At the top of the grand marble staircase, Charlie Weasley stood before a towering double door made of black oak. It looked less like an entrance to a gallery and more like the portal to an ancient vault, carved with intricate, writhing serpents and raven crests that seemed to pulse with faint, dormant magic under his gaze.
Charlie took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm the wild thumping in his chest. His mother's stern warnings echoed in his head, sharp and clear. The Blacks are not a family to mess with, Charlie. They are ancient, obscenely wealthy, and steeped in dark magic. You stay far away from them.
Molly had always made it known that families like the Blacks were dangerous. They are the undisputed royalty of magical British nobility who looked down on everyone else, especially families like the Weasleys who had lost their noble status and fortune generations ago. Why in Merlin's name would Lord Arcturus Black want him? Was he in trouble? Did he accidentally cross a line just by stepping into their castle? Is his family in trouble?
"Mr. Charles Weasley entering," the head house-elf announced loudly, bowing low as he pushed open the massive, heavy doors with a low, resounding groan.
Charlie squared his shoulders, took a timid step forward, and froze dead in his tracks.
The gallery inside was bathed in the warm, intimidating glow of a roaring fireplace and glittering ice-crystal sconces. Displayed before him was a collection of pureblood aristocrats who practically radiated power, wealth, and ancient authority.
Charlie didn't recognize most of the faces in the room. He knew Lord Arcturus Black, of course. The terrifying patriarch was famous throughout the wizarding world, sitting dead-center in an armchair and leaning on his silver cane like an ancient emperor, his storm-grey eyes locked onto Charlie with suffocating intensity. He also immediately recognized Lucius Malfoy standing off to the side, looking as sleek and icy as ever. The Weasleys and Malfoys had been locked in a bitter feud for as long as anyone could remember. Though no one in his family knew how it started, only that his dad and Lucius seemed to get into a fiery row every single time they crossed paths.
As for the rest of the dark-haired, impeccably dressed wizards and witches lounging in the room? Charlie had no idea who they were, though a handsome, dark-haired man in dragon-hide robes standing near the railing was watching him with a distinctly amused smirk.
Charlie felt instantly, excruciatingly self-conscious. In his frayed maroon dress robes—a second-hand relic passed down from a long-dead ancestor. He felt like a stray gnome that had blundered into a royal court. His pulse hammered in his ears, and for a terrifying second, he forgot how to breathe under the weight of so many aristocrats staring at him.
Then, his eyes landed on a young witch standing near the gallery barrier in a striking sapphire gown.
She had thick, wavy black hair and the classic, sharp grey eyes of the Black family. But as Charlie stared, completely baffled as to why she was looking at him, the girl caught his eye and gave him a tiny, frantic, 'please-save-me' grimace that was so utterly ridiculous and un-aristocratic it broke the spell entirely.
Who is she? Charlie wondered that his brow furrowing as a sudden, strange sense of familiarity washed over him. He knew he had never seen this girl in his life, yet something about the exasperated posture, the awkward twitch of her hands in those white lace gloves, and that exact desperate expression struck a quiet chord in his memory.
Before he could piece the puzzle together, a cold, sharp voice sliced through the heavy silence of the gallery.
"So, this is him?"
An elderly witch stepped out from near the hearth, looking as intimidating as humanly possible. She carried herself with the severe, unyielding posture of an ancient matriarch, her dark velvet robes sweeping behind her.
Charlie didn't know her name—though she had the unmistakable, terrifying look of a senior Black—but the sheer disdain in her cold, dark eyes made his stomach twist. She didn't just look at him; she thoroughly appraised him, her gaze lingering with sharp disgust upon his faded, frayed maroon cuffs and the outdated, boxy cut of his second-hand dress robes.
"He looks like he was dressed by a blind moth," she drawled, her tone dripping with quiet venom as she raised a jeweled hand to inspect his collar. "Is this truly the best the Weasley line has to offer tonight?"
Charlie's ears flushed a fiery red, his jaw clenching as he fought the urge to squirm under her brutal evaluation.
"Now, now, Aunt Cassiopeia, go easy on the boy," a warm, lazy drawl cut smoothly through the chill, instantly deflecting the old witch's harsh gaze.
The handsome, dark-haired wizard who was smirking playfully at Charlie earlier pushed himself off the stone barrier, crossing his arms over his chest as he sauntered forward with a sharp, easy grin. Charlie had no idea who the man was—only that he possessed the effortless, striking looks of a pureblood aristocrat, though dressed in tailored dark robes with a recklessly open collar that stood out among his stuffy companions.
"I'll have you know that maroon velvet was the absolute peak of fashion during the reign of William the Conqueror," the wizard teased lightly, casting an amused wink toward Charlie, who blanched in sheer surprise. "If anything, young Weasley here is just demonstrating a profound respect for historical preservation. Isn't that right, lad?"
Cassiopeia glared at the younger wizard with enough heat to melt lead. "Do not patronize me, Sirius! The boy looks like he fell out of a dusty attic chest."
"And you look like you were there when the chest was built, yet none of us are making a fuss, are we?" the man countered effortlessly, not missing a single beat.
A muffled snort escaped the dark-haired maiden near the barrier, while a blonde witch nearby hastily cleared her throat to cover her own reaction. Lord Arcturus merely let out a low rumble in his chest, his storm-grey eyes glinting with dry amusement from his armchair.
Cassiopeia bristled, her dark eyes flashing danger. "You lack proper discipline—"
"I lack patience for stuffy tailoring reviews," the wizard named Sirius corrected breezily, stepping up right alongside Charlie and resting a casual, friendly hand on the twelve-year-old's rigid shoulder.
Charlie flinched slightly at the sudden touch, utterly bewildered as to who this dark-haired wizard was or why he was sticking his neck out for him, but he was deeply grateful for the rescue, nonetheless.
Sirius squeezed Charlie's shoulder reassuringly, leaning down to whisper out of the corner of his mouth, "Don't mind her. She thinks anything made after her time is a scandalous modern invention."
Charlie couldn't help the tiny, nervous smirk that broke through his anxiety, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction as the mysterious wizard smoothly steered him away from Cassiopeia's predatory glare.
"I'm Sirius Black, by the way."
"Hello, Sir."
Sirius threw his head back with a sharp laugh, offering an amused wink. "You may call me Sirius, none of this 'Sir' nonsense. I feel so old, considering I am younger than your father."
"My father?"
"Yes, I know your father. We were in Gryffindor together, though he was a few years ahead of me."
"You know my – wait, you're a Gryffindor?" This shocked Charlie for he has always heard from his parents, his mother mostly, that the Blacks were as Slytherins as they come.
"The one and only," Sirius said proudly, tapping his chest with a smirk. "Broke a six-century-old family streak the second the Sorting Hat touched my head. Drove my dear old mother absolutely batty, as you can imagine."
Cassiopeia let out a harsh, disapproving click of her tongue from near the hearth, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like "black sheep".
"Ignore her," Sirius said smoothly, waving a dismissive hand. "Heard you are also a Gryffindor?"
"I am," Charlie said, puffing out his chest just a fraction, proud of his house despite the terrifying company.
"Obviously," Cassiopeia drawled from near the hearth, sniffing disdainfully as she adjusted her lace sleeves. "The Weasleys have been Gryffindors for generations without exception. A rather predictable lack of variety."
Sirius threw his hands up in mock exasperation, grinning broadly at Charlie. "Oh, please! The House of Black was strictly Slytherin for six hundred years and look at me—the brightest constellation on the tree, sitting right in red and gold! Precedent means nothing, Aunt Cass, when genius strikes."
"A tragic anomaly, not a precedent," Cassiopeia shot back smoothly, though Sirius merely winked at Charlie, utterly unbothered.
Before Charlie could digest the banter, a loud, exasperated sigh echoed from near the barrier.
"Can we please skip the house history lesson and get on with this?" the dark-haired girl in the sapphire gown groaned, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.
Charlie turned his gaze toward her, his brow furrowing as he studied the sharp grey eyes and familiar posture. The girl rolled her eyes, caught him staring, and made a face—twitching her nose in a ridiculously familiar way.
Charlie's jaw dropped. The dark, elegant hair, the pale aristocratic skin, and the formal noble gown vanished in his mind, replaced instantly by bright pink hair, ink-stained robes, and a girl who once tripped over her own feet in the Hogwarts library and knocked down three entire bookshelves.
"Dora?!" Charlie blurted out, completely forgetting where he was or who was listening. "What in Merlin's name did you do to your hair?!"
Dora crossed her arms tighter over her sapphire gown, her face flushing bright red as her sleek, aristocratic facade crumbled instantly under his outburst.
"Shut up, Charlie!" she hissed back in a frantic whisper, shooting a nervous glance toward her stern, watching family. Her sharp grey eyes darted back to him, brimming with sheepish mortification. "It's a Metamorphmagus thing! I had to look like a 'proper Black debutante' for the gala, so I don't embarrass everyone, okay? Now stop staring at me like I've grown a second head!"
"You are a Black?" Charlie asked, his jaw still practically hovering near his chest as he took in her polished appearance once more.
"Why is that so hard to believe?" Dora huffed, puffing her chest out in mock offense before her heels caught on the heavy hemline of her gown, making her stumble awkwardly and regain her balance with a frantic wave of her arms.
Charlie snorted, a grin breaking across his freckled face. "Well, for one, the last time I saw you, you accidentally transformed your nose into a pig snout during Potions class because a cauldron exploded in your face! And then you tripped over your own cloak and knocked Professor Snape flat onto his back!"
Sirius let out a sharp, unrestrained bark of laughter, doubling over against the stone barrier as he slapped his knee. "You knocked Snivellus off his feet?! Oh, that is absolute perfection! I would have paid a hundred Galleons to see his face!"
Charlie looked confused and mouthed, "Snivellus?" to Dora, but Sirius just kept on laughing.
Dora's face flushed an even deeper, furious shade of crimson, extending all the way up to her roots as her composure collapsed entirely. "That was one time! And I served two weeks of detention for it! That potion was unstable anyway!"
"Dora, you did what?" Andromeda asked, her eyebrows shooting up in absolute horror as she stepped forward, her voice dripping with sharp motherly chastisement. "You tackled Severus Snape to the floor?!"
"I didn't tackle him. It was an accident, Mum!" Dora squeaked, her voice cracking as she shrank under her mother's glare, her Metamorphmagus hair twitching violently and momentarily flashing a bright, chaotic shade of pink before she willed it back to black.
Lord Arcturus let out another heavy rumble from his seat, tapping his silver cane twice against the floor to bring the room back to order. "Enough," the old lord commanded, though his storm-grey eyes danced with amusement. "We did not bring the Weasley boy up here to debate potion accidents." He fixed his stern gaze directly on Charlie. "Young man, our youngest member here requires an escort to lead her down the grand staircase into the hall. Someone sturdy enough to ensure she does not, as Sirius so delicately put it, splat her face against the marble floor."
Charlie blinked, looking between the terrifying patriarch, a snickering Sirius, and a bright red Dora who looked ready to sink straight through the floorboards. "Wait... me? Why me?"
Dora crossed her arms tightly, huffing as she avoided direct eye contact to hide the brilliant crimson flush spreading across her cheeks.
"Because you're the only person in this room who won't spend the next three hours blabbering about sacred bloodlines or ancient lineage!" she blurted out, glaring intensely at the toe of her dress shoe. "And... well, you're tall, you have decent balance, and you won't throw a fit if I accidentally step on your feet!"
Sirius snorted softly, nudging Charlie's shoulder with his elbow. "High praise, lad. Take it where you can get it."
Charlie looked over at Dora, her flustered expression making the terrifying gallery and the intimidating Black family feel infinitely more manageable. A small, amused smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he held out his elbow toward her.
"Fair enough," Charlie said, his shoulders relaxing completely. "Just promise not to transform your nose into a pig snout halfway down the staircase."
Dora shot him a fiery glare, but the tension drained out of her as she stepped forward and slid her gloved arm through his. "Shut up, Weasley, or I'm 'accidentally' stepping on your toes first."
Lord Arcturus let out a deep, measured breath, his piercing storm-grey eyes shifting away from Dora to fix once more upon Charlie. He leaned forward slightly on his silver cane, his gaze slowly scanning the boy from head to toe, lingering on the frayed maroon cuffs and the boxy, antique cut of his second-hand robes.
"As much as your company is acceptable, young Weasley," Arcturus said, his deep, resonant voice cutting cleanly through the room with absolute authority, "Your attire is not. A member of the House of Black cannot be escorted into the grand hall by someone dressed in a relic from five centuries ago. It would be a slurring of standards I will not permit tonight."
Charlie's ears burned hot once again, his posture stiffening as he instinctively pulled his worn cuffs slightly back into his sleeves.
"Oh, come on, Grandfather," Sirius chimed in breezily, flashing a confident, easy grin as he slapped Charlie reassuringly on the back. "Don't fret over a bit of dusty velvet. Give me ten minutes—I'll think of something."
*****
While everyone inside finalized their preparations for the House of Black's grand descent, Sirius finally slipped out into the dark corridor beyond the gallery.
He stood near the shadow of a grand stone pillar, deliberately making himself look harmless and unbothered, almost idle, as though he were merely taking a moment to catch his breath away from chaos inside. But every muscle in his body was coiled tight.
He had sensed it the second Charlie Weasley walked through the gallery doors, and he had done his best to act as though nothing were amiss. If his grandfather noticed, there would be a fuss, and whoever had followed Charlie in would slip away.
Being an Animagus had left Sirius with instincts that bled into his human form. Sharper hearing, keener reflexes, and above all, a heightened sense of smell. Someone had crept into the upper floors of the manor, most likely tailing young Charlie under cover of the commotion to get past the ward line unnoticed. And Sirius could smell him. It was a rank, unmistakable mix of stale firewhisky, pipe tobacco, and damp wool.
He knew that scent anywhere. A sharp, dangerous smirk grazed his lips. He had no wish to alert his grandfather. Arcturus and the rest of the family had no need to make a scene over a mere spy, least of all tonight. The evening was meant to go off without a hitch.
Sirius whipped his wand from his sleeve and slashed it toward a dark, empty space beside a heavy oak sideboard.
"Stupefy!"
"Eeek!"
A muffled squeal echoed softly in the quiet corridor, followed by a heavy thud as a figure collapsed against the carpet. The sound was swallowed completely by the heavy velvet drapes and thick stone walls—nobody inside the gallery had heard a thing.
Sirius sauntered over, bent down and gripped a handful of the unseen fabric, then yanked it clear.
He recognized the material at once. His heart giving a quiet, nostalgic thud in his chest. It was James's Invisibility Cloak. The very same heirloom that the ancient, mysterious voice from the stars had revealed to be one of the legendary Deathly Hallows. Even now, Sirius found it surreal that the Potters' old heirloom cloak was an artefact out of legends.
His gaze dropped to the stunned figure sprawled cold at his feet.
Mundungus Fletcher.
Sirius scoffed softly under his breath. "Dung", as what the Order called him, was a notorious thief, squatter, and low-grade rogue and, more importantly, one of Albus Dumbledore's favorite little covert eyes and ears in the underworld. Sirius didn't even need to guess who had nudged Dung to slip through the mansion's wards.
Dumbledore simply couldn't help himself. The Headmaster hated anything that fell outside his sphere of influence and control, and with Lord Arcturus stepping back into the political scene and asserting the House of Black's dominance once more, Dumbledore was desperate to know what the old lion of the Blacks was planning. Smuggling a thief into the mansion under cover of the party invitations was exactly the sort of subtle, meddling play he favored. He had probably thought Dung could hide away inside the house and spy on the family. What the old coot hadn't accounted for was Sirius being there. Like most of the wizarding population, he probably thought Sirius was dead or lost. If Dumbledore knew he was here, he would not have risked Dung to infiltrate the Blackwood mansion. Dumbledore knows about Sirius' heightened olfactory senses. Dung would have been caught easy.
As Sirius rolled Dung onto his back with the toe of his boot, a glint of gold caught his eye, spilling out of Fletcher's coat pocket.
Sirius clicked his tongue in disgust, inspecting a heavy, ruby-encrusted snuff box. It had sat on the hallway sideboard for generations, easily pocketed in a single motion.
"Tsk. You still can't help yourself, can you, Dung?" Sirius muttered, a dark, amused chuckle escaping his lips as he pocketed the jewelry and collected his former best friend's (James) cloak.
"Tippy," Sirius called softly into the dim corridor.
With a sharp crack, a small house-elf appeared at his elbow, bowing low until her oversized ears nearly touched the polished floorboards. "Master Sirius called Tippy?"
"Grab me one of those oversized travel trunks from the lower attic," Sirius instructed, a wicked glint in his storm-grey eyes. "The long expansion-charm ones with the air holes—the kind big enough for a full-grown man to live in for a month."
"Yes, Master Sirius! Right away, Master!" Tippy squeaked and vanished with another quiet pop.
Sirius looked down at the unconscious thief sprawled on the carpet, a smirk tugging at his mouth as he twirled his wand between his fingers. A wonderfully devious plan was already taking shape in his head.
Besides, he now had James's Invisibility Cloak, and a trunk full of leverage.
This is going to be fun.