Morning sunlight slipped quietly through the curtains, landing in soft strips across Alaric's bedroom floor. The old house always woke slowly; its wood creaked gently, the pipes hummed somewhere deep in the walls, and from the kitchen drifted the warm scent of brewing tea.
Alaric sat cross-legged on the rug, sorting through the things he'd brought home from Diagon Alley. His new books were stacked neatly beside him, covers smooth and still smelling faintly of ink. His cauldron gleamed with the polish he'd given it the night before. Imu had coiled himself around one of the bedposts, narrowing and widening experimentally like he was testing the limits of his morning flexibility. The owl—still unnamed—watched everything from the windowsill, salt and pepper feathers ruffling as she groomed herself.
Alaric ran his fingers along the spine of A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, enjoying the soft rasp of parchment against his skin. He liked mornings like this—quiet, unhurried, with nothing demanding his attention but the comforting weight of possibility.
He paused, his gaze drifting to the window. '...I suppose its time to take up my responsibilities. I'm technically Lord Black, now that I'm of age, and Uncle Sirius is still in Azkaban. Which reminds me, I don't believe I ever read that he had a trial...'
A soft clatter sounded from the kitchen. He stood, stretching, and stepped into the hallway.
Elowen was already turning in a slow, practiced rhythm between kettle and stove. Steam curled from two mugs. Her hair was pinned loosely, and she hummed under her breath—a tune he'd heard since childhood, something lilting and mournful in places.
"Morning," Alaric said.
She smiled over her shoulder. "I was wondering when you'd wander in. Tea?"
He nodded, slipping into the chair across from her at the table. Imu slithered in a moment later, weaving between table legs, while the owl took its usual perch atop the cabinet.
Elowen poured his tea, the aromatic steam curling into the air.
"Excited for September?" she asked lightly.
"A bit," Alaric said. "Mostly curious."
"Curious is good." She set her mug down, eyes softening. "It was one of your father's best qualities."
He looked up at her, holding her gaze without pressing. She only talked about Regulus in pieces, fragments she could manage without breaking.
"What was he curious about?" Alaric asked gently.
"Everything," she said, smiling faintly. "Spells, creatures, ancient stories… you remind me of him sometimes."
There was warmth in the words, but also a deep ache.
Alaric nodded, sipping his tea. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"It is," she whispered.
They fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the kettle cooling and Imu's quiet shifting.
Alaric sighed, regretful to be breaking such a peaceful atmosphere. "I think I'm going to try and get Uncle Sirius freed."
Elowen's hands stilled for a moment, her smile fading into the serious visage of a lady as she considered his words. "...And how do you plan to do that?"
"I've gone over the files for his trial, Sirius never received a formal trial. The people of the Wizengamot simply believed that because he was rumored to be the Potter's secret keeper, he was guilty of betraying him, with his violent actions in London that same night further proving their agenda."
Elowen nodded. "But how will you have them consider a retrial?"
Alaric shrugged. "For now this is all I have, but I've been thinking of finding a good reporter to talk about all of it."
His mother sighed. "This is all a rather big task for an eleven year old. I'm...I'm afraid that you're growing up too fast."
Alaric smiled softly, getting up to hug her tightly. "I know, but this is something I have to do. I know that Sirius is a good man, and I simply can't let him rot in that horrible place because of something he didn't do."
She was silent hearing this. There was nothing she could do but be proud that her son was growing to be a kind man, and be sad that his childhood was apparently already over. "I know, honey, I know."
---
After breakfast, Alaric returned to the living room and drew his wand. Blackthorn wood caught the light, dark and warm in his palm. He lifted it carefully.
"Lumos."
The tip burst into light brighter than he expected, startling even the owl. Imu startled too, scales flashing from deep green to pale gold.
Alaric blinked, amused. "Alright. Calm down. Just a light."
He tried a levitation charm next, gently guiding a quill into the air. It rose smoothly at first, then darted sideways unexpectedly, smacking into a cushion.
Elowen appeared in the doorway just in time to see it.
"Good or bad?"
"Both," she said, smiling.
A sudden knock cut through the room's warmth.
Elowen froze.
Alaric straightened.
She approached the door slowly, wand in hand, and opened it a crack.
There stood Albus Dumbledore, looking as though he belonged on her doorstep as naturally as sunlight itself. His eyes twinkled gently, though the lines around them were deeper—tired, but warm.
"Elowen," he said softly. "May I come in?"
She hesitated for a single heartbeat, then nodded and stepped aside.
Dumbledore entered with careful grace, taking in the living room, Alaric, and the familiars in one sweep.
"Alaric Black," he said. "I am very pleased to finally meet you."
Alaric nodded in return. "Professor."
Dumbledore smiled at the title. "Not yet, but soon."
He turned to Elowen. "When the Fidelius charm broke, I felt it. As expected." His voice held no accusation, only quiet understanding. "You held the secret alone for a long time."
Elowen's breath trembled. Alaric glanced at her, noticing how she gripped her sleeve.
"I had to," she said. "For him."
"And you succeeded," Dumbledore replied. "Regulus would be grateful."
The name sat between them like something sacred.
Dumbledore then crouched slightly, bringing himself to Alaric's eye level without diminishing either of them.
"You carry a rare mixture of magic," he said. "Old magic. Fierce magic. But I suspect your strength will not come from power, Alaric." He tapped lightly at Alaric's chest. "It will come from here. From who you choose to be when the world becomes uncertain. Just as your father did."
Alaric felt the words settle into him like warm stones, steadying rather than heavy.
"Thank you," Alaric said quietly.
Dumbledore stood. "I will see you at Hogwarts. And should you ever feel lost—remember that the brightest stars are easiest to see in the dark."
He left with a final nod to Elowen, disappearing down the lane as softly as he had arrived.
Elowen closed the door and leaned against it, releasing a long breath.
"You alright?" Alaric asked.
She gave a small laugh that wasn't really a laugh. "I've carried too many secrets for too long. It feels strange to have them out in the open."
Alaric moved to her side. "You don't have to do it alone anymore."
Her eyes glistened, but she smiled.
The afternoon drifted by in gentle waves. Alaric practiced spells again, more controlled this time. Only one book shot across the room, which he considered progress. Imu coiled around him whenever the magic flared, humming softly like a tiny furnace.
Later, Alaric packed. He smoothed his new robes, stacked his books by subject, and polished his cauldron again simply because it was calming.
By nightfall, the house was quiet once more.
Elowen peeked into his room. Alaric lay beneath the quilt, the owl perched near the window, Imu curled around his wrist like a living bracelet. His wand rested beside his pillow.
"You're ready," she said softly.
"I hope so," he said.
"You are."
He smiled a little. "I'll make you proud."
"You already have," she whispered.
As she closed the door, Alaric let his eyes fall shut. The future stretched ahead of him—not loud or dramatic, but steady, bright, and alive.
Tomorrow, his real journey would begin.