"You treat the House like a beast, Grandfather."
"Because it is. You think these walls are merely stone and wood? This House is a stomach, boy. It digests the weak. If you wish to survive here, you must be strong."
— Phineas Nigellus Black to Arcturus Black, 1845.
June 1959, Number 12 Grimmauld Place, London, England
To the outside observer, Vega Black was a disturbingly quiet child.
He did not cry when he scraped his knee. He did not wail for toys. He sat in the center of the nursery rug, surrounded by wooden blocks, staring at the dust motes dancing in the shafts of light with the intensity of a scholar decoding a dead language.
Inside, the mind of the entity that had been Marius was sweating.
Focus, he commanded himself. Isolate the cartilage. Shift.
He was staring into a silver hand-mirror, his small, chubby fingers gripping the handle tight. He was trying to change his nose. Just the nose.
It was exhausting. The Metamorphmagus ability was not a boundless well of whimsy; it was a muscle. In the beginning, it had reacted to his emotions like a flare gun—fear turned him white, anger turned him red. But controlling it? That was like trying to sculpt water with a spoon.
He squeezed his eyes shut. He visualized the bridge of his nose becoming sharper, more aquiline, like the portrait of Phineas Nigellus in the hallway.
He felt the familiar, strange slide under his skin—a sensation like warm wax melting.
He opened his eyes.
In the mirror, a toddler stared back. The nose hadn't become aquiline. It had turned into a pig's snout.
Vega let out a huff of frustration, tossing the mirror onto the rug. The snout dissolved back into a button nose instantly.
Useless, he thought, though the malice was directed at his own lack of control.
He stood up, his legs steady. At two years old, his motor control was significantly ahead of the curve, mostly because he didn't have to learn how to walk; he just had to remember.
He walked to the heavy oak door of the nursery. It was locked, of course. Walburga Black did not believe in free-range parenting. But the lock was a simple mechanical tumbler, and Vega had discovered weeks ago that the "Hum"—his internal name for his magic—could interact with small metal objects if he pushed hard enough.
He placed his hand on the brass knob. He closed his eyes and pushed.
Click.
The door swung open.
The hallway of Number 12 Grimmauld Place stretched out before him, dark and cavernous.
This was where his arrogance died.
In his old life, he had read books about magic. He had imagined it as a tool—a wand wave, a sparkle, a result. But living in this house taught him the terrifying truth: Magic was not a tool. It was an ecosystem.
Grimmauld Place breathed.
As he walked down the corridor, the gas lamps didn't just flicker; they watched. The shadows weren't absences of light; they were heavy, physical presences that brushed against his shoulders like cold velvet.
He stopped in front of a massive tapestry hanging near the stairwell. It wasn't the Family Tree; it was a depiction of a battle, wizards in obsidian robes slaughtering armored knights.
He reached out to touch the fabric.
STOP.
The command didn't come from a person. It slammed into his mind like a physical blow, vibrating in his teeth. The wards.
Vega recoiled, gasping, falling back onto his bottom. He stared up at the high ceiling, his heart hammering against his ribs. The pressure in the air increased, a suffocating weight that tasted of ozone and ancient blood. It was the house asserting its dominance. It was a leviathan, and he was a barnacle attached to its side.
He wasn't a prodigy here. He was a gnat.
He looked at his small hands, trembling slightly. He had thought, in his hubris, that being a "Reincarnated Soul" made him special. The house just reminded him that he was nothing but a guest.
I am small, he realized, a cold sweat breaking out on his neck. And this world is very, very deep.
"Exploring again, little star?"
The voice came from the top of the stairs. Vega looked up.
Walburga Black stood there. She looked tired, her robes immaculate but her face drawn. She didn't look angry that he had escaped the nursery. She looked... approving.
Walburga descended the stairs, her eyes fixed on her son.
She knew she should scold him. A two-year-old wandering the halls was dangerous, especially in a house where the artifacts could flay the skin off a grown man. But she couldn't bring herself to stifle him.
He was so composed.
Most children were chaos incarnate. They were loud, sticky, and irrational. Vega was silent water. He sat on the floor where the Wards had pushed him down, but he wasn't crying. He was analyzing. His grey eyes—so like her father-in-law's—were darting around the hallway, dissecting the magical pressure that had frightened him.
He respected the Power. He didn't fear it blindly; he respected it.
A King in the making, she thought, the pride swelling in her chest, sharp and painful.
"Up," she said softly, extending a hand.
Vega stood, dusting off his robes with a dexterity that was unnerving for his age, and took her hand. His skin was warm.
"The House is old, Vega," she told him, her voice dropping to that conspiratorial whisper she saved only for him. "It does not like to be touched by those who have not yet proven their strength. It is testing you."
Vega looked up at her, his expression serious. "Big," he said. His vocabulary was limited by his tongue, not his mind. "Heavy."
"Yes," Walburga agreed. "Magic is heavy. Only the strong can carry it without breaking."
She led him down the stairs, past the heads of the house-elves, toward the library. She needed to check something.
She had been receiving letters. The Malfoys were asking about the "Heir's health." The Lestranges were sniffing around, eager to betroth their daughters. They wanted to know if the rumors were true—if the Metamorphmagus was real, or if the Blacks were exaggerating a simple transfiguration accident to boost their failing stock.
She pushed open the library doors. The smell of old parchment and decaying leather washed over them.
She lifted Vega onto the mahogany desk. He sat still, his hands folded in his lap.
"Change," she commanded gently.
Vega paused. She saw the concentration tighten his brow.
In a blink, his hair turned the color of straw, and his eyes shifted from grey to a warm, honey brown. He looked like a completely different child—perhaps a Weasley or a Prewett. A commoner.
Walburga felt a shiver of delight run down her spine. It was flawless. No wand, no incantation, just pure biological submission to his will.
"Good," she breathed. "Back."
He shifted back instantly.
She cupped his face. She needed him to understand. He was too young, but she had to start planting the seeds now. The House was surrounded by vultures. The Light faction, led by that meddling Dumbledore, viewed them as dark artifacts to be locked away. The Dark faction, growing in the shadows, viewed them as a bank vault to be raided.
"You are a gift, Vega," she said, her thumbs tracing his cheekbones. "But gifts are stolen by envious men."
Vega watched her, his gaze unblinking.
"You must be smarter than them," she hissed, the intensity bleeding into her voice. "You must be stronger. You do not show them everything. You are the knife in the sleeve. Do you understand?"
She saw the change in his eyes. It wasn't the confusion of a toddler. It was the recognition of a burden.
He nodded once. Solemn.
"Knife," he repeated, the word clumsy in his mouth but heavy with intent.
Walburga pulled him into a hug, burying her face in his neck, inhaling the scent of baby powder and ozone. She was terrified. She was terrified that he was too powerful, that the magic would consume him like it had consumed so many Blacks before him.
But as he wrapped his small arms around her neck, patting her back with a clumsy, soothing rhythm, she realized something else.
He wasn't just bearing the magic. He was absorbing it.
The library, usually cold and hostile, seemed to settle. The dust motes slowed. The shadows retreated slightly.
Her son was not just a guest in the House of Black. He was already beginning to rule it.
Yes, she thought, closing her eyes. Let them come. Let the vultures circle. They are playing for pieces on the board.
I have given birth to the player.