Arcturus Black had intended Grimmauld Place to be Calypso's home, it had been the home he had grown up in, the home he raised his children in, it had been the home he gave his son for his own family and it was the home he was reclaiming for his heir—not the heir he expected, not of his direct blood, but still the heir he had chosen.
Those plans he had for Grimmauld Place, for Calypso, were scrapped and shelved by the end of the meeting in Black Hall and instead Grimmauld Place would be their headquarters for the war they were going to rise against Riddle and his ilk.
It wouldn't be the massacres of old, the bloody battlefields of wars in the Black's past, no, the world was more civilised now—better at lying to themselves and hiding all the darker parts of what made them human—and the Blacks couldn't unleash themselves onto their enemies without thought, without planning.
Calypso Black—Tonks may be the name she wore, but she was a Black before anything else—was young, only twelve, and yet she stood with her family at her back and Wrath lurking in her dark eyes as they planned war without mercy, without remorse.
She may have not been the heir he expected, the heir he had once wanted, but she was the heir that he had chosen, and she would bring a reckoning as Lady Black, Arcturus knew without a doubt and more than a hint of pride.
It was said that the first Black was sired by the War God, Ares, and his godly father gifted him with enough battle-rage and blood-lust to rival his godly-born children.
It was said that Ares gifted and cursed his mortal son, the first Black, in one move by giving him a fraction of his Wrath—not just the Wrath of a God, but the Wrath of a War God—that ran hot through his veins and then in the veins of his children and so on.
It was said that sometimes Ares' Wrath burned too hot in the veins of his mortal descents, that those Blacks burnt brightly, briefly, and fiercely as they took down as many people with them to the realm of Lord Hades as they could.
It was said the first Blacks bathed in the blood of their enemies, wore their bones in their hair, and slayed monsters for sport.
It was said that the first Blacks courted the favour of the Goddess, Nemesis, and they paid tribute to her whenever the committed a massacre in the name of retribution and justice.
It was said the Blacks' heart beats beat to the time of war drums and the anguished screams of their enemies.
It was said that the Blacks built their fortune, their empire, on the bones of their enemies, blood-stained gold and some of the darkest magic known to man.
It was said that the Blacks had been courted by many of the Dark Lords and Ladies, some they had joined and others they had destroyed—it always depended on the whim of their Head.
It was said a Black had a hand in all the worst slaughters in history, that they were drawn to blood and war like sharks.
It was said when the Blacks power began to decline, the whole world released a breath of relief.
Aunt Cassi said the world was too hopeful for the fall of the Blacks.
Akira said if the world knew the truth, they would tremble in fear and beg for their gods to save them from the Wrath.
And Calypso? Calypso believed it, she could believe it all.
Grimmauld Place was gutted shortly after the meeting closed and Pollux's family retreated from sight, but not mind.
Kreacher had wailed, had screeched, as bit by bit his home was destroyed and repurposed for war until Aunt Cassi reached the end of her patience and stunned the House-elf without a second thought and a disgusted mutter of 'mad House-elves'.
The basement was repurposed into a dungeon, torture chamber and a morgue—for the corpses of their enemies, of course. Akira had lovingly cleaned and oiled the Blacks' old torture devices and tools with almost serene happiness that would have made any sane person uneasy, but didn't even make the family more than blink once—some had smiled—and moved on.
The family room had been expanded and turned into an infirmary under the stern eyes of Aunt Victoria and Dad, its Floo connection was password locked and each member of the family now wore an emergency Portkey keyed directly to the infirmary.
The dining room was enlarged and redesigned to look like a fancy military mess to feed the family and whatever allies they gathered—allies that they were already scouting for.
A cupboard under the stairs had been turned into a weapons locker, blades of various shapes and sizes, crossbows and bolts, and Victor had shown up one day with a smile and a box filled with guns and ammo in his arms to his father's disbelief— "where did you get that?" Benjamin had spluttered, and Victor looked at him almost in pity, "you don't want to know, Dad, you really don't."
(When Victor then offered lessons for anyone that wanted to know how to shoot a gun, Uncle Benjamin didn't even ask, and Mum only made a slight face when Kris threw Calypso at her cousin without hesitation.
Aunt Gloria joined her for several lessons as she learnt to shoot a shotgun until she was satisfied that she was able to wield it— "Next time Death Eaters come for my bakery, I'll blow their brains out," she told Calypso cheerfully—and never went anywhere without her shotgun hidden in her enchanted gun-holster she wore under her cardigans.)
Cynthia had waltzed into Grimmauld Place one day with Theresa balanced expertly on her hip and began directing just how she expected her potions' lab to be set up as Theresa, all bright red curls and dark eyes, watched in fascinated silence without her brother egging her on to be as loud as possible.
Aunt Lucretia and Lysander was unleashed onto the library and given access to the large collection of tomes, journals and writings that the Blacks had collected and stored over the years—quite a few were stolen, some taken from the still warm corpses of their enemies—though Lysander ended up in charge as Aunt Lucretia continued with her book—gleefully envisioning the reactions it would cause as she wrote.
Aunt Cassi and Uncle Ignatius—call me Uncle Iggy—set up their own lab with a secure vault—a vault covered in runes and wards to hold whatever horcruxes they found and hoarded—as they were going to work together to track down the other horcruxes amongst over things—things that made Uncle Iggy cackle madly and seemed to involve explosives from the booms and smoke that seeped out of the door.
(Calypso finally knew where the twins got their mad scientist thing from, and the mad scientist cackle they sometimes delighted in just to see the look of dread on the faces of their fellow students and even some of the professors.)
Bedrooms were either expanded into several rooms or into long dorm-styled rooms to allow dozens of people to sleep comfortably.
Grimmauld Place was ready for war.
Ayame had been a Hamasaki before she had been a Black, she had been a proud daughter to her family with a reputation something alike what the Black family held—not as dark, not as bloody, but few families could ever match the Blacks in those areas.
They had been samurai, Ronin and then settled as Yakuza with little fuss, they ruled their territory well, protected their interests fiercely and had every police officer and official in their pockets.
When Marius Black came to Japan's shores to expand his business, it had been Hamasaki territory that he had wanted to build in, and Ayame's grandfather would not allow him to build without securing an iron-clad alliance.
Alexander Black had come with his father, had sat patiently beside his father as Marius and her Grandfather bantered their alliance—an alliance to be sealed with a marriage—and when Grandfather had asked which of Marius' three children he would be offering the Hamasaki family, Alexander had smoothly spoken up and offered himself without hesitation.
Alexander Black was his father's only son, the heir to the Black Import empire, and Grandfather wasn't foolish enough to let such a prize—despite his lack of magic—slip between his fingers.
Ayame had sat with her siblings and cousins, she had eyed the tall man that looked much like his father though with blue hazel eyes, and wondered where was his Wrath? The hidden blades and poisoned words? Was he not a Black? Why was he so self-contained? So reserved? Did he have no Wrath or was his Wrath so much he needed such strict control over himself?
He intrigued her, she wanted to know what made him tick, what would make him snap his control and show the world that his blood was as Black as his name, and so Ayame in turn offered herself in the marriage—her curiosity, her mother once told her, would get her into trouble—and soon found herself being married twice—once in Japan, in her home, surrounded by her family, and once in England, in her new home, surrounded by his family—and settled in a new house far from her family.
Over their years of marriage, Ayame was proud to say she had wrecked his tight control over himself—but not his Wrath, never his Wrath—many times.
For a while, she had been certain that her husband was a Black without Wrath, a tiger without claws or fangs, and she had almost been disappointed until her son was born, fierce Akira who screamed his Wrath for all to hear from the moment he was freed from her womb and would rage without pause whenever he could.
Angry, fierce Akira whose Wrath was almost too much for his little body, and Ayame had wept over her fierce warrior when he would finally sleep as she was convinced his Wrath would burn him from the inside out, that he would die before he could live.
She would sleep restlessly after spending hours uselessly trying to calm her son, to sooth his Wrath, but she couldn't, and she was certain that she would lose him.
But then one day, she had woken up to silence—a silence she had feared meant the death of her child—but when she had stumbled to her son's room, it was to find Alexander there—back from the business trip that kept him away from his son's birth and first rage filled weeks of life—and he was holding a blissfully silent Akira, who simply stared up at his father with big dark eyes.
"You are a Black," he had muttered to his son, "too much of a Black perhaps for you have Ares' Wrath strong within you, a God's Wrath was never meant to be held in a mortal's body, but the Blacks had endured it, have thrived despite the God's Wrath in our veins, and you will do the same. The Wrath will always be part of you, you'll never be able to escape it for even a moment unlike your cousin, and that means you will have to control it by sheer force of will. You will not fail, you will not falter, you are a Black, and more importantly, you are my son."
Alexander had looked at her then, blue-hazel eyes dark with the famous Black Wrath, and their son calm in his arms with his own Wrath just lurking in his dark eyes.
Ayame had never loved him more than in that moment.
Her husband would never be able to use magic, the family magic was out of his reach, and he was branded as trash by the more magically inclined members of his family, but he had the Black Wrath, he had their ruthlessness, and he was still as dangerous as any other Black, and Ayame loved him for it.
So, when the family declared war—when Akira's little So-chan had called for war and the family answered—what else could she do for the man she loved, for her fierce son and his beloved chosen Lady, for her family, but plan to petition her Maiden House for men, killers and warriors, to fight for them?
When the time for action comes, when they are needed and called to her side, she will smile—as sharp as the blades she hides as simple hairpieces and as sweet as the poison she was once famed for using—as they fall in submissive before her son's Wrath before he makes them heel in front of little So-chan.
She was a daughter of the Hamasaki family, she was a wife and mother of the Black family, and she was proud of it all.
Neville Longbottom was not an eavesdropper, he didn't casually spy on people or even blatantly spy on people, but everyone had those days when they go against their grain and do something they normally didn't do.
For Neville, today was that day and he was eavesdropping on his Gran's meeting with Cassiopeia Black—Aunt Cassi to his gran, and to both Calypso and himself which was an odd thought to think about.
It was not an odd thing for Aunt Cassi to drop in on them, for Gran and Aunt Cassi to have private teas, but Aunt Cassi had never foretold her arrival with a crow before—a crow that made his grandfather pale and his gran to purse her lips as it settled itself on their breakfast table—and Gran had never strictly forbidden him from joining them before.
"I had thought the War Crows had died out," his gran's voice mused, drifting out of the window and to where Neville lay completely still and hidden in the flowering bushes.
"Wistful thinking," Aunt Cassi snorted, "as wistful as the belief that the House of Black is dying—as if we'd die out with a whimper and not a bloody massacre."
"Perhaps," Gran allowed, "I'm curious for why you are using them, I thought the Blacks only used them for war—hence the name after all."
"Because the family has declared war, my dear Augusta," Aunt Cassi told her, a dark glee and relish in her voice that almost made Neville shudder.
"War?" Gran repeated in shock, "with whom?"
"The Dark Lord," Aunt Cassi told her gleefully, and thankfully Gran's sharp intake covered his own.
"He's dead," Gran hissed, "he died to the Potter boy—"
"Do not be foolish, Augusta," Aunt Cassi cut her off, "one should never assume the enemy has died unless their rotting corpse is placed before you—a pearl of Black wisdom for you."
"He's alive then?" Gran asked sharply, "you have proof?"
"Yes," Aunt Cassi replied without hesitation, "yes, we have proof and we know how he escaped death from whatever happened at the Potters. Surely Neville has told you of what happened at Hogwarts?"
"Yes," Gran's voice was tight with disapproval. "Blasted Dumbledore should have informed us exactly what was going on, a basilisk in Hogwarts, slithering around and petrifying our children? He's luck it was resolved without bloodshed. Are you saying He had something to do with it?"
"Indirectly," Aunt Cassi confirmed, "but directly? Lucius Malfoy attempted a foolish plot involving something that did not belong to him in the hopes of discrediting Arthur Weasley."
"Are you telling me that Lucius Malfoy unleashed a basilisk in Hogwarts—while his son was attending and thus in danger—in a feeble attempt to discredit Arthur Weasley?" Gran seethed before scoffing scornfully. "I thought Slytherins were meant to be cunning."
"Unfortunately, it's Slytherins like him that gives us all a bad name," Aunt Cassi sighed. "But yes, he did, unfortunately there is no proof—Harry Potter destroyed what controlled the basilisk when he killed it."
"He actually killed the basilisk by himself? I thought it was another tall-tale the Prophet likes to sprout," Gran said almost thoughtfully, "brave of him, extremely foolish, but brave."
"You'll have no arguments from me," Aunt Cassi's voice tightened slightly, "especially considering our Calypso got herself mixed up with it all."
"Calypso?" there was shock in his Gran's voice, "how?"
"She figured out where the Chamber was and ignored all the brains the Gods gave her to check it out herself," Aunt Cassi spoke in disapproval. "Luckily, she only ended up with one of her legs crushed and a number of bruises and cuts."
"Luckily," Gran scoffed. "I take it she's getting put through her paces by the family for her foolish behaviour."
"Of course," Neville could almost hear the smile in Aunt Cassi's voice and he winced in sympathy for his cousin—no wonder her letters had been rather short this summer.
There was a long silence broken only by the scrape of Gran's tea-set.
"You're here for an alliance," Gran finally broke the silence thoughtfully.
"Yes," Aunt Cassi answered easily and without hesitation.
"This war, will it be like last time?" Gran questioned.
"Augusta, we are Blacks, not Dumbledore or his Order nor do we concern ourselves overly much with what the Ministry says," Aunt Cassi spoke rather proudly. "This will be a proper war, with blood and vengeance."
"Vengeance," Gran mused, "I still want Bellatrix Lestrange's head for what she did."
"It can be arranged," Aunt Cassi said easily. "Do you want the whole head intact and preserved? Or will her skull do?"
"Intact and preserved so I can mount it on my wall," Gran said fiercely, and Aunt Cassi laughed.
"Your mother would be so proud of you," Aunt Cassi informed her fondly, proudly.
Neville lay in the earth, life-giving and comforting earth, as he became deaf to the rest of the conversion.
War, You-Know-Who, somehow Neville couldn't find himself to be surprised. It was like he already knew it was coming, already suspected that You-Know-Who wasn't really gone, and that the war his parents fought—and lost everything that made them who they were as they did—wasn't done and that he would have to raise his wand in their place.
It was terrifying, but Neville knew he couldn't run away or he'd never be able to face the wasted features of his mother, of the lax face of his father. How could Neville run away or refuse to fight when his parents sacrificed their own sanity when they refused to break under Bellatrix Lestrange's wand?
He couldn't, he wouldn't. The Hat had placed him in Gryffindor for a reason, he reminded himself sternly, he could be brave, and he would be brave, brave like his father, like his mother, and he would fight for them and for his friends against the likes of You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters.
Just hopefully not now—he still needed a bit more time, time to be brave, time to become a great or even good wizard like his father before him.
Akira had never frightened her, not when she was a toddler and he pulled funny faces that pulled on the scar that marred the left side of his face, not as she grew up and realised just how, well, insane Akira could be. How could she ever be scared of Akira? He was Akira, her cousin, and he loved her with everything he had.
He was always ready to smile at her, he was always ready to indulge her, he was always quick with a hug or cuddle, and he was always there for her.
Nothing, she had decided when she was younger, could ever make her afraid of Akira.
Not even this, Calypso realised dimly as she paused in the doorway torture room that Akira had so-carefully set up and found the source of the screams that had distracted her from her books.
There was a man stretched painfully across the rack, limbs twisted and bloody as he sobbed hopeless as Akira stared down at him with dark remorseless eyes.
"Akira…" Calypso trailed off and Akira turned to her with a smile, his t-shirt had been discarded and through the blood painted across his chest she could see the knotted scars that spread across his thin chest—a few of the scars was from his work as an auror, but most of them came from the underground duels that he dominated for fun, for release of the blood-lust and battle-rage that warred within him.
"So-chan," he called brightly, lovingly, and held out a bloodstained hand for her. "Come see what I've done!"
Any normal twelve-year-old girl would have hesitated, would have cringed away and screamed, hell any normal person would, and Calypso realised dimly that her old-self, gone and buried under Calypso and just real because of half-forgotten and faded memories, would have done the same.
But not Calypso, no, she took her cousin's hand, felt the slickness of the blood that covered his hand and let him pull her closer, over to the mess of a man that had someone displeased him, and didn't even cringe when he pressed against her back, arms looping around her neck as the tacky and drying blood stuck her t-shirt to his bare chest.
She did gag slightly, forced herself to breath shallowly through her mouth as the stink of human waste, primal terror and coppery iron blood turned her stomach.
"Easy, So-chan, you'll get used to the smell," Akira told her soothingly before he reached out and twisted the handle next to them and the man screamed as his limbs were pulled tight. "Do you know who this is, So-chan?"
Silently, Calypso shook her head as she stared down at the unnamed man before her.
"No, I suppose you wouldn't," he mused as he tugged her closer to him, the blood making them stick together uncomfortably. "This filth here, So-chan, likes to watch young girls with lustful eyes—he liked to stare at you with lustful eyes."
"What?" Calypso spoke through numb lips, staring at the very much unremarkable man before her that she could have passed a dozen times in the street and never remembered him—the most successful monsters, Calypso suddenly remembered, were the ones that didn't look like monsters, the ones that looked just like everyone else.
"Yes," Akira hissed, protective and angry, "I saw him watching you, always watching when you go to sit in the park across the way. He watched with lustful eyes, So-chan—he's lucky I haven't plucked them out of his head yet."
"Please," the man croaked, pathetic and pleading, "please, I'm sorry! I wasn't going to touch her, I promise! I just wanted to look! Please! I wasn't going to do anything! I promise!"
He kept pleading, kept crying, and Calypso stared at him, anger curling in her stomach as she felt sick. He may have not touched her, but he had thought about it, he may have even planned on doing it before Akira stepped in—and what about other little girls? Had he touched them? Hurt them? To fuel his sick fantasies? It was people like this man, that made Calypso hate people, people like him made her sick.
"Akira?" she called softly.
"Yes, So-chan?" Akira asked eagerly.
"Shut him up," she told him, staring straight into the fearful eyes of the man—as unremarkable as his face. "His voice annoys me."
"Of course, So-chan," Akira told her happily, peeling himself off her back and moving towards his tools of torture. "I can't have my So-chan annoyed after all."
As Calypso stood there and watched as Akira bent over the man, blades in hand, and she ignored the scream that quickly turned to a gurgle as Akira removed his larynx with impressive skill and steady hands—the man wouldn't die, no, Akira wasn't done playing with him—she realised just how far she had come—how far she had fallen—and knew without a doubt that she was a Black and would always be a Black.
Her previous self would have been horrified, would call him—her, them—a monster, but Calypso didn't care.
Calypso wasn't a monster, she was a Black, and Blacks hunted monsters for sport.
AN: Yeah…. I have no idea where that last scene came from, I knew I wanted to end the chapter with a scene with Akira and it somehow turned into them bonding over the torture of a pervert. My mind kind of worries me sometimes, but oh well, I hope you enjoyed this chapter of the Black family, well, being the Black family—bloody, ruthless, cruel, and remorseless.
I think I'm going to miss Akira after I end this fic, he really is one of my favourite OCs.