Chapter 6: The Weight of Secrets
The family cottage in the French countryside was bathed in silence, save for the faint rustle of leaves in the cool night breeze. The house, small yet charming, stood nestled between rolling hills and rows of lavender fields that stretched endlessly under the silver glow of the moon. From the outside, it looked like the perfect picture of tranquility. Inside, however, one mind was far from at peace.
Arcturus lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his golden eyes wide and restless. The faint creak of the wooden beams above him seemed to echo in the stillness, amplifying the weight of his thoughts. Every time he tried to close his eyes, the vision from the Portkey replayed with stark clarity—the snow, the fire, the hooded figure, and that voice, slurred yet searing: "What're you looking at, boy?"
He shifted restlessly, kicking off the quilt and sitting up with a sharp sigh. His room was small but cozy, the moonlight spilling through the window and pooling on the floor like liquid silver. The soft scent of lavender wafted in through the open window, but even that calming fragrance couldn't steady the churning in his chest.
His gaze drifted to the wand box on his nightstand. It sat there, perfectly still, but it felt as though it was calling to him, a faint hum just on the edge of perception. He hesitated, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress. Was he imagining things? Could a wand really… want something?
The memory of Ollivander's words resurfaced, quiet but insistent: "The wand chooses the wizard. And this one has waited a long time for you."
Before he could stop himself, Arcturus reached for the box. His fingers fumbled slightly as he unlatched it and lifted the lid. The elder wood gleamed faintly, its intricate carvings catching the soft light. He carefully picked it up, cradling it in his hand as though it might shatter.
Standing, he moved toward the window, holding the wand up to the pale moonlight. It felt solid in his hand, its weight grounding, but there was something more—something beneath the surface, a pulse, faint but unmistakable.
At first, the wand was warm, the heat spreading through his palm like the comforting glow of a hearth on a winter's night. But then, just as quickly, the warmth ebbed away, replaced by a biting chill that crept up his arm and settled deep in his chest. He sucked in a sharp breath, the sensation so sudden and piercing that it left him momentarily paralyzed.
Cold as death.
The words from the vision echoed in his mind, clear and undeniable. His fingers tightened around the wand, his pulse quickening. Was this connected to the vision? To the figure by the fire? Or was it something more? A warning? A memory buried deep within the wand itself?
Should I tell Étienne? The question surfaced unbidden, and his brow furrowed. Étienne had always been his rock, his voice of reason, the steady hand that guided him when things felt overwhelming. But how could he explain this? How could he make sense of something he didn't understand himself?
What if Étienne thought he was imagining it? Or worse—what if he took the wand away?
The thought made Arcturus's stomach twist. He couldn't bear the idea of losing the wand, not after the connection he'd felt the moment it chose him. Whatever this was, he had to figure it out on his own.
A soft rustle drew his attention, breaking the stillness. Arcturus turned his head toward the corner of the room, where Hypnos's sleek black feathers gleamed faintly in the moonlight. The owl was awake, his bright yellow eyes fixed on Arcturus with an intensity that made him pause.
"You too, huh?" Arcturus muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. He moved closer to the cage, setting the wand down on the windowsill. Hypnos tilted his head, his gaze shifting briefly to the wand before snapping back to Arcturus.
For a moment, it felt as though the owl could see straight through him, as if he understood the turmoil swirling in his chest. Arcturus hesitated, then reached out to unlatch the cage door. Hypnos stepped out gracefully, his talons clicking softly against the wooden surface. Without hesitation, the owl flapped his wings once and hopped onto Arcturus's arm.
The warmth of Hypnos's small, feathered body was a stark contrast to the cold that lingered in Arcturus's hand. He brought the owl closer, stroking the glossy feathers gently. Hypnos let out a soft hoot, almost as though he were trying to soothe him.
"At least you're not judging me," Arcturus murmured, managing a faint smile. He carried Hypnos to the bed and sat down, the owl settling comfortably on his arm. After a moment, Hypnos gave a soft flap and hopped onto the bedspread, pecking lightly at the edge of the quilt as though urging Arcturus to lie down.
"Alright, alright," Arcturus said quietly, slipping under the quilt. Hypnos flapped his wings once more and landed lightly on his stomach. The owl's bright yellow eyes were now fixed on the window, unblinking and watchful.
Arcturus followed Hypnos's gaze to the wand still resting on the windowsill. The elder wood caught the moonlight, its faint carvings seeming to shimmer for the briefest moment. Hypnos let out a low, almost growling hoot, his body tensing as he stared at the wand, then toward the window beyond it.
"It's just a wand," Arcturus whispered, though the words felt hollow even to him.
Hypnos didn't respond, of course, but his unwavering stare was enough to send a shiver down Arcturus's spine. After a long moment, the owl turned his gaze back to Arcturus, his expression almost stern, before tucking his head under one wing. He shifted slightly, his warm weight a comforting anchor against the cold knot of worry in Arcturus's chest.
The tension in Arcturus's shoulders began to ease as he stroked Hypnos's feathers one last time. The steady rhythm of the owl's soft breathing and the warmth of his presence lulled him into a calmer state. His eyelids grew heavy, the weight of the day's events finally catching up to him.
As he drifted off, his last thought was of Hypnos's bright yellow eyes, staring protectively into the darkness. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he couldn't help but wonder: What does he see that I don't?
The first rays of dawn filtered through the window, bathing Arcturus's room in a soft, golden light. He stirred groggily, the lingering haze of restless sleep clinging to him like a heavy cloak. The events of the night before—visions of snow and fire, the chill of his wand, Hypnos's watchful presence—hovered at the edges of his mind, but the warmth of the morning began to soothe his thoughts.
Blinking against the light, Arcturus turned his head to see Hypnos perched by the window. The sleek black owl was motionless, his bright yellow eyes fixed on the horizon. He looked almost regal in the glow of dawn, his feathers gleaming faintly as he watched over the room with an air of quiet vigilance.
Arcturus smiled faintly, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Still keeping watch, huh?" he murmured, his voice raspy from sleep.
Hypnos turned his head slightly at the sound of his voice, his gaze locking with Arcturus's. There was a brief flicker of something almost knowing in the owl's expression, as if he understood more than he let on.
"Thanks for that," Arcturus added softly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He crossed the small room, his bare feet brushing against the cool wooden floor, and reached for the small pouch of owl treats on his nightstand. With careful fingers, he pulled out a snack and held it up to Hypnos.
The owl's sharp beak plucked the treat from his hand with precision, his feathers ruffling slightly as he settled back onto his perch. Arcturus stroked him gently, his fingertips brushing over the glossy black feathers. Hypnos let out a soft hoot, leaning into the touch just enough to show his approval.
"You're the best," Arcturus murmured, a hint of affection warming his voice. For a moment, the unease from the previous night seemed to melt away, replaced by the simple comfort of Hypnos's presence.
Straightening, Arcturus's gaze drifted to the wand sitting on the windowsill. His stomach tightened slightly as the memory of the cold sensations and the echo of that haunting voice crept back into his mind. "What're you looking at, boy?" The words felt distant now, their edge dulled by the daylight, but they lingered all the same.
He hesitated before picking up the wand, cradling it in his hand as he inspected it in the morning light. The elder wood was smooth and cool to the touch, its faint carvings catching the golden glow of the sun. As he turned it over, something caught his eye—a faint shimmer along its surface, like frost melting under the warmth of the morning.
Arcturus frowned, his golden eyes narrowing as he leaned closer. The shimmer was almost imperceptible, a subtle play of light that danced along the intricate patterns etched into the wood. It disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, leaving him questioning whether he'd seen it at all.
"You're imagining things," he muttered to himself, shaking his head as he carefully placed the wand back into its box. "Stress and excitement, that's all. Too much happened yesterday, and your brain's just playing tricks on you."
The reassurance felt hollow, but he clung to it nonetheless, determined to push the lingering doubts aside. He latched the wand box and returned it to its place on the nightstand, his hand lingering on the smooth surface for a moment longer than necessary. "Focus on the day ahead," he said quietly, as much to himself as to Hypnos.
The owl let out another soft hoot, tilting his head as if in agreement. Arcturus smiled faintly, running a hand through his tousled dark hair before turning toward his wardrobe. He couldn't afford to let his thoughts spiral—not today. Whatever the wand or the vision meant, it would have to wait.
The kitchen was alive with the warmth of a French morning, sunlight streaming through the wide windows and illuminating the rustic wooden table. The air carried the mingling scents of fresh-baked pastries, sliced fruit, and the rich, robust aroma of Étienne's coffee brewing in its pot. Around the table, the family gathered, the peaceful atmosphere punctuated by Élodie's excited chatter.
"And then she said Harry Potter is going to study under Gilderoy Lockhart this year! Can you imagine? The Harry Potter learning from the Gilderoy Lockhart?" Élodie exclaimed, her eyes wide with delight. Her auburn curls bounced as she waved her fork in the air for emphasis. "He's going to learn all of Lockhart's secret dueling techniques!"
Aurelie, seated primly beside her younger sister, arched a skeptical eyebrow. "Oh, for Merlin's sake, Élodie, you'll believe anything you overhear. Gilderoy Lockhart couldn't duel a Puffskein if his life depended on it."
Élodie puffed up indignantly, her cheeks flushing. "That's not true! He wrote a whole book about it—'Year with the Yeti, remember? He faced it down with nothing but his wand and his brilliance!"
Aurelie rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't get stuck. "He probably stunned the poor thing by blinding it with his ridiculous smile. Honestly, you act like he's Merlin reincarnated."
"Well, he's done more than you have!" Élodie shot back, crossing her arms. "You've never defeated a Yeti or fought a banshee!"
"Neither has he," Aurelie retorted with a smirk. "And everyone but you seems to know it."
"Girls," Céleste interrupted gently but firmly, her melodic voice cutting through the brewing argument. She reached for the fruit bowl, her elegant hand selecting a perfectly ripe peach. "Let's not turn breakfast into a debate. Aurelie, have some more fruit. Élodie, please chew before you speak." Her brown eyes sparkled with quiet amusement as she placed the peach onto Aurelie's plate.
Across the table, Arcturus sat in silence, his hands idly tracing patterns on the wooden grain of the table. His plate sat largely untouched, the buttery croissant he'd taken only half-eaten. He watched his cousins' exchange with muted interest, his thoughts elsewhere. The lingering chill from his wand and the vision from the Portkey refused to fade from his mind, no matter how hard he tried to push them aside.
"Archie, mon cher," Céleste's voice broke through his reverie, soft and concerned. She leaned forward slightly, her golden gaze searching his face. "You've hardly eaten. Are you feeling alright?"
He glanced up, startled by her attention. "I'm fine," he replied quickly, forcing a small smile. "Just tired, that's all."
Céleste frowned slightly but didn't press the issue. Instead, she reached for the coffee pot, pouring a fresh cup for Étienne, who was flipping through the latest issue of Le Prophète Magique.
Before anyone could say more, the peaceful rhythm of the morning was interrupted by the sharp tap of claws against the kitchen window. All heads turned toward the sound, where a sleek gray owl perched on the sill, a letter clutched tightly on its leg. The owl's eyes gleamed with urgency, and it ruffled its feathers impatiently.
Étienne rose from his chair, his movements calm but deliberate, and opened the window. The owl wasted no time, swooping into the room and landing squarely on the table, scattering crumbs as it stretched out its leg to deliver the letter.
"Who's it for?" Élodie asked eagerly, leaning forward to peer at the envelope.
Étienne took the letter and turned it over, his sharp eyes narrowing as he inspected the unfamiliar crest stamped into the wax seal. It was an intricate design—a swirling emblem that none of them recognized. His frown deepened as he glanced at the rushed, uneven handwriting on the front.
"It's addressed to you, Arcturus," he said, his voice steady but tinged with a note of caution. He handed the envelope to his nephew, who stared at it in surprise.
Arcturus hesitated, his fingers brushing over the seal as he studied the unfamiliar symbol. Something about it sent a shiver down his spine. The handwriting—hastily scrawled, almost frantic—only added to the unease settling in his chest.
"You should wait until after breakfast," Étienne suggested, his tone firm but not unkind. His sharp gaze flicked briefly to Céleste, who met his glance with a slight nod of agreement. "There's no rush."
But curiosity burned too strongly in Arcturus. "It's fine," he said, shaking his head. "I'll open it now."
Ignoring the weight of Étienne's watchful stare, Arcturus broke the seal and unfolded the parchment inside. As his eyes scanned the hurriedly written lines, his heart began to race.
"The thread you carry is bound tighter than you realize. Shadows remember, even when we forget. Tread carefully—what once served darkness cannot always walk in the light unscathed. Be wary of whispers in the quiet, and do not let curiosity guide your hand too far. This is all I can say for now."
No signature followed. Just a single dot, pressed into the parchment like a hurried period to end a thought.
Étienne frowned, leaning over slightly to peer at the letter. "What in Merlin's name does that mean? 'The thread you carry'? Shadows? Whispers? It's all gibberish." He reached for his coffee, his expression growing darker. "It could be a prank. Wizards love their riddles."
Céleste's brow furrowed as she studied the letter from over Étienne's shoulder. "It doesn't make much sense to me either. Who sent this? And why?" Her tone was calm, but the concern in her eyes was unmistakable.
Élodie, oblivious to the tension, leaned in with wide eyes. "Ooh, maybe it's a secret code! Like in those adventure books where the hero gets a mysterious clue!" She practically bounced in her chair, the possibility of intrigue delighting her.
Aurelie, however, snorted and leaned back. "Or it's just a lunatic with a quill and too much time."
But Arcturus's chest tightened as he read the words again. His uncle's dismissal didn't comfort him. The thread you carry. Shadows remember. The words echoed in his mind, aligning too perfectly with the pulse of the wand the night before, its warmth and icy chill, its strange connection to the vision.
His gaze dropped to the table, the faint shimmer of the elder wand flashing in his memory. He swallowed hard, forcing a casual shrug. "It's probably nothing," he said, folding the letter and tucking it into his pocket before anyone could take it from him. "Just some weirdo trying to mess with me."
Étienne's frown deepened. "If anything else like this arrives, I want to know about it."
Arcturus nodded quickly, but his thoughts were already elsewhere, circling back to the wand. Shadows remember. Was it a warning? A clue? Or something worse?
The attic of the cottage was a dusty maze of forgotten belongings and cobwebbed corners, its air heavy with the scent of aged wood and mothballs. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the small, grime-coated window, illuminating floating specks of dust that danced in the warm glow. Arcturus stood amidst the clutter, carefully stacking old books into a crate as Étienne sorted through a pile of faded photographs and parchment scrolls nearby.
"Careful with those," Étienne muttered, gesturing to a stack of fragile-looking journals. "Your aunt would never forgive us if we ruined her grandfather's records."
Arcturus hummed in acknowledgment, brushing a layer of dust from his hands. As he reached for another crate tucked beneath an old rocking chair, his fingers grazed something cool and metallic. He paused, squinting as he pulled it into the light.
It was a weathered trunk, its once-polished surface dulled with age. The Black family crest glistened faintly in the dim light, its gold filigree curling like ivy around the edges of the shield. A black chevron divided the surface, separating the blood-red upper section, where golden stars twinkled ominously, from the silver lower half, where three black ravens perched, their beady eyes staring back at him. Above it all, a skeletal skull grinned wickedly, and beneath, a tattered ribbon bore the infamous words: Toujours Pur. Always Pure.
His fingers hesitated over the dust-coated latch, a faint sense of unease creeping over him.
"What did you find?" Étienne's voice broke the silence. He stepped closer, his brow furrowing as he caught sight of the crest. The easy warmth in his expression was replaced by a guarded tension.
Arcturus glanced up at his uncle, but Étienne's face was unreadable. Turning his attention back to the trunk, Arcturus reached out and touched the latch. The moment his fingers brushed against the cool metal, a faint click echoed in the quiet attic. The lock unlatched on its own, the lid creaking as it eased open as though it had been waiting for him.
Étienne stiffened slightly. "Be careful," he warned, his voice low.
Inside, the trunk revealed a collection of strange artifacts: a set of rusted keys that rattled faintly even when untouched, a cracked hand mirror whose surface shimmered unnaturally, and a tangle of worn parchment scrolls tied with black ribbon. But it was the locket nestled in the center that drew Arcturus's attention.
It was a large, oval locket of heavy gold, adorned with a serpentine S formed from glittering green jewels. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the locket cool and smooth to the touch as Arcturus picked it up. A faint sense of foreboding settled over him as he turned it over in his hand, its surface gleaming faintly even in the dim attic light.
Étienne peered over his shoulder, his jaw tightening as his eyes landed on the locket. "That's no ordinary piece of jewelry," he said quietly. "Where have I seen that before?"
Arcturus's gaze shifted to a folded piece of parchment nestled beside the locket. He unfolded it carefully, revealing cryptic handwriting in a hurried scrawl: The locket holds the key.
His heart skipped a beat as recognition hit him. "This… this is the locket my father mentioned in the note from Gringotts," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. His golden eyes flicked toward Étienne, who remained silent, his expression troubled.
Étienne reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of the locket before pulling back. "This is old magic," he murmured, almost to himself. "Dangerous magic. Whatever your father meant by 'the key,' it's not something to be taken lightly."
Arcturus hesitated, the locket feeling heavy in his hand. "Should we… do something with it? Tell someone?"
Étienne shook his head sharply, his tone firm. "No. For now, it stays here." He met Arcturus's gaze, his voice softening. "Focus on preparing for Hogwarts. This—whatever it is—can wait."
Though unsettled, Arcturus nodded reluctantly and tucked the locket into his pocket. They finished sorting through the attic in relative silence, but the weight of the locket seemed to linger, pressing against him like a silent question.
Later, back in his room, Arcturus sat on the edge of his bed, the locket resting in his palm. The cryptic note and his father's mention of the locket swirled in his mind, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't piece together its meaning.
He turned the locket over, searching for a clasp or seam, but found none. It was as though the locket was sealed shut, impervious to his attempts to open it. Frustration bubbled in his chest as he set it down on his desk, leaning back with a sigh.
"I don't know what you're hiding," he muttered, staring at the locket. "But you're impossible."
He reached for the chain, considering putting it around his neck. Maybe wearing it would reveal something—perhaps some lingering magic tied to its purpose. Just as he began to lift it, a sharp rattle broke the silence.
Arcturus froze, his eyes snapping to the wand box on his nightstand. The wand inside had shifted, its faint clattering unmistakable in the still room. He set the locket down quickly, his heart racing as he approached the box.
When he lifted the lid, the wand lay perfectly still, its elder wood gleaming faintly as though nothing had happened. Arcturus frowned, his fingers brushing over the polished surface. "What was that about?" he murmured, his voice low.
The wand offered no answer, its cool surface unyielding under his touch. Shaking his head, he returned to the desk and slid the locket into a drawer, pushing it to the back.
Though the locket was out of sight, its presence lingered in the back of his mind, an unresolved puzzle that gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. He glanced toward the wand again, its quiet stillness almost mocking in the dim light. Whatever secrets the locket held, Arcturus resolved to leave them for another day.
A gentle knock at the door broke the silence. Before Arcturus could answer, the door creaked open, revealing Étienne standing in the doorway. His expression was calm, but the faint lines of tension around his eyes betrayed his concern.
"May I come in?" Étienne asked gently, his voice low and calm, blending seamlessly with the quiet of the night.
Arcturus nodded, shifting to make space on the bed. "Of course."
Étienne entered, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. He crossed the room and sat down in the chair by the desk. Arcturus's gaze shifted briefly to the closed drawer where the locket was hidden before snapping back to Étienne, who seemed to pause, his expression thoughtful as he considered his words.
"I wanted to talk to you about what we found in the attic today," Étienne began, his voice steady but low.
Arcturus straightened, curiosity sharpening his focus. "The chest?"
Étienne nodded, folding his hands in his lap. "That chest belonged to your father, Regulus, he said thoughtfully. Not long after you were born, Regulus and my sister visited us. They brought the chest themselves and asked us to keep it safe in the attic. They didn't explain much, only that it was important and needed to stay hidden."
Arcturus's golden eyes widened slightly. "You mean… you've had it this whole time?"
"Yes," Étienne admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, as though the words were too heavy to speak aloud. His brow furrowed deeply, and he shifted in the chair, his hands clasped tightly together. "I put it in the attic and never opened it. At the time, I thought it best to honor Regulus and Amélie's… memory. After they…" He stopped, the unfinished sentence lingering in the air like a shadow.
Arcturus swallowed hard, his golden eyes shimmering with unspoken emotion. He didn't need Étienne to say the words—the heavy pause, the look in his uncle's eyes, told him everything.
His voice trembled slightly as he broke the silence. "You never wondered what was inside?" The question hung in the air.
"Of course I wondered," Étienne said, his tone tinged with regret. "But your father was… complicated. He was always secretive, especially in his final years. I didn't want to meddle in something that wasn't mine to meddle in."
Arcturus hesitated, the questions bubbling to the surface unspoken. "Do you think it had to do with… You-Know-Who?"
Étienne's expression darkened, and he gave a small nod. "It's possible. Regulus was a proud Black, and like many of his family, he was drawn to power. But unlike others, he didn't worship it blindly. He saw the cracks, the flaws, and it changed him. Whatever he got himself into, it must have been dangerous—and it cost him everything."
The room fell silent for a moment, Étienne's words hanging heavily in the air.
"But why come with the chest here?" Arcturus pressed, his voice tinged with frustration.
Étienne shook his head, a faint sigh escaping him. "I don't have the answers, Arcturus."
Arcturus lowered his gaze, his fingers tightening against the edge of the mattress. "He left a letter for me at Gringotts," he said quietly. "I can't read it until I'm seventeen. Maybe… maybe that's when I'm supposed to figure all this out."
Étienne's expression softened, his sharp features gentling as he nodded slowly. "Regulus was deliberate in everything he did," he said, his tone quiet but firm. "If he wanted you to wait, it wasn't without reason. He must have thought it was necessary—for your safety, or maybe to ensure you were ready when the time came."
Arcturus exhaled slowly, the tension in his chest easing slightly. "Maybe I should leave the locket alone until then," he admitted reluctantly. "I don't even know what I'm looking for, and… I already have enough to deal with." His eyes flicked toward the wand box on his nightstand.
Étienne followed his gaze, a flicker of understanding crossing his face. "That's a wise decision," he said gently. "You've got your whole life ahead of you, Arcturus. There's no need to rush."
He rested a hand on Arcturus's shoulder, his touch steady and warm. "Your father wasn't perfect," Étienne said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "But he loved you fiercely, more than anything in this world. Whatever he left behind—it wasn't to weigh you down. It was his way of protecting you, even when he couldn't be here. Trust in that."
Arcturus nodded, his golden eyes meeting his uncle's. "I will," he said, his voice steady despite the lingering questions in his mind.
Étienne gave him a small, reassuring smile and rose from the chair. "Goodnight, Arcturus," he said, heading for the door.
"Goodnight, Uncle Étienne," Arcturus replied, his voice quieter now.
As the door clicked shut, Arcturus leaned back against the headboard, his thoughts still swirling but tempered with a sense of resolve. He glanced toward the drawer where the locket lay hidden and then at the wand box on his nightstand.
For now, he decided, the locket could wait. There was too much he didn't understand, and he wasn't ready to confront it—not yet. His father had trusted him with this responsibility, and when the time came, he would honor it.
With a quiet sigh, Arcturus pulled the quilt over himself and closed his eyes, the weight of the day finally beginning to lift.
