yesterday," he began, voice barely above a whisper. "About the investigation into the Diagon Alley attacks."
I remained silent, allowing him to continue at his own pace.
"They've identified most of the perpetrators," he continued, "including... including members of prominent families. Malfoy. Nott. Avery." He swallowed hard. "Lestrange."
"Bellatrix's fiancé," I noted, unsurprised by the confirmation.
"Yes. And..." he hesitated, glancing around once more, "my father believes Bellatrix herself participated, though they lack sufficient evidence for charges."
This aligned with what I already knew of Bellatrix's early Death Eater activities, but Barty's access to Ministry intelligence could prove invaluable. "Why tell me this, Barty?"
"Because you're different," he replied with unexpected directness. "You're a Black, but you don't... celebrate what happened. And I needed someone to know that I don't either, despite what some in Slytherin might assume about me."
The irony was painful—this boy confiding his opposition to Death Eater violence would eventually become one of Voldemort's most devoted followers, instrumental in his resurrection. Yet the Barty before me now was still undecided, still capable of choosing a different path.
"I judge people by their actions, not their family connections," I assured him. "And I appreciate your confidence."
He nodded, relief evident in his posture. "There's more," he added reluctantly. "Father says the Ministry suspects a major operation planned for the holidays. Something symbolically significant to the pure-blood calendar."
"The winter solstice," I concluded immediately. "Traditional time for family magic renewal."
"Yes, exactly. Father's department is monitoring known Blood Purist families during the solstice period." His expression grew troubled. "Including the Blacks."
The implications were clear—the Ministry was watching my family precisely when we would be conducting our private rituals and hosting Bellatrix's engagement celebration. The timing couldn't be worse.
"Thank you for the warning," I said sincerely. "It's valuable information."
"Just... be careful," Barty urged. "Whatever your family's traditions, the Ministry's looking for any excuse to conduct raids at the moment. Father says the political pressure for arrests is enormous."
I nodded, mind already racing through the potential complications this surveillance created. The Yule ritual itself wasn't illegal, but certain components certainly existed in legal gray areas. And if Bellatrix's "guests of political importance" included active Death Eaters...
"I appreciate your friendship, Barty," I said finally. "Not many would risk sharing Ministry information, especially given your father's position."
He smiled slightly, the anxious tension in his face easing. "You were kind to me when others weren't. And..." he hesitated, "I think you understand what it's like to have complicated family expectations."
More than he could possibly know. I made a mental note to pay closer attention to Barty's development—perhaps his eventual fall into darkness wasn't inevitable in this altered timeline.
As we walked to our next class, I contemplated the approaching holidays with growing unease. The winter solstice would place me at the intersection of family tradition, Death Eater recruitment, and Ministry surveillance—a dangerous convergence that would require careful navigation.
December brought swirling snow and end-of-term examinations, the castle corridors growing increasingly frigid as ancient heating charms struggled against the Highland winter. Students huddled near common room fires in the evenings, their conversations dominated by holiday plans and anxiety about traveling in the current climate of uncertainty.
"The Hogwarts Express will have Auror protection this year," Narcissa informed me during one of our practice sessions for the Yule ritual. "Ministry's taking no chances after Diagon Alley."
We were in an abandoned classroom in the dungeons, practicing the specialized wandwork required for the ritual's blood-containment aspects. The Serpent's Fang had proven remarkably adept at these movements, its crystalline chamber seeming to glow faintly whenever we rehearsed the patterns that would eventually channel family magic.
"Not surprising," I replied, completing a complex figure-eight motion that left trails of silver light in the air. "Though I imagine some families might object to Auror observation of who meets their children at the platform."
Narcissa's smile was coolly knowing. "Arrangements have been made for more... discrete collection of certain students. Slughorn's allowing priority Floo access from his office for selected families."
Including ours, presumably—another small privilege of pure-blood status and Slytherin House membership. I completed another practice sequence, this time incorporating the specific wand twist that would activate The Serpent's Fang's collection chamber during the actual ritual.
"Your control has improved significantly," Narcissa observed. "You should be adequately prepared for the ceremony."
"What exactly will be expected of me?" I asked, wiping away a bead of sweat from the magical exertion. "Father's instructions were deliberately vague."
She hesitated, weighing family secrecy against practical preparation. "The ritual renews protective enchantments on our ancestral properties," she explained carefully. "Each family member contributes blood willingly given, which The Serpent's Fang will collect and... process. Your grandfather previously performed this role, and now it falls to you as the wand's chosen wielder."
"And the reason for expanded attendance this year?"
Her expression grew guarded. "The current political climate has created interest in old forms of magical protection. Certain... associates... wish to observe traditional methods."
Death Eaters seeking family magic for Voldemort's cause, then—using Bellatrix's engagement as cover for what amounted to a recruitment gathering. I wondered if Voldemort himself would attend, though it seemed unlikely given the Ministry's heightened surveillance.
"I understand," I said simply. "I'll be prepared."
Narcissa studied me for a moment longer. "You're remarkably composed about all this. Most first-years would be intimidated by participation in such advanced family magic."
I shrugged, affecting casual confidence. "The wand chose me for a reason, presumably. And Blacks are expected to mature quickly."
"Indeed." She gathered her materials, our practice session complete. "One more thing, Corvus. Bella has specifically asked about you—your abilities, your interests. She rarely takes notice of younger cousins."
The warning was subtle but clear—Bellatrix's attention was significant and potentially dangerous. As one of Voldemort's earliest and most fanatical followers, her interest in a magically talented young relative could only mean assessment for future recruitment.
"I'm honored by her interest," I replied neutrally. "Though I imagine her attention is currently focused on wedding preparations."
Narcissa's laugh held little humor. "You don't know Bella very well if you think matrimony occupies her thoughts. She has... broader ambitions than domestic life."
Torturer, murderer, Voldemort's most loyal lieutenant—yes, I knew exactly what ambitions drove Bellatrix Black soon-to-be Lestrange. The challenge would be presenting myself as neither potential recruit nor obvious opposition during our upcoming interaction.
"I look forward to becoming better acquainted over the holidays," I said diplomatically.
Narcissa nodded, apparently satisfied with my response. "We depart tomorrow after examinations. Father's arranged private transportation from Hogsmeade rather than the train—more comfortable and less public."
Another deviation from standard procedure, likely designed to avoid Ministry observation. "I'll inform Regulus," I promised, gathering my own belongings.
As Narcissa left, I remained behind, practicing the ritual movements once more with full concentration. The Serpent's Fang responded eagerly to these darker applications, its affinity for blood magic evident in how smoothly it executed the complex patterns. The wand was coming to feel increasingly like an extension of my will rather than a separate magical tool—a development both empowering and concerning.
The journey home bypassed the traditional Hogwarts Express experience entirely. After completing our final examination—Transfiguration, where I carefully demonstrated good-but-not-exceptional skills despite The Serpent's Fang's natural affinity for the subject—Regulus and I were escorted to Hogsmeade by Professor Slughorn himself.
"Your father sends his regards," Slughorn mentioned jovially as we walked the snowy path toward the village. "We recently shared an excellent bottle of aged firewhisky at his club. Remarkable man, your father—such insight into international magical finance."
I nodded politely, maintaining the social niceties expected from a Black heir while observing our surroundings with heightened awareness. Aurors were visible throughout Hogsmeade, their distinctive robes standing out against the festive holiday decorations of the village shops.
"Here we are," Slughorn announced as we reached a nondescript building at the village edge. "Private transportation arrangementㅡmuch more civilized than the train chaos, wouldn't you agree?"
Inside, we found Narcissa already waiting alongside Lucius Malfoy, whose presence as a seventh-year prefect was apparently justified as "escort duty" though it clearly served as an opportunity for approved social interaction with his future wife.
"Excellent, right on schedule," Lucius observed, checking an ornate pocket watch. "The portkey activates in three minutes."
The portkey—disguised as an antique silver hand mirror—transported us directly to the entrance hall of Black Manor, bypassing standard Ministry monitoring procedures for underage magical travel. The familiar dark elegance of our family home materialized around us, though I noted subtle changes since September—additional protective enchantments layered over the existing wards, their magic palpable even to my untrained senses.
"Welcome home," Mother greeted us with formal propriety rather than maternal warmth. "Your father awaits in the study, Corvus. Regulus, your parents will arrive for dinner."
I recognized the immediate summons for what it was—assessment of my preparedness for the approaching ritual. The Serpent's Fang seemed to warm against my forearm as I followed Mother through the manor's shadowy corridors to Father's study.
Cygnus Black III sat behind his massive ebony desk, various arcane instruments arrayed before him. He looked up as I entered, his eyes immediately fixing on the wand holster visible beneath my rolled-up sleeve.
"The wand has bonded well," he observed without preamble. "Let me see it."
I drew The Serpent's Fang and presented it as I had been taught—handle first, laid across my palms in a gesture of respect rather than surrender. Father lifted it carefully, examining the crystalline chamber with particular interest.
"Excellent responsiveness to your magic," he noted, passing it through several analytical devices on his desk. "Gregorovitch's craftsmanship remains unparalleled—the venom chamber has adapted to your specific magical signature."
He returned the wand with a satisfied nod. "You've been practicing the ritual movements?"
"Yes, Father. Narcissa has been instructing me."
"Show me."
I performed the complex sequence of gestures that would eventually channel family blood into the wand's chamber, concentrating on maintaining precise control. The Serpent's Fang moved fluidly through the patterns, leaving faint traces of silver-green light in its wake.
Father's expression remained impassive, but I detected approval in his slight nod. "Acceptable. The solstice ritual requires absolute precision—the consequences of error can be severe when working with blood magic."
"I understand," I assured him, returning the wand to its holster. "May I ask about the expanded guest list for Bellatrix's celebration?"
His eyes narrowed slightly at my directness. "Connections that will benefit the family in the coming realignment of power," he replied carefully. "Individuals interested in traditional magical practices and... appropriate political positions."
Death Eaters and sympathizers, in other words. I nodded as if this were perfectly normal information for a father to share with his eleven-year-old son.
"You will be observed during these gatherings," Father continued, his tone leaving no room for misinterpretation. "Your comportment, your magical ability, your understanding of family traditions—all will be assessed by influential figures. I expect you to represent the House of Black appropriately."
"Yes, Father."
"The wand choosing you at this age has drawn considerable attention," he added, studying me with calculated assessment. "Certain associates find it... significant. A potential indicator of exceptional magical destiny."
Voldemort's interest, then—or at least his awareness. The thought sent ice through my veins despite my outward composure. The Dark Lord's attention was the last thing I wanted, especially with my knowledge of the future and complicated loyalties.
"I'll ensure the family is proud of my performance," I promised.
Father nodded once more. "See that you do. Now, prepare for dinner. Your aunt and uncle will want to hear about your Hogwarts experience—focus on your achievements in Defense and Potions, and minimize any mention of interaction with your... wayward cousin."
The dismissal was clear. As I left the study, the weight of expectations settled around me like a physical burden. The holidays would require constant vigilance—managing appearances, guarding my thoughts, performing complex magic beyond my supposed years while avoiding drawing too much dangerous attention.
Dinner that evening offered a preview of the coming challenges. Uncle Orion and Aunt Walburga arrived precisely on time, their formal robes and rigid postures reflecting the ceremonial nature of even this supposedly intimate family gathering.
"Corvus," Uncle Orion greeted me with a firm handshake. "I understand your academic performance honors the family name."
"He shows particular aptitude for defensive magic," Father interjected before I could respond. "Professor Harbinger has noted his exceptional shield work."
"Excellent," Aunt Walburga approved, her sharp features arranging themselves into what passed for a pleased expression. "Strong protective magic is increasingly essential in these unstable times."
Throughout the elaborate meal served by house-elves in the formal dining room, conversation carefully navigated current events without explicit political declarations. The Diagon Alley attack was referenced only as "recent unfortunate incidents," while Ministry response was described as "predictably excessive interference in private matters."
Regulus, seated beside me, maintained perfect pure-blood etiquette while offering carefully curated anecdotes about Slytherin House and academic achievements. Not once did anyone directly mention Sirius, though his absence hung over the gathering like a persistent ghost.
"The solstice ceremony this year carries particular significance," Uncle Orion commented as dessert was served. "The conjunction of celestial bodies enhances blood-bound magic substantially."
"Indeed," Father agreed. "Which is why Corvus's role with The Serpent's Fang is so crucial. The wand's affinity for blood magic will strengthen the renewal considerably."
Aunt Walburga's gaze settled on me with new intensity. "You understand the honor of this responsibility, I trust? Many believed the wand would choose an older heir, perhaps Regulus when he came of age."
"I'm grateful for the wand's selection," I replied with appropriate humility. "And committed to fulfilling its purpose honorably."
She nodded, seemingly satisfied. "The Blacks have maintained these traditions when other families abandoned them for modern simplifications. Our ancestral protections have never failed, unlike those so-called 'advanced' wards that collapsed during recent... events."
The implication was clear—the attack on Diagon Alley had overcome standard Ministry-approved protective enchantments, while ancient blood magic might have prevailed. This narrative would undoubtedly appeal to Voldemort's followers seeking magical advantages against their opponents.
As the evening concluded, I found myself mentally exhausted from the constant performance required—showing appropriate knowledge without revealing too much, expressing family loyalty without embracing extremist views, appearing properly respectful of traditions I internally found disturbing.
Regulus caught up with me in the corridor as we retired to our rooms. "You handled that perfectly," he murmured, glancing around to ensure we weren't overheard. "Mother was impressed."
"It's all theater," I replied quietly. "Saying what they expect to hear."
He looked troubled by this assessment. "Not entirely. The family traditions do have power—real magical power. The protections have value."
"I don't question the efficacy," I clarified. "Just the context of performance versus genuine belief."
Regulus considered this distinction. "I suppose that's the difference between us and Sirius. He refused to perform at all, while we..." He trailed off, uncomfortable with the implication.
"We navigate the expectations while maintaining our own perspectives," I suggested. "There's no shame in survival, Regulus."
His expression suggested he wasn't entirely convinced, but he nodded anyway. "Sleep well, cousin. Tomorrow's preparations begin in earnest—Bella arrives before lunch."
As I entered my childhood bedroom, oppressively decorated in Slytherin colors and family crests, I contemplated the approaching confrontation with Bellatrix. In my previous timeline knowledge, she had already begun her descent into fanatical devotion to Voldemort by this period, though not yet displaying the unhinged quality that Azkaban would later enhance.
The Serpent's Fang pulsed warmly against my arm as I prepared for bed, almost as if anticipating the blood magic it would soon channel. I removed it from its holster, studying the crystalline chamber and blood-red pommel stone in the dim lamplight. This powerful magical artifact had chosen me specifically—but for what purpose? To uphold family traditions as my father believed, or for some other destiny related to my unique knowledge?
Tomorrow would bring the first real test of my ability to navigate this complex reality. Bellatrix Black, future torturer of the Longbottoms and murderer of Sirius, would be assessing my potential value to a cause I secretly opposed. One misstep could place me firmly on Voldemort's recruitment list—or mark me as a blood traitor in a household where such designation carried deadly consequences.
As I finally drifted toward sleep, my last conscious thought was of Regulus—the cousin I had grown genuinely attached to, whose original fate had been sealed by choices made during his teenage years. Whatever else happened, I silently vowed, this time Regulus Black would not die alone in a cave, betrayed by the master he had initially followed with such dedication.
The timeline was already changing. Perhaps some deaths could be undone, some tragedies averted. But first, I had to survive the immediate challenge—a holiday season at the heart of the dark magic that would soon engulf the wizarding world in war.