The what now?
[
Launching Module Lite, estimated time till completion: 3 months.
Estimated time till Parturition: 4 months.
Enlarging installation time to prevent discomfort… done.
Warning! Multiple not accounted energies founded.
Identifying sources… done.
First energy: Magic
Second energy: Ḑ̴̯̻͖͇̠̙̼̺͔̣̉͊̒̇̆̐́̃͌̂̓̂͌̎̍́̔̈́̊̎̓̎̂̓̚͘͠͠į̸̭̦̦̫͓͉̯̅͛͑͐̍̔͝v̷̢̱̱͚͔̰͎̰̠̫͈̏͗̀͂̃̈́̐̏̎̉͋̋̉̓̈́͊͗́̏̆́͛̈͊̕͘͝͠͠͝i̴̛̝̦͈̼̲̬̬̜͕̼̰̜̱͙͉̻̻͌̑͊̽n̶̢̢͉̟͖̯̟͇̝̳̬̯̏̑̊̈́i̸̢̨̩͎͕͍̗̩̭͙̤̱̟̫̖̘͐͂̃̉͂̒̔̈́͊͌͛̾̀̆͘͜͝ṫ̸̨̡͍̼̯̫̠̹̟̝͎͈̫̹̲͚̥͊̊̓̍͐̕͝ý̶̨̳̻̝̝͉̹̠̗̭̃͋̽̐͂̒̏̋̓̅̚͝͝͝
]
'What do you mean by magic? And... what the hell was that last one?'
[
Second energy long-time effects prove to be detrimental
Suppressing second energy source
Remaining energy found to be beneficial.
Proceeding to ignore variables.
Starting the installation.
Good night, chosen one.
]
An unstoppable wave of sleepiness hit him, and, in a few seconds, he drifted into the dream realm.
[
Bloodline traits detected.
Current load: acceptable. Optimization window available.
Optimizing…
]
The next time he awoke was in the middle of a medical procedure.
Air scraped down unfamiliar lungs, and every inch of his body screamed confusion. Limbs flailed—tiny, weak, disobedient. He couldn't breathe right, couldn't focus, and worst of all... he couldn't think coherently.
A birth.
His own.
And that was not even the most amazing thing.
[
Installation complete.
All operating modules within parameters.
Welcome to your new life, chosen one.
]
This happened, he did not even have words.
This was unexpected.
Wholly unexpected.
This was something strait up from a videogame.
So even as the nurse took him from what appeared to be his new mother, handed him to the doctor and back to his mother, he remained vacant thinking about the ramifications this might unfold.
[
[Stats] [Perks] [Abilities] [Titles] [Map] [Transaction Room] (Soon)
]
Confused but somehow detached he willed to see [Stats].
[
Name: Nova Sirius Black
Age: 0 years 0 months 1 day
Title: null
Rank: Mortal
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Level: 0 (0%)
Class: Wizard Lv: 0/100 (0%)
HP: 50 - HP Reg per-min: 0.05
SP: 10- SP Reg per-min: 0.1
MP: null - MP Reg per-min: null
Parameters:
Strength = 0.01
Agility = 0.01
Endurance = 0.01
Vitality = 0.05
Dexterity = 0.01
Intelligence = 1.25
Wisdom = 1.25
Charisma = 0.01
Magic = null
Mind = 1.45
Will = 1.25
Spirit = 1.45
Luck =?
]
'Huh. Black? Sirius? Wizard? Don't tell me…'
[
Class: Wizard Lv: 0/100
Class that represents your ability to use magic as it is practiced in the Harry Potter universe.
You possess all the standard capabilities of a wizard, excluding specifical hereditary abilities.
You gain the following [Skills]; [Mana Manipulation] and [Accidental Magic]
You acquire the following [Perks]; [Wizard]
For each level gained, you receive the following stat increases = + 0.01 [Strength], + 0.01 [Agility], + 0.02 [Endurance], + 0.03 [Vitality], + 0.02 [Dexterity], + 0.01 [Charisma], + 0.03 [Mind], + 0.04 [Will]+ 0.04 [Spirit]
]
[
New skill unlocked.
Adding skill to [Abilities]
Mana Manipulation: 0/100 (0%)
You have taken your first step into direct magical control. Mana is the breath of the world, the lifeblood of spellcraft, enchantment, and will-made-real.
At this level, you can´t coax into motion the mana in your environment.
]
[
New skill unlocked.
Adding skill to [Abilities]
Accidental Magic: 0/10 (0%)
This skill represents the baseline magical instinct encoded into your being. Normally dormant in most beings until triggered by intense emotion.
At this level, the skill is dormant, reactive, and entirely unpredictable. Emotions may trigger magical effects with no conscious control.
]
A mixture of confusion, clarity, and reluctant acceptance crept into his now-tiny heart. Deep down, he knew—he knew—where he was and who he had become.
Then came warmth.
Arms, trembling but firm, cradled him against a heartbeat so steady it felt like a lullaby. A voice followed—cracked with emotion but still somehow the softest sound he'd ever heard.
"My baby, my love, my life…"
Something inside him—deeper than memory or logic—lurched. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was the part of him that remembered dying alone.
Cradled in his new mother's arms, he couldn't help but hear her, whispering to him—though he doubted she expected him to understand.
But he did.
And as he saw the raw love on her face, he smiled. Or at least, he tried to. Newborn muscles weren't exactly cooperative.
He could work with this.
He would start this new life with a loving mother.
It was strange at first.
Apparently, he'd been born into a branch of the Potter family—of Charlus Potter, the younger brother of Fleamont, and his wife, Dorea Black.
Charlus and Dorea were his great-grandparents. His mother, Elena, was the only child of their son and a daughter from the old Smith family.
Things hadn't gone well after that.
The day after graduating from Hogwarts, Elena announced she was pregnant. She refused to name the father.
Her own father—staunch, traditional, and deeply proud—was livid. He disinherited her on the spot. She left the family name behind and claimed the only other one available to her, Black.
To say the family didn't get along would've been generous. Toxic was closer. Nova had never even seen his grandparents in person. And honestly? He didn't care to. Niceness didn't seem to run in the bloodline.
But family drama wasn't his biggest problem at the moment.
His body was a mess—uncoordinated, frail, annoyingly soft. He couldn't even sit up properly. Crawling was a monumental effort, and rolling over felt like launching a war campaign.
Still, every inch he gained felt like a victory. And the effort, at least, was rewarded.
[
New skill unlocked.
Adding skill to [Abilities]
Crawl: 4/25 (89%)
Way to go, champ. You now possess the moving capacity of a particularly motivated puppy.
4% In all physical conditioning
You can crawl 20% faster than you should.
16% SP reduction
Cost: 0.84 SP/per meter
]
That was it. Not earth-shattering, but it was something. A start.
Of course, it also meant his mother lost her mind every time he scooted across the room like a tiny, sentient mop.
Then came the discovery of a unique kind of hell.
Being trapped in a baby's body.
He couldn't communicate beyond garbled noises and flailing limbs. The primary method of expression was by shitting himself—and even that wasn't always intentional.
So, he had to make do.
Right now, he was seriously rethinking his life choices.
He was locked in mortal combat.
With a blanket.
The offending fabric had twisted around his tiny foot, turning what should've been a proud scoot across the nursery into a full-body face-plant.
For the fifth time.
[Crawl: 4/25 → 5/25 (3%)]
'Consistency is key, baby legs.'
With Herculean effort and a bit of dribble, Nova rolled sideways and flopped onto his belly.
This was it.
He set his sight on his objective—a soft plush dolphin near the crib leg. It stared back with glassy eyes, judging him. Daring him.
This was his first test.
He would reach his plushie. He would achieve his first sliver of independence in this new, weak body—and he would do it now.
The air stilled, as if the world paused to acknowledge his resolve. And maybe it did. He was in a world of magic, after all. Anything was possible.
Then, he moved.
Elbows dug in. Knees wobbled. Butt wiggled like it had ambitions of its own. And then—motion. He surged forward an inch. Maybe less. Possibly negative distance, if that was a thing.
But he didn´t give up.
With strength that he didn't know he had he made his way to his objective, never stopping, never faltering.
By the time his mother walked in, he was sound asleep—plushie in hand, tiny chest rising and falling in peaceful victory.
She gasped. "Look at you, crawling already?! My brilliant boy!"
[
Crawl: 5/25 → 6/25 (2%)
Way to go, champ. You're basically unstoppable… for someone under 2 feet tall.
6% In all physical conditioning
You can crawl 30% faster than you should.
24% SP reduction
Cost: 0.76 SP/per meter
]
[+0.01 Endurance]
[+0.01 Agility]
Today had started so well with morning light spilling through the curtains and his mother's laughter filling the nursery.
He and his mother had been playing peekaboo.
He couldn't deny the joy in his heart at the sight of her smile, the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed. And if he had to stoop to childish games to keep that smile in her face, so be it.
But then, the mood shifted.
An owl knocked on the window.
He blinked at it, frowning. The bird stared back, unblinking, as if delivering judgment instead of mail.
How strange. This was the first thing—truly the first—that yanked him out of the warmth and reminded him of the bizarre world he now lived in. Owls as postmen.
Preposterous.
'How could they even know where to go? Don't they have to rest? Why owls, of all creatures? If you're going to be archaic, why not pigeons? At least they have the decency to look confused about it.'
The owl remained still, yellow eyes sharp and judging. His mother approached calmly, as if receiving letters from birds was the most natural thing in the world, and untied the envelope from its leg. The owl gave a satisfied hoot and flapped away, leaving behind only a swirl of air and a single white feather drifting down.
She opened the letter with practiced fingers, her expression calm at first—but as her eyes moved across the parchment, that calm began to erode. Her lips thinned. Her brow settled into something unreadable.
When she finished, she stood motionless, the parchment hanging loosely at her side. A silence stretched in the nursery, thick and expectant.
Then she exhaled through her nose, slow and tired, and turned to Nova with the resigned grace of someone being summoned to a life she'd tried to leave behind.
"Well," she said, her voice dry and a touch brittle. "It seems my grandfather wants to meet. What joy."
'Oh joy' Nova thought, mirroring the sentiment perfectly.
He could hardly wait for the event.
The summons had come on thick parchment, sealed in deep green wax.
The castle was located somewhere deep in the Cairngorms, a jagged heart of stone hidden in the Scottish Highlands. No roads. No Floo access. No polite knock-on-the-door sort of welcome. The only way to reach it was by Apparition.
He couldn't quite articulate his disapproval—what with only being five months old—but he managed an impressive scowl for someone whose vocabulary consisted mostly of goo and huff. He could understand the need for secrecy, sure. But this? This was borderline paranoia. His mother hadn't even considered taking a carriage or broom. No, this was a straight-to-the-point Apparition.
Nova was wrapped in his mother's arms, bundled in his traveling cloak, small fingers curled tightly around her collar. He could feel the subtle vibrations of tension in her posture, even as she tried to appear composed. Her lips moved silently—counting, maybe, or reciting wards in her mind. She had packed quickly and with grim precision. Potions in padded cases. Amulets in velvet bags. A folded dagger hidden inside a boot.
She was not preparing for a family visit.
She was preparing for war.
They stepped outside the cottage into the crisp air. A fog had rolled in, curling low over the grass.
"It'll be all right," she whispered, brushing a lock of fine black hair from his forehead.
He cooed, purely for her sake. She smiled—faint, thin, but real.
Elena tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. "No matter what happens," she said, her voice low and sharp, "you stay close to me."
Nova nodded, or at least tried to. The wind stirred the edges of her cloak.
Then, without another word, she gripped him tightly, and the world cracked.
The first bit of magic he had seen directly and personally in this new world.
From what he knew, Apparition was never gentle. One moment there was light and breath and sky—and the next, all of it was gone. Pressure crushed against his ribs, like being sucked through a keyhole while drowning. Cold clawed at his skin, space folded around them, and time seemed to grind like teeth.
Then it was over.
Almost two hundred kilometers separated Dunscaith from the castle of his great-grandparents, and now, in just a breath, they had crossed it.
By the time he composed himself, he was trembling—not in fear, but in excitement.
This was real magic. This was what he would master.
They reappeared on a cliffside, the wind howling so fiercely it felt like it could rip the marrow from their bones. The castle loomed before them—black stone etched into the mountain like a scar. No torches lit its windows. No smoke rose from its chimneys. It was a fortress from another era, stern and silent, with parapets like broken teeth and doors that promised nothing good inside.
Elena straightened, her eyes narrowing. Her face had changed. The softness had drained away, leaving only the witch beneath—the one Nova knew she tried to keep hidden.
She looked down at him.
"Ready?"
Nova smiled and nodded.
A moment passed. Then, with a low groan of ancient stone, the massive front doors began to creak open on their own. No servants waited. No lights flared to welcome them. Only the cold breath of the castle rolled out, musty and damp and old.
Elena stepped forward without hesitation, her wand sliding into her hand like it belonged there. Her footsteps echoed too loudly in the silence. Behind them, the fog thickened, curling around the cliff like fingers reluctant to let them go.
Nova felt it too—that sensation of being watched. Of being measured.
He didn't like it here.
Unlike Dunscaith—rebuilt and renovated almost entirely by his mother, scrubbed clean of its dreary aura—this castle still clung to its ancient gloom. The very air seemed to hum with cold air, and the shadows stretched just a little too long.
It had an aura. Heavy. Oppressive. The kind that made you want to look over your shoulder, even when you knew nothing was there. Nova was fairly certain that if left alone in this place for a week, he'd start talking to the walls—and the worst part? The walls would probably answer.
'I now understand the Black family and their tendency for drama.' he thought, his baby face pulling into an involuntary grimace. 'By the time I'm a teenager, I too will be draped in skulls and crosses, brooding in the corners ... or, God forbid, wearing eyeliner.'
His mother, for her part, didn't seem fazed by the oppressive energy as she stepped into the inner courtyard. Her boots clicked sharply against the damp stone, and her eyes swept the silent windows with cool detachment. The wind chased after them, tugging at her cloak, but she walked on—undaunted.
Nova held on tighter.
The inner courtyard was empty—save for a single tree planted dead center. It wasn't particularly impressive. No thorny branches, no creeping mist, no whispering leaves. If anything, it looked disappointingly normal.
Strange.
He'd halfway expected it to try to bite them.
His mother didn't slow. She ignored the tree, the silence, and the castle's cold welcome as she made her way forward.
She crossed the courtyard and pushed open the heavy doors at the far end, stepping into the castle proper. And they kept walking.
And walking.
It was somewhere between the fifth hallway and the third unnecessary spiral staircase that Nova began to suspect the castle had absolutely no respect for the concept of space. From the outside, it looked like a modestly sized fortress—large, yes, but not absurd. But inside? Inside felt like they were navigating a small village hidden inside a stone shell. Corridors stretched longer than they had any right to, and staircases folded into walls like tricks of perspective.
Magic. Old, ridiculous, and inconvenient magic.
The décor didn't help either.
Every room they passed dripped with the kind of wealth that had long since stopped being tasteful. Heavy velvet curtains. Candelabras that looked like they'd been stolen from Versailles. Wall-sized tapestries of moody ancestors who didn't blink so much as glared. And the gold. So much gold. On doorknobs, on drawer handles, on the cutlery of a dining room they passed—the spoons alone could probably pay off a minor country's debt.
'Unnecessary luxury,' Nova thought, wrinkling his nose as they passed through a grand hall lined with portraits too faded to recognize. 'Overcompensating, much?'
At last, his mother came to a stop in front of a wide hearth carved from black stone. A fire burned low within, crackling softly. Two armchairs sat facing it, each one embroidered with what appeared to be actual gold thread—because of course they were. Subtlety was clearly considered a disease in this household.
One of the chairs was already occupied. Nova couldn't quite see the figure seated there, but his mother didn't seem to care. Without hesitation, she strode forward and sat in the other armchair, her posture perfectly composed.
A heavy silence settled between them like dust in an abandoned room.
Then, at last, she spoke.
"Grandfather."
Her tone was cool and precise. No warmth. No bitterness. No affection either. Just acknowledgment.
"Elena." The reply was a breath of gravel and age. Old. So very old.
Nova shifted slightly in her arms to get a better look—and met a pair of eyes like darkened steel.
The man—if that word still applied—was gaunt, as though the years had drawn him out thread by thread. He wore a suit of sharp lines and tailored precision, modern in cut yet drenched in quiet authority. Gold filigree traced the cuffs and collar, subtle but undeniable. His trousers were midnight black, his posture straight as a drawn blade. Over his right arm, a polished piece of armor gleamed—ornate, ceremonial, and very real..
His silver hair swept back from his brow, crowned by a strange metallic circlet that melded with his hair like poured mercury. His beard, short and meticulously kept, was threaded with grey.
But it was the eyes that held him.
Steel—not just in color, but in substance. Heavy with age, sharp with expectation. Cold, unreadable. The kind of eyes that didn't blink so much as weigh.
This was no fading noble. No relic in retreat.
This was a king.
And here he sat, draped in silence and shadow, not merely looking at them—but measuring them.
Nova stared back, unflinching. He couldn't explain the sensation, not in words—not yet—but it felt familiar. Like stepping into a memory that didn't belong to him.
The king's eyes shimmered—not with contempt, nor curiosity, but something rarer still.
Uncertainty.
It lingered in the air, clinging like smoke… then vanished, swept away behind a king's mask.
"So," the old man finally said, his voice worn stone and winter wind. "You've come. After all this time."
There was no accusation in his tone—only a simple acknowledgment, like observing the tide returning to shore.
"I did," Elena replied coolly. "No thanks to father."
That was an accusation, one sharp enough to cut glass.
"Your father is of no concern now. He made his bed long ago… and now lies within it."
The finality in his words struck like a gavel. This was not the first time they'd crossed blades over that topic.
'Welp. There goes the dream of a warm reunion.' Nova mused darkly. 'Note to self, never meet Grandfather. Would probably cost me a limb. Maybe my sanity.'
Elena's lips thinned. "Then why the invitation? To catch up? Chat about the weather?"
She was probing, pushing—not just for answers, but for something she couldn't yet name.
The old man allowed a dry breath that might once have been a laugh. "Though it has been particularly dreary of late... No. I did not summon you for idle pleasantries."
He paused, eyes flickering. "Dorea is dead."
The air shifted. Something cold slipped into the room.
Elena blinked, just once. "Grandmother…?"
Then, more quietly, "You were never close. You married her for that damn contract. Not much was lost."
His expression did not change, but the steel in his gaze darkened.
"She was still your grandmother," he said evenly. "And you will speak of her with respect. Even if what you say is true… by the time I understood the contract's nature, my heart had already been claimed by another. It still is."
His words hung there, oddly tender in the silence.
"But," he continued, brushing aside the ghost of memory, "that is not why I brought you here. I did not call you to speak of a wayward youth's regrets. I called you because the fate of our line now rests in your hands."
He nodded, and for the second time his gaze shifted to Nova, now cradled freely in his mother's arms.
"No." Elena's voice was immediate, sharp. "You will not touch him. He's not even a year old. He doesn't deserve that kind of burden."
She held him tighter, the sleeves of her cloak rustling with the movement.
The old man didn't flinch.
"You still don't understand," he said quietly. "I have no intention of taking your son from you."
His eyes lingered on Nova—not with hunger, not with control, but with the kind of melancholy one reserved for things that would outlive them.
"I am simply telling you the truth."
A pause.
"I will die in a few days."
Elena stiffened. "Die? Why?"
Her voice was sharper than she intended, laced with something too close to alarm. "You're not even a century old. Even then, you should have decades left. Did you botch a ritual? I could help—"
It surprised Nova how easily concern slipped into her tone, even after all the resentment, all the silence.
But the old man shook his head gently. "No. Nothing like that. It's simply… the way things are. There are some things in this world no one can change."
His voice held a calm acceptance. Not resignation—peace. As though this wasn't an end, but a long-expected conclusion.
"If you don't want my help," Elena said more tightly now, "then why are we here?"
There was something brittle under the question. Not just frustration—something personal. Rejection, maybe.
He paused then, gaze steady, and turned his eyes to Nova.
"I will leave all my belongings to your son," he said, tone matter-of-fact, as though discussing the weather. "Everything—from this castle and the surrounding lands to my entire portfolio of holdings in the mundane world."
Nova didn't fully understand the weight of the words, not yet.
"All together," the old man went on, "the estate is currently valued at over five million galleons for the wizarding world holdings and one hundred and twenty million pounds in muggle currency. Without including the mundane properties."
Elena inhaled sharply.
"Some assets are still unaccounted for—older vaults, minor properties, forgotten investments—but nothing significant," he added, like a man talking about loose change in the sofa cushions.
Nova blinked.
He realized that for this man whatever riches he had mattered little now.
"I had a Muggleborn wizard, a former Gringotts liaison turned financial consultant, handle the accounting. He operates entirely in the Muggle world now. When your son comes of age, the full transfer will be made through legally binding magical and mundane contracts."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Elena didn't speak. Her eyes had narrowed, lips pressed in a tight line. Nova couldn't tell if she was stunned, disbelieving, or—just maybe—fearful.
The old man didn't falter.
He turned again to Nova, and this time his gaze held longer. Studying. Weighing. As if trying to match the face of an infant to a memory.
After a moment, something in him settled. He nodded once, slow and sure.
"There are also… items," he said quietly, almost an afterthought, though the shift in his voice said otherwise.
From somewhere unseen, he produced a small, ornately carved box. The wood was a rich, dark mahogany that gleamed in the firelight, etched with ancient runes that shimmered faintly as they caught the eye. Silver filigree traced its edges like ivy, and space itself seemed to bend ever so slightly around it.
"This will only open when you are seventeen," he said, handing it to Nova with both hands, like passing on a crown. "Guard it well. It has been in my possession for a very long time."
Nova took it. It was surprisingly light, but something told him that whatever lay inside was anything but.
"And this."
The old man reached into the folds of his coat and drew a wand.
Ebony, sleek and polished. It looked like it could command storms—or silence them.
He turned it once in his hand, considering it, before offering it to Elena, handle-first.
"This is also for him," he said softly. "Ebony and phoenix feather. Twelve and three-quarter inches. Rigid. She's served me well."
Elena accepted it carefully, reverently.
The silence returned, but this time it didn't press so hard on their shoulders
"...Haa," Elena exhaled, shaking her head faintly. "I always knew you had resources, but I didn't realize it was this much. I knew it was astronomically high, but—Merlin."
The old man chuckled, low and dry.
"Yes, well... I suppose I didn't quite realize it either. Not until I had it all accounted for." He leaned back, as though amused by his own oversight. "I've spent over half a century crafting alchemical products, you see. Elixirs, potions, cures—some of them long forgotten, others once thought impossible to replicate."
"And to think," he went on, voice turning wry, "Father was so disappointed when neither of his sons chose to carry on the family's legacy. Fleamont threw himself into potioneering and built his own empire in haircare—Gods help us—and I, the rebellious younger son, chased the deeper mysteries of alchemy."
He snorted softly, the sound half-nostalgia, half-regret.
"Henry Potter expected great things of us, of course. But in his eyes, 'great' meant tradition. He wanted a future generation of political powerhouses and wand-waving statesmen. He never forgave us for choosing the cauldron and crucible instead."
Elena gave a faint scoff. "And yet both of you still managed to become legends in your own right. Even if no one likes to say so out loud."
A dry smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Legends tend to come with a cost."
He paused again, letting the words settle like ash.
Elena looked at him differently now—something complicated in her expression. Respect, perhaps. Or the bitter realization that she'd never known him at all.
"As for the Muggle currency," he continued, his tone lightening slightly, "you'd be surprised what a desperate Muggle would pay to save their child from a terminal illness."
He gave a small, almost guilty smile. "I never took advantage. I never sold snake oil. What I made worked. If they couldn't pay, I found another way. If they could… well, I let them. Sometimes I wonder if that was the most meaningful work I ever did."
Then his gaze sharpened.
"And when I wasn't busy keeping Muggles alive, I did some contract work for the Department of Mysteries. Unspeakables are less nosy when you make their problems go away quietly."
A hush fell over the hall.
Only the faint crackle of the hearth remained, soft and steady. It comforted him, somehow. Like a lullaby. Like family.
"Grandfather," Elena said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I know we were never... close. But still—thank you. For what you've done for me… and for what you've done for my son."
A single tear betrayed her. It slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.
All those years of bitterness, of clashing names and closed doors, had robbed her of this, the chance to know him. Now, standing here, she felt the hollow ache of a missed opportunity.
Charlus Potter regarded her with eyes like carved stone.
Then he looked at Nova, and the sharp edges softened.
"You have it backwards, child," he murmured. "I should be thanking you. You brought him into this world. Him, who will change so much—more than even I can see. No, granddaughter... I thank you for allowing me to see him before I go."
He smiled then, slow and weary, his eyes flickering with something rare in a man like him—gratitude.
Then his expression shifted, distant again, as if remembering something else left undone.
"One last thing," he said. "I imagine it must be hard, raising him alone."
He lifted one hand.
There was a soft crack.
Now, there were four souls in the room.
The newcomer was small, no taller than a child, but clearly not human. Her skin was smooth and pale, her nose sharp, her ears long and pointed. Wide, solemn eyes stared up at Charlus like he was a king and she, his most devoted knight.
Nova blinked, captivated.
This was his first encounter with another species—truly other. He couldn't quite name what he felt. Awe? Fascination? Whatever it was, it settled over him like a dream. There was no fear. Only wonder.
'What kind of magic could birth a creature like this?' he wondered, eyes wide.
And then the knowledge clicked into place.
A House Elf.
A term that reeked of chains and obedience. A creature bound by magic to serve and obey—ancient indenture masked in tradition. A pitiful life.
But... this one didn't seem pitiful.
"This is Millie," Charlus said, his voice quieter now "A young elf, trained in service and etiquette, educated well beyond the standard. She's not like most of her kind. She's been taught to think, not just obey."
He looked down at her, and the way he spoke to her—with care, with respect—was something Nova hadn't expected from a man of his lineage.
"Millie," he said, "introduce yourself."
The elf stepped forward, clutching the hem of her simple tunic. Her voice was soft, but it carried with perfect clarity.
"This be Millie, my lady. Pleased to know thee."
Nova's mental image of house elves—half-formed ideas shaped by fragmented data and murky stereotypes—shattered instantly. She didn't speak in the third person. At least, not entirely.
"Millie is prepared to serve my lady in all she should need."
'Well', Nova thought wryly, 'maybe just most of the time.'
Elena had pulled herself together by then. Her eyes were a little red, but her spine was straight and her tone calm.
"Hello, Millie. Pleased to meet you."
The elf bowed so low her nose nearly touched the floor, then rose with graceful precision.
Nova stared at her, absorbing every detail—the way her small fingers twitched with nervous energy, the flick of her ears at every faint sound, the subtle way her gaze kept drifting to him, curious yet cautious.
It was strange. She looked nothing like him—nothing like anyone he'd ever seen—but he felt no fear. Only a growing sense of wonder, as though he'd stepped into a myth whispered about in an older world.
"Good, good. Then all is settled."
Charlus Potter's voice rang out again, firm and commanding. The warmth that had softened his features just moments ago vanished like mist in the morning sun. His shoulders squared. His posture straightened. The old man was gone; in his place stood a king.
Elena shifted, as though about to protest, her hand rising slightly. But she stilled. Perhaps some part of her remembered that look—that tone—and knew better than to try.
"The decreed hour is come," he said, voice low and ceremonial. "Set forth with my blessing, my descendants."
"Thank you, Grandfather," Elena replied, her voice quiet but sure.
"Take your leave... and go in the grace of the gods."
"Right."
She turned quickly, as if afraid her resolve might falter if she lingered. Nova, cradled in her arms, could feel the tension radiating through her—bitterness, guilt, and something else beneath it all… sorrow.
They moved toward the great doors of the hall, and past them. But they didn't make it far.
"Mistress," Millie said gently, her voice lilting and soft as she pointed with a long finger.
Behind them, the doors creaked open once more.
Charlus Potter stood there, walking slowly. His limp was pronounced now, more visible than before, and the click of his cane against the floor was steady but uneven. There was no ceremony in him now. Just a man. Just a grandfather.
Elena exhaled sharply, her voice low. "What now?"
"I fear... I left too much unsaid," he murmured, stopping a few steps away. His eyes were distant, haunted by all the things he never said and could no longer say.
Then he turned to Nova.
"You will place a great burden on those who choose to walk beside you."
There was no blame in his voice. Only the aching knowledge of what was to come. A quiet admission that greatness carried a price, and love bore the weight of it.
His gaze shifted to Elena, weathered eyes locking with hers.
"I ask not that you guide him... only that you remain at his side."
Her grip on Nova tightened.
"Of course," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "I will protect him. Even if it's the last thing I do."
She turned to go again.
And again, his voice stopped her.
"And another thing…"
He took a slow step forward, leaning more heavily on his cane. The weight of years bent his shoulders, but his eyes… his eyes remained sharp.
"Take heed. Once you set forth, you cannot turn back."
But he wasn't looking at Elena anymore.
He was staring at Nova—really looking—as though searching for something hidden beneath.
"You think I would?" Elena said, not unkindly. Her voice was quiet defiance—a promise that needed no embellishment.
She turned once more.
She was stopped once more.
He reached out with a trembling hand, laying it gently on her shoulder. His fingers lingered there, not gripping but anchoring. Steadying. His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.
"Take care on the long road. Whithersoever you should go… our line goes with you."
His hand slipped away.
Then he looked at Nova again—one final, long look—as though trying to memorize his face. As though entrusting him with something too vast to speak aloud.
"Walk tall."
He hesitated, lips parting slightly. There was more he wanted to say—needed to say—but the words died before they could escape. He swallowed them. Held them close.
Instead, he stepped back.
And then, with a soft crack, they were gone.
The air of that old castle still clung to them like mist, even weeks after they'd left.
Three weeks had passed since their visit, and though Charlus had said he had only days, neither of them had gone back. Perhaps they didn't need to. Perhaps they already knew.
Elena didn't speak of it. She buried the entire affair with the kind of finality only the truly heartbroken could manage.
The only sign they'd ever get came six days after their return. Millie disappeared for two hours, without word or warning, and no call could summon her back.
When she returned, she was quiet. Too quiet. She said nothing, offered no excuse, and when Elena asked—softly, just once—Millie only shook her head and said, "It is done."
They never spoke of it again.
Nova tried to forget. He placed the old, ornate box his great-grandfather had given him on a shelf in his room. It stayed there, untouched, gathering dust like a tombstone. It was not it´s time, not yet.
His mother kept the wand Charlus had given her tucked away. He'd seen her looking at it, once—just looking, fingers hovering near the wood but never quite touching it. Whatever connection she'd started to build with her grandfather, it had been cut too short, too soon. The wand stayed hidden. So did the pain.
And so, with nothing else to do, Nova did what all survivors do when grief leaves them stranded—he improvised.
[
New skill unlocked.
Adding skill to [Abilities]
Meditation: 7/100 (37%)
To shit or not to shit, that is the question.
This ability helps clear the mind, control emotions, and offers many other benefits.
70% SP Reg/MG Reg.
7% HP Reg.
7% in Mind gains
]
This had become one of his favorite pet projects—even if it was still very much a work in progress.
Even so, the more he practiced clearing his mind or meditating over something the sharper his mind felt, his thoughts seemed clearer, so with that in mind he spent a big part his awake hours doing so.
But even this had a limit, his boredom was so big at times that he started doing something he would have never thought possible, math.
At first it was just for fun—simple additions, subtractions, a few lazy multiplications. Baby steps. Literally.
Then things escalated.
Before long, he was mentally juggling derivatives, all while drooling on a soft wolf plushie.
[
New skill unlocked.
New branch unlocked.
Adding branch to [Abilities]
Mathematics:
Calculus: 5/100 (45%)
At this level, you're barely better than a middle schooler. Congratulations.
It provides a minimum amount of intuition in the case your result is incorrect. It also accelerates your thoughts when doing calculations.
5% probability of correction
50% acceleration when calculating.
]
This was his second favorite pastime.
Not exactly exciting, sure—but it was better than nothing.
And slowly, steadily, the numbers began to rise.
[
Name: Nova Sirius Black
Age: 0 years 5 months 18 days
Title: null
Rank: Mortal
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Level: 1 (29%)
Class: Wizard Lv: 1/100 (29%)
HP: 80 - HP Reg per-min: 0.08
SP: 20 - SP Reg per-min: 0.2
MP: null - MP Reg per-min: null
Parameters:
Strength = 0.01
Agility = 0.02
Endurance = 0.02
Vitality = 0.08
Dexterity = 0.03
Intelligence = 1.26
Wisdom = 1.25
Charisma = 0.03
Magic = null
Mind = 1.48
Will = 1.27
Spirit = 1.5
Luck =?
]
No person in the family ever visited.
At least, that was mostly true.
There was one exception.
A distant cousin, black-sheeped and gloriously unrepentant, had apparently been so thrilled by Elena's scandalous defiance of family tradition that he just had to get in touch. A man who treated decorum like it was a suggestion, and personal boundaries like they were part of a scavenger hunt.
He was like a crazy uncle—with all the chaos and none of the restraint. And honestly, Nova wasn't sure whether to be wary of him or start taking notes.
Still, for the most part, it was just the three of them—Elena, Millie, and Nova—tucked away in Dunscaith Castle on the misty Isle of Skye. A crumbling relic once, but no longer. His mother had apparently restored it herself, brick by enchanted brick, reinforcing the structure with runes and layering wards atop modern cloaking spells until it was as secure as it was invisible.
It was a sanctuary. Their sanctuary.
And in that sanctuary, he had come to love her—in just five short months.
How could he not?
She fed him, even when he spat half of it out in protest, sang lullabies from memory every night, and changed him with the kind of gentle care that made him feel safe, even in this unfamiliar life.
Even when exhausted, she never looked at him with anything less than total, unwavering love.
And every time he caught her gaze—every time those emerald eyes softened with affection that asked nothing in return—it cracked something open in him.
Because even with all his past life's memories, this—this was something new.
This was the first time he'd been looked at like he was precious.
How could he not love her back?
And with that thought, that warm ache in his chest, he let his eyes drift shut—nestled in the folds of a soft blanket, the crackle of the hearth like a lullaby, and the Isle's sea breeze.
"Dear, where are you?"
He was, in fact, hiding in the living room.
"Millie, can you please fetch him?"
"Yes, Mistress. Millie will bring small Nova at once."
He had originally thought all house-elves were easygoing, maybe even a little naïve. Millie, however, was serious—well, as serious as you can be when you look like a small child.
With a quiet crack, she appeared in front of him, scooped him into her arms, and with another pop, he was deposited into his mother's.
"There you are. Thanks, Millie."
He hadn't wanted to be found. He was planning on trying some magic—real magic. The System said he was a wizard, after all. But so far, he hadn't been able to do a thing.
Or at least… nothing he was aware of.
But alas, it was not to be.
"Come, little star. Let's get you changed. We're going shopping today."
He pouted the way only a baby could. But he acquiesced.
He hated shopping. Loathed it with the fiery passion of a thousand suns. But his birthday was coming up, so he decided to play nice.
"Oh, don't pout. If you behave, I'll buy you something nice. How's that?"
Lately, she'd been trying to bribe him into going outside to play. But he was an introvert at heart. He'd much rather stay in and watch her brew potions.
She was a potioneer. A good one at that. And he loved watching her fuss over her latest bubbling experiment like a mother hen with a cauldron.
Still he acquiesced and played nice.
Diagon Alley wasn't what he'd expected. It was far more crowded—and far weirder—than anywhere he'd seen before. So many robes. So many questionable hats. So many… smells.
Still, he convinced his mum to buy him a few books. Sure, they were children's storybooks, but he was confident he could glean something useful from them. There was always knowledge hidden between the lines.
She even bought him a quill and promised to enchant it later. Probably so he could doodle and keep himself busy while she brewed.
Even so, he was grateful.
It was his birthday—July 7th, 1978.
Today, he turned one year old.
Still, it was just the four of them most days: he, his mother, Millie… and Sirius.
Sirius Black.
The Sirius Black. The man who, if nothing changed, would be falsely accused of betrayal, thrown into Azkaban without trial, and left to rot in a cell surrounded by soul-sucking wraiths for twelve unforgiving years. The man who would lose everything—his friends, his freedom, his future—because of one wrong step on the chessboard.
But right now he was a very energic young man.
"Ohhh, aren't you a serious little guy? Oh yes, you are!"
And annoying, he was very annoying.
"You shouldn't be so serious, after all, I am Sirius!"
It had been funny. The first twenty-five times.
"You look so cute with that frown. Almost makes me forget you've got the same violet eyes as my cousin Bellatrix."
'Huh, so she did have violet eyes, it was never clear in the books.'
"Bella always had beautiful eyes," his mother murmured softly.
He blinked. 'She knew Bellatrix?'
"She does. Shame they've always been filled with madness." Sirius's voice dimmed, no longer so bright.
They were outside in the garden, and the sun bathed them in warm gold. It was bright but soft, like a comforting hand on his back. Like a doting father he never had.
And surprisingly? He didn't hate the feeling. In his past life, he avoided the sun—sweat, discomfort, the general stickiness of it all. But now… it felt different. Pleasant, even.
"Yes, she always had to put up with Walburga. I imagine that would make anyone snap," his mother said lightly, almost joking.
"Yeah, that would explain a lot."
Now they were laughing.
Meanwhile, he glanced around the garden. Since having Millie around, his mother had started cultivating useful herbs and magical plants. Most were still small, but the variety amazed him—Dittany, Alihotsy, Fluxweed, alongside more mundane flora like Laurel, Thyme, and Valerian.
Curiously, Laurel and Valerian were growing very quickly.
"Well, enough chatter," Sirius said, rubbing his hands together. "Time for the star of the day to receive his due!"
"I quite agree," his mother chimed in.
Sirius turned and walked toward the house, only for his mother to roll her eyes and smirk.
"He forgets he's a wizard sometimes. Accio presents!"
A pulse of magic brushed past him, and a moment later, several boxes came flying out of the house—along with Sirius, who stumbled after them wearing a particularly bewildered expression.
"What happened, cousin? Forgetting who you are? Granduncle Orion would be furious." She was clearly enjoying herself.
"Ha ha ha. Very funny. Here, little guy, this is for you."
From a bag, Sirius pulled out five old and worn books.
The titles read, Minds at Work by Noelia Nott, Magic for Dummies by Anastasia Abott, The Complexities of Magic by Percival Brown, A Detailed Guide to Potions by Harold Prince and The Way of The Warrior by Felix Black.
Just reading the covers made his brain itch.
"Sirius," his mother said, raising an eyebrow. "These aren't meant for a child. Much less my own. I'm pretty sure at least two of them would be classified as dark arts."
He wasn't sure about "dark," but yeah—definitely too complex for a one-year-old.
"There are dark times coming, Ems. I had dinner with my parents yesterday. Tried to mend some bridges." Sirius frowned. "They were way too smug. Something's going on, I can feel it. These aren't just valuable—they're the books I took with me when I ran from home. This is a gift, and a way to keep them safe."
The mood shifted. His usual playfulness faded into something far graver.
"I didn't think things would go this way," she murmured. "Not this quickly. I thought we still had time..."
"I'm telling you, Ems. It's better for you and the kid to stay here. Hidden. No one would think to look for you here, in Dunscaith."
"I… I see..."
Nova hated seeing his mother like that.
"I thought..." she whispered. "No matter." She turned back to him. "Here, this is from me, my son. A set of blank books—and the quill you liked. I enchanted it to write what you're thinking, not what you're saying."
He beamed. Now was his moment.
He had a gift for her too—or at least he hoped she'd consider it a gift.
"M… Mu… Mum… Mum! Luv u Mum. Loe yo Mum. Love you Mum!"
He'd been practicing for weeks. He could already string together five words if he focused. But he still had to put on a show—babies did not speak more than two words in a row till 18 months and he was barely 12 months old.
"Oh… my little star."
She couldn't hold back the tears. Happiness overflowed in her voice, in her eyes, in the way she crushed him to her chest.
"Mum loves you too, my star. Mum will always love you."
'I am truly blessed'
It was already late now. His mother slept beside him, arms curled around him protectively. Even Millie was resting in the other room.
Nova lay still, quietly reviewing his stats and abilities.
[
Name: Nova Sirius Black
Age: 1 years 0 months 0 days
Title: null
Rank: Mortal
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Level: 2 (42%)
Class: Wizard Lv: 2/100 (42%)
HP: 160 - HP Reg per-min: 0.16
SP: 70 - SP Reg per-min: 0.7
MP: null - MP Reg per-min: null
Parameters:
Strength = 0.03
Agility = 0.05
Endurance = 0.07
Vitality = 0.16
Dexterity = 0.06
Intelligence = 1.27
Wisdom = 1.31
Charisma = 0.07
Magic = null
Mind = 1.55
Will = 1.37
Spirit = 1.63
Luck =?
]
He still did not know why his level keep rising, but he was not about to complain.
His thoughts were interrupted.
[
Congratulations chosen one.
Happy Birthday
Implementing class perks.
You obtain the [Perks]: [Black Scion], [Dark Interests]
Thanks to the [Black Scion] perk you obtain the [Ability]: [Metamorphmagus]
Thanks to the [Black Scion] perk you obtain the [Title]: [Newest Black Family Member]
]
'… is there something going on with the half-bloods of House Black? I swear if I grow up to love skull-themed jewelry, I'm killing someone.' He would investigate later.
[
[Perk]: [Dark Interests]
You hail from one of the most unsettling Houses in magical history — infamous for their obsession with forbidden knowledge and the occult. Their twisted legacy has left its mark on you.
Centuries of dabbling in obscure arts have granted you a natural resistance to the corrupting effects of dark magic, as well as a heightened affinity for understanding the forbidden.
+10% resistance to mental and magical corruption
Increases learning speed for [Dark Arts]
Slight affinity boost when interacting with cursed objects, rituals, or dark-aligned entities
]
'Well... at least their generational trauma is good for something.'
[
[Title]: [Newest Black Family Member]
You have been officially recognized as a member of the House of Black, one of the oldest and most influential wizarding bloodlines.
+50% affinity with [Dark Arts]
+25% affinity with [Mind Arts]
]
He blinked at the screen, a thoughtful frown tugging at his baby-soft features.
'Wait until I actually have to deal with this nonsense…'
With one last glance at his peacefully sleeping mother, he dismissed the system window.
He curled closer to her, feeling the warmth of her presence—the heartbeat that told him he was safe, that he was home. No matter what world this was, he would protect her. No one would ever lay a hand on her, not while he—
Suddenly pain exploded in his head, his hands trying to grab something that wasn't there.
His vision fractured like glass. His mouth opened in a silent scream. There was no air, only pain.
And then—
Darkness.
A flash.
Blue.
A field of blue flowers stretched endlessly beneath a twilight sky. The wind whispered through the petals like ghosts weeping.
And at the center—
A girl.
Long silver-blonde hair danced around her face. Pale, beautiful. Her eyes were full of sorrow... and love.
She reached toward him, lips moving in a name he couldn't hear.
He tried to run to her.
But he couldn't move.
Something cold and heavy pulsed on his finger.
A ring.
His heart froze. He didn't know why, but the sight of it filled him with unspeakable rage and grief. A feeling so old and deep it cracked something inside him.
And then the image shattered.
He gasped, sitting upright, soaked in sweat. Chest heaving. Mind spinning.
He didn't understand it.
But one thing he knew with a certainty that chilled him to the bone.
He hated that ring.
And with that revelation, sleep took him—dragging him into dreams that echoed with strange memories...
Some time had passed since that night, but the dreams hadn't stopped.
They kept showing him her—the girl in the flowery field. The one with silver-blonde hair and sorrowful eyes.
He saw her again and again, and yet for the life of him, he couldn't put a name to her face.
His mother had been beside herself when she found him unconscious, curled in a pool of his own tears.
Since then, Millie—the ever-vigilant house-elf—had become his full-time shadow. A tiny, relentless warden.
Everywhere he went, Millie followed.
Which, of course, meant certain activities were now off the table.
Like secretly trying to read the books Sirius had given him—books that were definitely not baby-approved.
And that… was a major inconvenience.
On the bright side, he'd already chewed through every children's storybook in the house. Most of them were absolute nonsense, but even in fluff, one could glean sparks of truth.
For instance—nowhere in those tales was there any mention of a magic core or any magical organs. Magic was simply there. Ubiquitous and unquestioned.
And that made sense.
Even the system cataloged him as a wizard, yet his magical energy remained Null. No core. No reserve.
At first, he'd assumed it was some tired cliché—"your magic core awakens at eleven" or something equally tropey—but now, he was 90% convinced.
There is no mention to a magic core because there is no magic core.
Magic likely exists in the world itself, ambient and free-flowing, and wizards? They're just conduits. Leaky straws sipping from a vast magical ocean. In that sense… they were just overgrown wands with egos.
'Heh' He couldn't help but smile wryly at the thought.
Still, this realization complicated his situation. Without an internal source of mana, he was completely dependent on the world's ambient magic. And in places devoid of it?
He'd be powerless.
Unacceptable.
He refused to be at the mercy of something so fickle.
He would not let himself beaten so quickly though, he was sure he could improvise another way.
His mind wandered to the Philosopher's Stone. Across nearly every magical tradition he knew, the stone was often described as pure, crystallized power—a physical embodiment of gathered energy.
But that kind of alchemy always came with a price.
In Fullmetal Alchemist, for instance, the cost was souls.
He wasn't a saint… but he wasn't about to go soul-hunting either. That was major villain territory.
He'd find another way. A cleaner way.
But in the meantime…
He could improvise.
Magic in this world responded to Will.
Not mere intent, nor idle desire—but raw, unshakable Will. The kind that burned so bright it bent the world around it. If you wanted something badly enough—down to your bones, your breath, your soul—the world's mana would stir, actualizing itself to reflect that yearning.
That, he realized, was the foundation of this world's magic.
Not runes. Not wands. Not incantations.
But Will.
He hadn't managed to trigger a single instance of Accidental Magic—not yet. Likely because, until now, his Will hadn't been sharp enough to pierce the veil. To make the world listen.
…Or at least, that's what he thought.
Because he had been making progress. Just in a quieter, more subtle way.
He'd finally solved the mystery of his ever-rising level.
It wasn't entirely combat, slaying enemies or experience points.
It was intentional magical behavior.
To level up as a class, you had to live it.
To grow as a wizard, he had to act like one.
Learn spells. Study rituals. Brew potions. Push the boundaries of magical understanding. Even small acts added up over time.
And he had spent the last year and a half practically fused to his mother's hip as she brewed a dozen new concoctions every week. She stirred. He observed. She muttered theories. He remembered.
He had learned a lot—more than he ever imagined possible in a toddler body with a traitorous bladder.
So when his level ticked upward again, it made perfect sense.
Of course it´s not the same just learning than actually doing it, but it was enough for now.
[
Name: Nova Sirius Black
Age: 1 years 7 months 0 days
Title: null
Rank: Mortal
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Level: 4 (12%)
Class: Wizard Lv: 4/100 (12%)
HP: 250 - HP Reg per-min: 0.25
SP: 130 - SP Reg per-min: 1.3
MP: null - MP Reg per-min: null
Parameters:
Strength = 0.08
Agility = 0.09
Endurance = 0.13
Vitality = 0.25
Dexterity = 0.14
Intelligence = 1.28
Wisdom = 1.38
Charisma = 0.1
Magic = null
Mind = 1.65
Will = 1.47
Spirit = 1.72
Luck = ?
]
He could feel it in his limbs—in the way his steps had gained weight, purpose. He could now run around the castle without collapsing into a gasping heap, and lifting the heavier tomes from the library shelves was no longer an impossible feat. Some of those ancient grimoires easily weighed over five kilos, bound in dragonhide and thick with spells that felt like they whispered back when opened.
Impressive, sure.
But that wasn't what he was most proud of.
No, the real triumph lay in the quiet victories. The skills.
[Abilities]
He scrolled through the ever-growing list in his mind like a true gamer.
Each skill earned was a badge of honor. A sign that he was clawing his way forward, one step at a time.
Becoming someone worthy of the second chance he'd been given.
[
Crawl: 4/25 → 20/25 (53%)
Way to go, champ. You're basically a floor-level blur.
20% In all physical conditioning
You can crawl 100% faster than you should.
80% SP reduction
Cost: 0.20 SP/per meter
]
[
Meditation: 7/100 → 25/100 (7%)
Whether it's inner peace or just trying not to poop yourself mid-enlightenment—you're getting the hang of it.
This ability helps clear the mind, control emotions, and offers many other benefits.
At this level it allows you to clear your mind with efficacy and an enhanced memory retention.
250% SP Reg/MG Reg.
25% HP Reg.
25% in Mind gains
]
[
Mathematics:
Calculus: 5/100 → 30/100 (12%)
At this level, you're barely better than a high schooler. Congratulations.
It provides a decent amount of intuition in the case your result is incorrect. It also accelerates your thoughts when doing calculations.
30% probability of correction
300% acceleration when calculating.
]
[
New skill unlocked.
Adding skill to [Abilities]
Walking: 15/100 (3%)
You can now put one foot in front of the other with only minimal wobbling. Truly, the world trembles at your approach.
This ability represents your walking capability and gives you a slight boost at it.
15% In all physical conditioning
15% boost walking speed
15% SP reduction
Cost: 0.85 SP/per meter
]
[
New skill unlocked.
Adding skill to [Abilities]
Running: 5/100 (98%)
You've unlocked humanity's second-favorite panic response. Step aside, Olympic toddlers.
This ability represents your running capability and gives you a slight boost at it.
5% In all physical conditioning
5% boost in running speed
5% SP reduction
Cost: 9.5 SP/per meter
]
He had managed all of this in just under two years.
Not bad, all things considered… but also?
Kinda meh.
For all his effort, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that his achievements were, well, a little underwhelming. He wasn't crawling through fire or summoning demons or building nuclear reactors with a crayon and a teething ring. He was just… slightly stronger, slightly smarter, slightly more magical.
That wasn't enough.
He needed more.
He had to be more.
The world wouldn't wait for him to finish growing up.
On the bright side, his constant questions and poking around in his mother's work had finally borne fruit.
[
[Title]: [Little Genius]
Your above-average intelligence has been recognized by the world. Now don't let it go to your oversized head.
+25% gains to [Intelligence]
Grants a small chance at Enlightenment
]
He raised a brow at the system message.
"Huh. Took you long enough."
He had absolutely earned that title ages ago. But it wasn't until his mother—after catching him accurately sorting potion ingredients by type and toxicity—had muttered, "Merlin's beard, you're a little genius," that the system had finally pinged it into existence.
That told him something important.
The system wasn't just tracking his actions. It was listening to how the world perceived him.
Recognition mattered.
Reputation, perception, acknowledgment—those things weren't just fluff. They were leverage. They could shape his growth.
And that, he thought with a slow, mischievous grin, was something he could absolutely exploit.
But now, it was time to rest.
Tomorrow would be another day—another step forward.
[Meditation] was excellent for moments like this.
He closed his eyes, mind still buzzing, and let sleep take him.
The world could wait until morning.
It was already October. His birthday had passed without a hitch.
Curiously, Uncle Sirius hadn't been able to attend this time—it seemed the situation was worsening.
His mother had gifted him a favor to be used at his leisure. Naturally, he used it to have her expand the castle's library and allow him more time in it.
And so, they reached a compromise: he could spend no more than four hours a day in the library, and outside that time, he wasn't allowed to enter. He also couldn't touch books that were explicitly banned by her.
It was the first time he'd ever wanted to act like a child and pout.
Even though Sirius couldn't come in person, he still sent a gift—a miniature broom.
Needless to say, he wasn't allowed to fly it yet. But he could investigate it. His mother trusted him to follow the rules, and so he did.
He was going to wring every secret of broom-making out of that broom if it was the last thing he did.
Right now, though, he was using one of his mother's special engraving tools to try and inscribe a rune onto a rock.
He had managed to borrow it in secret. Well—he was fairly certain Millie knew, but as long as he didn't do anything reckless, he doubted she'd rat him out.
The rune he wanted to engrave was Thurisaz, meant to increase resistance. From what he understood, it was a basic application in rune crafting.
The important things in this were the symbol and the meaning—or rather, the intent behind the engraving.
He knew that a single rune could carry many meanings, layers upon layers of nuance and power. But to avoid an unwanted accident—like, say, detonating the entire room—he decided to restrict himself to just one interpretation this time.
Defense.
He wanted this rock to withstand. To take a hit and remain unbroken. That was the goal.
And with that thought firmly in mind, he carefully traced the rune onto the stone's surface.
Thurisaz.
The moment he completed the final stroke, the rune glowed—a deep, vibrant blue pulsed from the lines, like something waking up for the briefest second.
And then, just as quickly, it dimmed. The glow faded. The rune fell dormant, etched neatly into the stone like a sleeping sigil.
He stared at it.
No sparks. No smoke. Nothing exploded. The air didn't reek of magical ozone.
"...Well," he muttered, leaning back slightly, "it looks good enough."
Success, or at least not immediate failure. He'd take that.
He got up from his chair and walked towards the door.
Recently, his mother had bought a handful of fairies to liven up the castle's atmosphere a bit—apparently, she thought the place was starting to look too gloomy. A dash of whimsical sparkles and winged lights, she said, would brighten the halls.
As soon as he stepped out of his room, he saw just what he needed. A lone fairy was fluttering near the hall, striking what could only be described as a dramatic pose for an invisible audience.
He approached casually—and, without much ceremony, snatched her out of the air with one swift motion. His reflexes had gotten quite sharp lately.
Naturally, she started whining the moment she was caught.
"Don't whine so much," he said, already walking toward the stairs. "If you help me out, I promise to give you something good in return."
At those words, the fairy perked up instantly, wings flickering with interest.
Satisfied she wasn't going to bolt, he set her on his shoulder and headed out of the castle.
Once outside, he gave her a soft glance. "Alright, here's the plan."
He held up the rune-engraved stone.
"I'm going to throw this rock, and I want you to try and hit it."
The fairy crossed her arms and shook her head, clearly unimpressed.
"I know, I know—you guys don't do offensive magic," he said, smirking. "But a little ray of light wouldn't kill you, right?"
She huffed… then gave a small, reluctant nod.
"Great. Prepare yourself... steady… ready—go!"
He hurled the rock with all the strength his toddler body could muster. The fairy zipped after it, glowing bright.
She unleashed a ray of light—and to Nova's satisfaction, it bent around the stone, curving away like it hit an invisible wall. She tried again. And again. The same result each time.
Finally, the rock hit the ground, unharmed. The fairy landed beside it, pouting as she jabbed at the barrier with her tiny fists. Each punch fizzled out against the faint shimmer of magic.
Nova crossed his arms and smirked.
'Perfect. All according to plan.'
Now he stood in quiet contemplation, eyes trailing the faint shimmer of golden dust the fairy left in her wake.
He had promised her a reward—and promises, as far as he was concerned, were sacred things. Words spun from gold, sealed in intent.
But what, exactly, could he offer a creature of light and wings?
A handful of gold, perhaps? Did fae even care for such mortal treasures?
He could ask his mother to grant the fairy more freedom, a wider sky to dance in…
But where was the magic in that?
No—if he was going to reward her, he would do so in a way worthy of the promise he made. Something extraordinary.
The thought struck like a spark in the dark, and without hesitation, he turned on his heel and strode through the winding corridors of the castle.
The stone underfoot felt warmer with purpose.
The shadows seemed to step aside.
He needed the library.
The castle had grown—more sprawling, more regal with each passing week. But for all its grandeur, it had also become quieter… colder. His mother had spoken of that, once. The loneliness that hangs heavy in large, empty halls. Perhaps she had a point.
A companion.
Yes, that was what he needed. And what his little winged friend deserved.
He slipped into the library, its high-arched windows casting sunlight across the shelves. Dust motes hung in the air like suspended stars.
He whispered to himself as he weaved through the aisles.
"Magical Creatures… subsection F… Facts about the—no… Fading Myths… no…"
His fingers brushed spines until they stopped on a black tome etched in golden script that seemed to shift under the eye.
"Familiars and How to Create One."
A thrill ran through him. This was it.
The idea of familiars wasn't foreign to him—in his past life, they featured often in stories, tales, and games. But he didn't recall them being mentioned much in this world.
He opened the book carefully. Its pages were dry, but warm, as if they remembered the hands that had touched them before.
'To forge a Familiar is to weave a thread between two souls,' the text read, 'a bridge of emotion, will, and power. Through this conduit flows memory, magic, and essence. The Master shares mind and might, the Familiar shares spirit and nature. In time, the two grow entwined—until each bears the mark of the other.'
His eyes widened.
'This bond,' it continued, 'is no leash. It is a vow—a pact made with intention and sealed in trust. Choose your Familiar not for what they can do, but for what they are, and what you might become together.'
He took a deep breath and leaned back into his chair, the creak of the old wood echoing faintly through the silent library.
To take a familiar was not a choice to be made lightly.
A fairy?
Out of all the wondrous beings in this vast, magical world, he was about to bind himself to a fluttering creature of light and mischief?
His mind conjured images of dragons soaring through thunderclouds, of phoenixes reborn in fire and song.
Creatures of legend.
Powerful. Majestic.
But… that wasn't the point, was it?
What was a familiar, truly? A badge of status? A tool to wield?
No.
Something deep within him recoiled at the thought. That wasn't it. That couldn't be it.
A familiar was not a weapon, not a trophy.
A familiar was a companion.
A friend.
You did not choose friends based on what they could offer, but by the quiet, unexplainable things you found in them—warmth, laughter, loyalty.
And his gaze trailed to a few rows ahead, to where his would-be familiar floated, gleefully engaged in mortal combat with a particularly stubborn dust mote.
She spun, twirled, and sparkled in the air like a fragment of sunlight, determined to win her imaginary battle.
A smile tugged at his lips.
Yes. She would do quite nicely.
There was no more hesitation in him. The reward he would offer her… would be a bond. A true one. One that would give as much to him as it would to her.
He turned back to the book and continued reading.
'The bond is often sealed in blood. Other catalysts may be used depending on the nature of the familiar—saliva for bonds of the flesh, semen for pacts of passion and intimacy. Yet, blood remains the most versatile, the most sacred. It carries the essence of self and echoes with intent.'
Well then. Blood it is.
He read on.
'The ritual requires no elaborate circles nor ancient chants. It is built on three pillars: intent, catalyst, and vow. The words spoken shape the nature of the bond, so speak with care. Let them resonate with truth or bend them with cunning—but be warned, Magic listens. And it remembers. The pact cannot be forced. It is an invitation, not a chain. The other must accept freely, or the bond shall never form. Magic would not allow it.'
Intent. Blood. Words. Consent.
A pact forged not of dominance, but of trust.
He stood, the echo of ancient magic stirring within his chest.
All that was left now… was to offer.
And to ask.
"Hey, stop that. Come here."
His voice was gentle but firm, and it cut through the lazy hum of the old library like the toll of a bell. The little fairy froze mid-air, still valiantly engaged in her war against dust motes, and turned with an exaggerated pout. Still, she floated toward him, curiosity lighting her eyes like twin candles.
"It's time," Nova said quietly.
The book hadn't mentioned a specific hour. No solstice, no alignment of stars. Just intent, catalyst, and words. In other words—now would do.
He tilted his head and looked at her. "Do you have a name?"
She shook her head solemnly, wings drooping a little. There was a silence there, deeper than expected. A silence of something long-awaited.
"I see," he murmured. "Would you like me to give you one?"
She perked up like someone had cast Lumos on her soul, eyes wide with wonder and—was that disbelief? The nod she gave was fierce, sudden, and almost comically enthusiastic.
Nova chuckled, the sound light in the dim quiet of the library. "You know, my name means a star at its brightest. Nova. If we keep that theme... how about Astoria? It's Greek. It means 'star,' too."
The moment the name left his lips, a pulse echoed in the room—subtle, but powerful. A sharp jolt behind his eyes made him wince—more surprise than pain. And then she changed.
Before his very eyes, the fairy pulsed with radiant light, too bright to look at for a heartbeat. When it dimmed, she had grown slightly in size. Her wings—once delicate pairs—now bloomed into a quartet, arranged like a gleaming X of shimmering silk and starlight.
And then she was hugging his nose. Literally.
"Alright, alright, easy—!" He laughed, trying to gently pry her off, but she clung tighter, glowing with such joy it was hard not to feel it echo in his chest.
This… this was a bigger deal than he thought.
"Millie," he called, his tone shifting slightly, more serious.
Crack.
The house-elf appeared with her usual quiet grace, eyes immediately locking onto Astoria.
Millie stared. And Astoria stared back.
It wasn't hostile, not exactly—but there was something ancient in that look. A challenge. Recognition. A silent understanding of old magic stirring once again.
"Millie, can you fetch me a clean knife from the kitchen?"
Millie's gaze didn't waver. Nor did Astoria's.
After a long moment, Millie took a deep breath and vanished.
She returned moments later, a small silver blade in hand, her face unreadable.
"Millie doesn't know what young Master is doing," she said softly, placing the blade in his outstretched hand, "but Millie trusts him."
He nodded, grateful, and then turned his attention to the blade.
A deep breath.
A shallow cut.
The blood beaded instantly—rich, red, but glimmering faintly in the sunlight like threads of gold.
He turned to Astoria.
Without hesitation, she ran a tiny finger along the blade's edge. Her blood—green as dew-dappled leaves—glistened with a faint sparkle, like sparkling emeralds.
She brought her finger to almost meet his. Their hands hovered, trembling slightly with anticipation.
Words came to him—not memorized, not learned. Just known.
He spoke them softly, but they rang out like thunder in the hush of the library.
"I, Nova Sirius Black, open my heart, my mind, and my soul.
I vow to protect, to cherish, and to grow alongside thee.
To share my strength when thine fails, to lend my voice when thine falters.
In shadow or in starlight, thou shalt never walk alone.
So I speak, and so let the magic bear witness."
Astoria's eyes widened—her glow rising again, this time with calm grace rather than blinding brilliance.
She didn't speak, but her wings folded in a soft bow, and then she pressed her finger against his.
The moment their blood mingled, the world held its breath.
A warm wind surged through the room, rustling pages and whispering through stone. The faint scent of wildflowers and sunlight filled the air.
Somewhere deep within, he felt a tether form—delicate, yet unbreakable.
A thread of soul to soul.
Of course, Nova didn't get a chance to savor it.
The moment the bond snapped into place, he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
One breath—then nothing. Darkness wrapped around him like velvet.
His last conscious thought before slipping under was not of magic or meaning or metaphysical revelation.
It was a grumble.
'This better not become a habit…'
[
Detecting anomaly...
Analyzing...
"Familiar Bond" found.
Analyzing Entity Link...
Entity: Astoria – Classification… Inconclusive… Potential Fey Variant… Bond Stabilized.
Assessment: Early-stage Familiar Bond formed outside projected developmental window.
Result: Bond Confirmed – Mutual Consent Registered
Note: Process bypassed conventional familiar-binding protocols.
Probability of spontaneous ritual failure: 0.0034%.
Legacy framework incompatible with new variables.
Initiating adaptive subroutine integration...
[Stats] — Integration Complete
[Perks] — Integration Complete
[Abilities] — Integration Complete
[Titles] — Integration Complete
[Map] — Deprioritized
[Transaction Room] — Inapplicable
...
[Update Complete]
New System Functions Unlocked:
[Familiar Interface] – Monitor and interact with bonded entity.
[Shared Growth] – Growth of Familiar and Master are now partially linked.
[Trait Exchange] – Latent traits may awaken over time between bonded pair.
New Protocol: [Bonded Trait Drift]
Shared Adaptation Threshold: 0.8%
Latent Traits queued for analysis
Updating predictive behavior matrix…
Monitoring to continue. Adjusting observation parameters...
Recalibrating...
Done.
System within acceptable parameters.
]
[
Name: Astoria
Age: 0 years 3 months 3 days
Title: Priestess of Sunlight
Rank: Enlightened
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Level: 1 (1%)
Class: Fairy Lv: 1/100 (1%)
HP: 3980 - HP Reg per-min: 3.98
SP: 920 - SP Reg per-min: 9.2
MP: 750 - MP Reg per-min: 7.5
Parameters:
Strength = 0.25
Agility = 1.38
Endurance = 0.92
Vitality = 3.98
Dexterity = 2.43
Intelligence = 1.02
Wisdom = 1.07
Charisma = 2.39
Magic = 0.75
Mind = 1.05
Will = 1.14
Spirit = 1.29
Luck = 2.76
]
When Nova awoke, it was with a pounding in his skull, the kind that made thinking feel like swimming through treacle. He had known it was reckless to push himself—first naming her, then the ritual—but knowing didn't make the pain any less real.
He didn't even bother to wonder how he ended up tucked into bed. It was either Millie or Astoria. Either way, he was grateful.
What did it matter now?
He sat up slowly, and was immediately ambushed by a golden blur that circled around him like a sentient sparkler on sugar.
Emotion crashed into him like sunlight through stained glass—joy, worry, excitement—and it all radiated from the tiny being fluttering around his head.
Astoria.
Her happiness was a balm, and her concern wrapped around his heart like a warm scarf. He couldn't help but smile, even through the headache.
When she finally paused mid-air, wings beating softly, he got his first proper look at her.
Her hair had grown longer, now the shade of pure sunlight. Her wings had expanded, more intricate now—like stained glass etched with gorgeous patterns, shedding fine golden dust that shimmered in the air. Her clothes remained the same—woven leaves and flower petals—but somehow, the rustic simplicity suited her all the more now.
He reached out carefully and gave her head a gentle pat with his fingertip. He didn't want to hurt her.
"Good morning, Astoria."
Her beaming smile lit up the space between them like dawn.
After a quick change of clothes and a trip to the bathroom, he made his way down to the kitchen.
The castle had grown again.
It wasn't just a home anymore—it was a living thing, sprawling and evolving like it had its own will, shaped by the quiet magic of time, intention, and one particularly stubborn witch with a flair for the dramatic.
At its heart still lay the essentials: the living room where warmth lingered like an old friend, the twin bedrooms and their adjoining baths, and the grand kitchen that always smelled bread. But beyond those familiar spaces, the structure had matured, its silhouette now unmistakably regal against the Isle of Skye's wild skyline.
The library stretched higher than it had any right to. A proper dining hall had emerged with vaulted ceilings and enchanted chandeliers. Two guest rooms now waited patiently for company that never came. A scullery, laundry room, and pantry had all quietly joined the domestic chorus, while deeper still lay a root cellar, a well-stocked wine vault, and a storeroom of raw magical ingredients that would make any apothecary weep.
More specialized rooms had come too, conjured from necessity and whimsy alike—a trophy room collecting relics of her strange adventures; a ritual chamber carved in spiraling runes that glowed faintly with their own light; an armory filled with enchanted blades and armor that had never seen a battlefield. A modest watchtower rose near the rear of the keep, tall enough to peek over the forest line, enough to say yes, this is a castle.
Above all, the astronomy tower reigned—his mother's sacred space, a chaotic gallery of parchment charts, telescopes, and ink-smeared notebooks. And, of course, the potions dungeon, which constantly smelled like either mint or brimstone.
Outside, the land softened. The garden ran wild, blooming by its own rules, while the enclosed glass garden gleamed like a greenhouse cathedral. The contrast between rugged stone and delicate life was somehow... perfect.
Yet perhaps the most striking thing about the castle was not just its rooms or enchantments, but its aesthetic. Elena Black, in all her brilliance, had insisted on keeping the structure authentic. Thick curtain walls and crenellated parapets wrapped the estate like a protective embrace. The outer walls—six meters thick and immaculately wand-shaped—stood proud, a testament to medieval sensibilities. Battlements crowned the towers, arrow slits stared blankly into the wilderness, and the main gate still creaked like it was guarding something ancient.
She hadn't built it all at once. The castle had grown gradually, piece by piece, each new wing or hall conjured with care, magic, and no small amount of architectural obsession. It was a long spellwork in itself, layered over years, shaped by their needs, and her ever-expanding love for stone and storybook fortresses.
Nova had once asked why the walls had to be so thick.
"In case of siege," she'd said with a smirk, as if expecting an army of trolls to descend from the hills. He never knew if she was joking. He wasn't sure she did either.
But one thing was certain—this castle wasn't just a home. It was her spell. Her sanctuary. Her legacy.
But today… today the air felt wrong.
As soon as he stepped into the kitchen, he felt it—something heavy, hanging in the atmosphere like a storm waiting to burst.
His mother sat at the table, staring into her plate. Sirius was there too, and unusually quiet.
Elena glanced at Nova as he entered, then at the glowing presence beside him. Her eyes narrowed for half a second, a question lingering in them. But whatever she wanted to say, she swallowed it.
Instead, she turned to Sirius, voice low and grim.
"How sure are you?"
"One hundred percent," Sirius replied without a hint of his usual charm. "Dumbledore confirmed it himself. A prophecy was issued. It's real."
Nova's stomach sank.
Elena's jaw tightened. "And what does the almighty Dumbledore suggest they do?"
There it was—the bite. She couldn't resist.
"He advised them to go into hiding. Do you disagree?"
She exhaled sharply, bitter but resigned. "No. It's the smart choice. I've done the same. I'd be a hypocrite to say otherwise."
There was a pause, filled only by the soft clink of her spoon against the rim of her untouched cup.
"Am I allowed to know where they'll go?" she asked, tone measured, but the strain underneath was easy to hear.
Sirius shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "They'll install themselves in Godric's Hollow. In a small, inconspicuous cottage."
Her head snapped up. "Godric's Hollow?" Her voice pitched slightly, incredulous. "What are they going to do in that tiny village? There's not even enough space to layer proper wards! They should come here—we've got more than enough room. For them, and for you."
She gestured around the vast kitchen like it was the most obvious solution in the world, but there was something tight in the way her fingers curled back down.
Sirius hesitated. "I'm not so sure about that. And even if you did have enough space… I don't think they'd accept the offer."
Her eyes narrowed. "And why is that?"
He glanced at Nova for the briefest second, almost guiltily, then back at her. His voice lowered, as if saying it too loud would make it more real.
"Well… Lily is pregnant."
A beat.
A breath.
Elena's lips parted, just slightly. Then closed again.
Her knuckles turned white around the teacup's handle.
"…I see."
Nova's stomach twisted. That subtle change in her face—it was like watching a wall fracture. Not fall. Just crack. Enough to glimpse the storm behind it.
'Fuck,' he thought, the word cold and heavy in his chest.
Sirius looked away, like he couldn't bear to watch her process it.
She set her cup down carefully—too carefully—and stood up, smoothing her robes as if nothing had happened.
"Well," she said lightly, but her voice betrayed her. Too calm. Too controlled. "Then I suppose congratulations are in order."
Welp, it looks like young Nova is in for quite the ride.
As always, questions and suggestions are welcome!
The next chapter promises to be very interesting.
Also… Harry's almost here! I'm sure no Dark Lord will come crawling out of the shadows to try and murder a baby, nope, not at all. What could possibly go wrong?