The dinner table at Isa Yewell Manor gleamed beneath warm candlelight, silverware polished to a quiet shine.
Jon sat stiffly, his plate untouched.
His thoughts would not settle.
Pure-blood?
That made no sense.
His father was a sociologist who needed reading glasses and forgot where he left his keys. Jon's memories were of school runs, lectures, and ordinary arguments. Nothing about that life suggested ancient magic.
Unless something had been hidden.
Or worse.
He pushed the thought aside before it could finish forming.
Names surfaced unbidden. Black. Malfoy. Rosier. Prewett. Flint. Every one of them carried arrogance like a family crest. The Weasleys were the lone exception, and even then, he doubted red hair could be conjured retroactively.
Almost every pure-blood line carried Slytherin shadows.
And Jon wanted nothing to do with snakes.
He glanced up.
His parents and grandmother were calm. Too calm.
That was the part that unsettled him most.
Carolina Yewell noticed everything.
"Lynn," she said mildly.
Jon's mother met her gaze and gave a small nod.
Carolina reached beneath the table and placed a polished wooden box in front of Jon. No ceremony. No announcement.
The box was old. Not decorative. Worn smooth by repeated handling.
"My dear," Carolina said gently, "we have not yet congratulated you properly on your acceptance to Hogwarts."
Jon stared at the box.
Something about it felt significant, like opening it would rearrange facts he preferred to keep stable.
He lifted his glass and clinked it lightly against his grandmother's. A polite distraction.
Carolina's smile did not fade.
"Why not open it?" she suggested. "It is a gift of sorts."
Jon hesitated.
Whatever waited inside felt like Schrödinger's cat. Safe only while unobserved.
"I think it might be better after dinner," he said. "Preserve a little mystery."
His grandmother chuckled.
His mother did not.
Lynn gave him a look.
Now.
Jon sighed. Resistance was pointless.
He drew the box closer, fingers brushing the smooth wood.
"Does my father know about this?" he asked carefully.
Henry looked up from his wine, startled. "Know about what? Oh. That." He smiled sheepishly. "Yes. I only learned today myself."
That did not help.
Jon opened the box.
Inside were folded sheets of parchment, yellowed with age. His pulse quickened.
He unfolded one.
Not a letter.
Documents.
Deeds. Registry seals. Names written in formal, dated script.
His breath slowed.
This was worse than drama.
"What is this?" he asked.
Henry leaned forward, voice bright with academic interest. "Those are property records. The Smith family used to be registered with the magical census. Centuries ago."
Jon looked up sharply. "Used to be?"
"Yes," Carolina said evenly. "The magic thinned. Then vanished."
She did not soften it.
"Squibs," she continued. "Several generations. Enough that the line was considered inactive and removed from active registries."
Jon absorbed that quietly.
"And me?" he asked.
"You are an anomaly," Carolina replied. "Nothing more. Nothing less."
Henry shifted. "Your birth reactivated the line. That is all."
"That is not all," Jon said flatly.
No one disagreed.
"The estate next door," Henry added carefully, "was sealed, not abandoned. It belongs to the same record."
Jon closed the folder.
"So," he said slowly, "I did not inherit power. I inherited unfinished paperwork."
Carolina's lips curved. "Precisely."
Lynn rested her hand near his. Not touching. Allowing space.
"This does not make you important," Carolina said. "It makes you visible."
Jon exhaled. "That is exactly what I wanted to avoid."
Henry frowned. "Is it dangerous?"
"It can be," Carolina said. "If mishandled. Or misunderstood."
Silence returned.
Jon closed the box.
"Who knows?" he asked.
"Very few," Lynn replied. "And it will remain that way."
"For now," Carolina added.
Jon leaned back slightly.
No triumph. No destiny. No thrill.
Only weight.
The Smith name was not a crown.
It was a liability.
Dinner continued after that, lighter on the surface, unchanged in form. Jon barely tasted it.
Later, as the candles burned lower, he felt it.
No approval.
Not awakening.
Awareness.
Something old had noticed movement where there had been none for generations.
Jon met his grandmother's eyes across the table.
She held his gaze steadily.
Welcome back, the look seemed to say.
Not kindly.
Accurately.
(End of Chapter 6)