The room was sealed shut, as if the air itself had been told not to breathe. Ancient runes, etched in languages older than Parseltongue, glowed faintly across the walls—each line humming with a vibration only magic could recognize. The center of the ritual chamber held the heart of the spell: a scorched pentagram, drawn with powdered basilisk bone and outlined in ashes from a burned family tapestry. It reeked of old power.
Inside the circle, the ingredients pulsed with tension. A glass phial of dragon's blood—thick and red as molten rubies—shimmered beside a strand of Thestral mane, gathered from the Forbidden Forest. There was also a single curved claw of a runespoor, dipped in obsidian oil, a cracked fang of a fire crab, and a relic blade—once used by Phineas Nigellus Black in a long-forgotten duel.
The most important elements, however, came from within.
Thomas stood still, chest bare, a silver mark drawn with runic ink across his sternum. Alaric mirrored him across the circle. Both of them had pricked their palms, and their mingled blood now sizzled in a bowl forged from goblin steel. Kreacher, solemn and silent, placed the bowl in the heart of the circle and stepped back.
Thomas inhaled slowly. "Begin."
He and Alaric stepped forward. As their bare feet touched the inner ring, the runes ignited—cold fire shot through the stone, and the chamber screamed with ancient resistance. A great magic did not like being disturbed.
The pain was instant.
Veins glowed under their skin, dark red and violet, like lava crawling through human vessels. Muscles spasmed. Their bodies twisted—not unnaturally, but with an eerie precision. The spell was not random. It knew what it wanted to create.
Thomas collapsed to his knees, blood pouring from his nose. Alaric writhed on the floor, eyes wide with terror and ecstasy. The air was thick with the smell of burning magic.
Visions followed. Thomas saw a battlefield soaked in blood and thunder, a snake coiling around a broken wand, a black door in a corridor of bones. Alaric saw himself in a mirror, surrounded by flames, his shadow taking a shape that was not his own.
When it ended, their bodies hit the stone.
The silence was deafening.
Their backs were arched unnaturally. Their hands still trembled. But the ritual was done. And something had changed. They felt it.
Thomas opened his eyes—one black, one silver-white. Alaric opened his—and his pupils briefly became smoke before returning to normal.
Kreacher approached with a black towel and a flask of phoenix tears. He knelt and said nothing.
"Never again," Alaric whispered, his voice cracked.
"No," Thomas replied. "Not like this."
But deep down, both of them knew—they would do it again if it made them stronger.
Part 2: The Cúpula Reports
The war room beneath Maynard Manor was quiet, save for the ticking of a silver timepiece enchanted to count both time and magical surges. It was early morning, though in the cavernous underground, it might as well have been midnight.
The room was round and sleek. The walls shimmered faintly with defensive enchantments, updated weekly. At the center stood an obsidian table engraved with the sigil of House Black—a serpent curled around a blade.
Kreacher was the first to arrive, dressed in ceremonial black with silver embroidery. Moments later, six figures emerged from the shadows—silent, cloaked, precise. The elite unit of house-elves known only as La Cúpula.
They did not bow, but they stopped moving as one.
Thomas entered last, wearing a simple tunic. His presence made the room colder.
"Report," he said, without sitting.
Kreacher took the lead. "Operations Alpha through Delta concluded. No exposure. No magical traces left behind."
Ena, the leader of Intelligence and Infiltration, stepped forward. Her voice was raspy, but calm. "Intercepted all outgoing letters from the Malfoy estate, the Nott enclave, and one curious inquiry from the Lestrange vaults. Modified memories of two goblins involved."
Thomas gave a faint nod.
Tim, head of Combat and Termination, dropped a blood-stained cloth on the table. It disappeared in a hiss of magic. He said nothing. He never did. His dagger gleamed on his hip, coated with an anti-trace charm. He didn't use a wand. Never had. He believed in movement, steel, and silence.
Dex was next, his eyes enhanced with dark enchantments that allowed him to see through concealment spells and glamours. "Acquired new schematics from Eastern European auror patrols. Re-routed a surveillance ward in Albania. The Order is quiet. Too quiet."
Thomas raised an eyebrow.
Ril, the Healer, spoke gently. "The Obscurus flare left minor internal scarring in Subject Two. He's regenerating well."
Yel, the master of Financial Manipulation, slid forward a pouch containing three Gringotts keys and a list of seven front companies. "Investments are up. I also buried a ledger inside a vault no goblin can access. The Ministry's new tax law won't reach us."
Garn, the youngest, nodded. "Combat drills complete. Training schedule updated. I've mapped out fifteen new extraction paths if the Ministry moves against us."
Thomas looked at them all. "You've done well."
Then, after a pause, he added, "Remember who you were before me. And who you are now. I didn't force this change on you."
They nodded. Not out of submission. Out of agreement.
Part 3: Alaric's Return
The manor was silent when the knock came.
Three slow raps.
Kreacher opened the door and tilted his head slightly. "You're back."
Alaric stood in the doorway, dirt on his boots, his sleeves torn. Sweat clung to his hairline, and small cuts lined his forearms.
"I was in the North Wing," he muttered. "The old ballroom. Thought it'd hold."
Kreacher blinked. "Didn't."
"No."
He stepped inside, dragging his pack. A few faint sparks trailed behind him like dying fireflies. The Obscurus inside him never fully slept. He had spent the last week testing its boundaries, meditating between rage and surrender.
He walked into the library and dropped the pack at Thomas's feet. Thomas didn't look up from his book.
"So?"
"I learned how to give it shape. Not full form, but... edges. I can bind it to my fury. It listens when I speak in parseltongue. Not fully. But enough."
Thomas closed the book, slowly. "Good. It'll try to use you, Alaric. Make sure you always use it first."
"I know."
Their eyes locked. Brothers, forged not in blood but in ritual and shared pain.
"You did well," Thomas said. "Rest. You'll need it."
Alaric smirked tiredly. "You say that like you'll let me sleep."
Thomas allowed the faintest smile. "You get four hours. Be ready after."
Alaric chuckled and disappeared into the manor's halls.
Kreacher entered moments later, arms crossed.
"He nearly broke the walls again."
Thomas shrugged. "We'll rebuild them stronger."
He turned back to the book.
Outside, the wind howled. Inside, the war was just beginning.