Chapter 6 - ghu

𝐀𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤

❖​

Information wins wars. Everybody knew that. It's one of those things people say with absolute certainty, like "money doesn't buy happiness" or "you should floss." Everybody knew it, but nobody really thought about it too hard.

Back when I was somebody else, back when I was still… well, still that other version of me—the one who died and didn't know how to make a decision if it was handed to him in a velvet box—I thought it made sense. How could it not? It was basic. Deep down, buried under layers of self-doubt, procrastination, and missed chances, there was this stubborn truth I knew: information equals power. Power equals victory. Q.E.D., right?

Simple stuff. Except, simple isn't the same as easy. Not by a long shot.

Now, I'd never fought a real war. The closest I came to combat was engaging in flame wars on obscure internet forums about which fictional character could win a fight. "Could Batman beat Superman if he had prep time?" That's what kept me up at night. (And yes, he absolutely could. Don't even start.) Those were my battles: pointless, endless, and conducted entirely from the safety of my apartment, where the only casualties were my dignity and, sometimes, a few hundred keyboard keys.

I'm not proud of it, but I'm not ashamed of it either. It was a kind of war, I suppose. A very stupid kind of war.

One of my professors—God bless him, or don't, it doesn't matter, he'd find a way to turn either option into a lecture—used to hammer this idea into our heads like he thought it might save the world. "Data allows for informed decisions," he'd say, pausing dramatically after each word, like he was revealing the secret of eternal life. You could tell he thought he was very clever.

Translation: the more you know, the less you screw up.

It sounded good. I wanted to believe it. I wanted to believe a lot of things back then, mostly about myself. Like the idea that if I just knew enough, if I just gathered enough information, I could solve any problem, win any fight, make any decision, and maybe—just maybe—be the kind of person I'd eventually be proud of.

But then came rebirth and the System. I told you about it, right?

When I opened my eyes and was greeted with the floating, holographic screens of my so-called Character Sheet, that old, comfortable way of thinking very quickly turned into something far uglier. I didn't just consider my options—I obsessed over them. I fixated on my starting Skills and Perks like they were the keys to unlocking some flawless, godlike version of myself. If I just picked the right ones at Level 1, everything would fall into place, right?

Here's the part you'll laugh at: I thought I was being smart. Logical. Tactical. What I was really doing was setting myself up for disaster. But that's hindsight for you.

I spent hours—well over a hundred—lost in endless menus, weighing every option, chasing the tiniest possible advantage. Every choice became this monumental decision, like one misstep would doom me forever. All for some nebulous idea of an "ideal build."

The problem? I knew it existed. I had no doubt there was a meta out there, a formula for success. But for me? I hit a wall. And it buried me.

Back then, I still didn't have a clue what my new life was going to ask of me. Not a single damn clue. I had no idea what challenges were waiting out there, no sense of what the future might throw my way. But that didn't stop me. No, I kept at it—micromanaging my potential like it was some neat little spreadsheet I could organise into perfection.

You think I'm exaggerating, right? Being dramatic. You're probably rolling your eyes. "A hundred hours? Yeah, right."

Well, I wish I was exaggerating.

Time, in that new infantile state of mine, didn't move like it did before. When you're a newborn, everything moves at a crawl. Every second feels like an eternity, and you've got all the time in the world. But my reborn mind? My mind didn't get the memo. It didn't slow down. It just churned. Nonstop. Overthinking everything. I laid there, in my little baby body, but my mind was running a marathon. And with a System that didn't play by the usual rules, the hours sped by, faster than I could blink. The time just slipped through my fingers.

So, what the hell was the problem with my System anyway?

Ah, my Gamer System. The strange new power I'd been saddled with. A System that seemed to take every rule of reality and snap them like dry twigs. It didn't care about blending into the world I'd been dropped into. No, it was more interested in warping that world to fit its own peculiar rules.

Most of the Systems in the stories I'd read—they tried to adapt, more or less. They played nice, sort of. This one? Not a chance. It shoved everything straight from its digital playbook into my life and let reality scramble to catch up.

The version I had been saddled with included Player Forums, instanced Dungeons, a bustling Marketplace, and a neat little feature that gave me a body that was more Game Avatar than human. And that was just the things I had so far discovered. Truly, everything I knew, everything I thought I knew, got tossed out the window and replaced by whatever this System decided it wanted to throw my way.

If I was being honest, the Player Forum was especially egregious in its impact and became the leading culprit in my decision paralysis.

Let me tell you, if you've ever wondered what happens when you throw countless individuals—Players, scattered across an infinite number of worlds—into a giant pot and let them stew in their own unchecked, unregulated wisdom, take a look at the Player Forum. It's a vast, sprawling network of wikis, discussion boards, and message threads, neatly categorised but no less overwhelming. There was no limit to the amount of wisdom—sometimes idiocy—floating around in that space. Name a topic, any topic, and someone has dissected it. If it wasn't already there? Well, don't worry, somebody would respond within seconds. Someone would always have an answer.

Honestly, strip away every other function of the System and just leave the Forum, and a dedicated person could probably take over the world with that alone. The knowledge was that deep, that wide.

But that's where I got stuck.

That was the problem, see? Too many voices, too much noise.

It should have been helpful. You'd think that, right? But instead, I got hamstrung. I couldn't make a single decision. Everything I read, every option, had its own set of arguments. Every Perk had someone saying, "No, this is the right choice, trust me, you'll regret it if you don't pick this one." And the more I dug, the deeper the rabbit hole went, and the more I found myself overwhelmed. I couldn't stop thinking about all the "What Ifs."

If I chose this, what would happen then? If I chose that, what did I miss out on? There were too many opinions. It was suffocating. The longer I hesitated, the more the indecision piled up. And every time I thought I might be close to choosing, the flood of options hit me again, harder than before.

And that's how it went. I didn't get any smarter, I didn't get any better. I just laid there, reading. And reading. And reading. And every time I thought I was ready to make a decision, the next flood of options came at me, and I was back to square one. The knowledge? It didn't make me stronger—it made me weaker. Time? It didn't help. It just kept slipping faster than I could decide, until I was drowning under the weight of it all.

I know what you're thinking: "Why didn't you just follow a step-by-step guide?"

You're probably imagining me, this miserable little mess of indecision, scrolling through endless builds, and saying to myself: "Oh, look! Here's one that makes me practically invincible in ten easy steps. Just follow the instructions and get rich, or at least super strong."

Sure, it would've been easy. There were plenty of meta-builds out there—perfect little blueprints that could turn me into some sort of hyper-efficient, overpowered machine. No thought, no effort, just plug and play. It was tempting. It's always tempting, right? Like the cheat code to life; like finding the shortcut to happiness, success, whatever.

But no. I didn't do it. You know why?

The short answer: I wanted agency.

That's right. I at least wanted to be in control. Like I wasn't just another puppet with invisible strings being tugged by some anonymous guide-writer on another plane of reality. If I was going to live this life—a second life, mind you—I wasn't going to let some faceless Player decide how it should go. I was supposed to be the one making the decisions, even if those decisions were, quite frankly, a disaster waiting to happen.

Yes, if it had been just a game, just a little escape, maybe I would've taken the easy road. Maybe I would've gone full munchkin mode and steamrolled my way to godhood with nothing but a few clicks. But it wasn't a game, no matter how much the System said otherwise. It was my actual life. And as much as I hated to admit it, it was real life in the sense that I was living it, breathing it, experiencing the crushing weight of it in all its absurdity.

Besides, it was, again, my second shot at this whole life thing. Was I really going to squander it by letting someone else pull the strings?

Not a chance.

So, there I was. Stuck. Hemming and hawing over every tiny little decision like it was a matter of life and death, which, in my mind, it kind of was. Every option felt monumental, like the wrong move might turn me into a half-baked failure for all eternity. I had so much potential, but none of it mattered because I couldn't figure out what to do with it.

Meanwhile, the world outside of my little bubble kept spinning. My parents, bless their hearts, had no idea I was essentially dying a thousand paper cuts over which Perk would best suit my "role." They were going about their daily lives, blissfully ignorant of the existential crisis brewing in the tiny body of their latest child. Life was going on. People were living. But me? I was stuck in this strange limbo, caught between what I could be and what I was too paralysed to become.

Of course, when you pulled at something long enough, eventually, something would snap. It was inevitable.

That's the thing about tension: it's all well and good until it breaks. And let me tell you, I was pulling at it, hard, every second of the day. I was so deep in my own head, so tangled up in choices and consequences, that it was only a matter of time before the inevitable happened.

And then it did.

I reached my breaking point.

It wasn't graceful. It wasn't neat. But I did the only thing I could think of: I gave up. In the most metaphorical sense, I raised my hand and waved the white flag.

Sounds so simple when I put it like that, doesn't it? So easy.

But for me… for me, it took a hell of a lot of mental gymnastics, contorting myself into new shapes I didn't even know were possible. It was like trying to shove a square peg into a round hole and calling it "growth."

The thing was, I couldn't keep it up. I couldn't keep drowning in all those hypothetical choices, each one more perfect than the last, each one carrying the weight of a hundred possible futures. So, I did what any reasonable person would do when faced with a mountain of indecision: I decided to stop looking for the absolute perfect choice.

I didn't need to find the golden path, the flawless route to godlike perfection. Who the hell was I kidding? The world didn't work like that. And I sure as hell didn't work like that. It wasn't like I had one shot at this life and that was it. No, I had the rest of my life ahead of me—a whole second chance to figure it out, to adjust, to learn, to grow.

What was the rush, really?

It was... well, it was a revelation, in a way. Once I told myself that, once I allowed myself to accept it, the pressure just... lifted. I felt it too, the tension dissipating from my shoulders, like a balloon deflating slowly in the middle of the night. The thing I'd been making so damn hard, the impossible mountain I had been trying to climb, suddenly seemed a lot more like a molehill. And, let's be honest, I was more than capable of climbing molehills.

Not everything fell into place right away, of course. The world didn't start singing and dancing like I had cracked some ancient code. But something had shifted. The anxiety loosened its death grip, and I could finally breathe again.

I stopped overthinking it. No more min-maxing. No more spreadsheet analysis of every possible outcome. No more making lists of pros and cons like I was applying for a job instead of living a life. I made my decision—careful, yes, but impulsive in its own way. I let go of the paralyzing need for certainty and just... did it.

And so, that's how I spent my free Skill and Perk points. And my free Attribute points, too. I didn't agonize over the choices, didn't double back and check the forums for other opinions. I picked, and that was that. Was it the best choice? Who the hell knows. Was it the right choice? Who cares? It was a choice. And sometimes, that's all you need to get started.

Funny how simple it was once I stopped making it so complicated.

──────

— PERKS —

▼

[ You have 1 unassigned Perk Point ]

▼

✧ New Perk Acquired ✧

Fast Learner

•​

You now possess an innate ability to rapidly absorb and master new information. Whether through study, practice, or experience, you can process and retain knowledge at an exceptional rate. This enhanced aptitude for learning makes you a formidable individual across all fields of expertise.Effect:

Increases Experience gained from training all Skills by 15%.

Grants +1 INT and +1 WIS.

Provides an invisible +10 INT bonus when learning or acquiring any new form of knowledge.

■

— SKILLS —

▼

[ You have 2 unassigned Skill Points ]

▼

✧ New Skill Learned ✧

Occlumency

Supernatural Ability

Rank 1

•

Requires: 10 INT

FP Cost: Varies

•​

Occlumency is the art of magically shielding the mind from external intrusion, most notably from the invasive effects of Legilimency—the magical art of reading minds. However, the true power of Occlumency extends beyond merely this narrow scope. Mastery of this Skill grants the practitioner command over their own thoughts, enabling them to ward off manipulation, mental suggestion, and even subtle enchantments that seek to influence or control their will.

This Skill will only use FP when defending from mental attacks.

Effects:

Grants basic and foundational knowledge regarding the Art of Occlumency. Each Rank of this Skill expands the available information granted to you in terms of training and use of the Skill.

Every Rank grants increasing proficiency and practical expertise in resisting all forms of mental influence.

Grants a +2.5% bonus to mental resistance per Rank of this Skill.

Enhance your mental discipline. Every Rank of this Skill grants an invisible +1 bonus to INT when performing Skill or Attribute Checks relating to memory and recall.

▼

✧ New Skill Learned ✧

Acting Mastery

Feat

Rank 1

•

Requires: 10 CHA

•​

Acting is more than mere mimicry—it's the craft of shaping perception and evoking genuine emotion. With this Skill, you unlock the ability to portray emotions, adopt multiple personas, and influence others through the power of your presence and delivery. As you advance, your ability to captivate audiences, deceive rivals, and sway even the most skeptical becomes near effortless.

Effects:

Increase your ability to convincingly portray a range of emotions and characters, making your performances highly believable.

Boost your success in persuasive actions, including Persuasion, Deception, and Intimidation, when used within the context of your performance.

Gain +10 bonus to Charisma while actively performing a role.

Each Rank of this Skill grants an additional 1% bonus to Deception when used in performance.

■

Attribute Scores Unallocated!

It looks like you haven't assigned your free Attribute points yet. Would you like to allocate them now?

[ Yes | No ]

▼

— ATTRIBUTE SCORES —

Strength (STR): 10

Dexterity (DEX): 10

Constitution (CON): 10

Intelligence (INT: 14

Wisdom (WIS): 12

Charisma (CHA): 10

Free Attribute Points: 0

──────​

The moment I clicked that mental "submit" button, letting the chips scatter wherever the universe wanted them to land, something shifted again. No big fireworks or trumpets, no divine revelation. Just a quiet, almost unremarkable change. Like I'd unclenched a fist I didn't know I'd been holding for hours. It wasn't life-changing, not right away, but it was enough. Enough to let me breathe. Enough to make me realise how long I'd been holding my breath.

And suddenly, I could see the world again. Funny how hyperfixation works—it's like being stuck with a microscope glued to your face, everything zoomed in so far you don't even realise the rest of the room exists. I'd been so consumed with choices and numbers and what-if scenarios that I'd barely noticed the world around me. I'd been doing the bare minimum. Smiling when smiles were expected. Crying when crying seemed appropriate. A passable baby performance—five out of ten, maybe six on a good day. Serviceable, but uninspired.

But now? Now I could actually engage. Really lean into the role. Turns out, people—yes, even people whose affection you're basically guaranteed because you're their baby—notice when you start putting effort into your performance. All those extra smiles and coos and soft touches weren't exactly subtle. My new family seemed delighted with my sudden development. Or maybe they were delighted with themselves for producing such a cute, clever child. It was hard to tell with them sometimes.

Not that I'd suddenly become some kind of baby prodigy. My new «Acting Mastery» Skill was fresh—Rank 1, barely hatched. It wasn't so much mastery as it was… minor encouragement. Little nudges here and there. It hadn't made me an expert performer overnight, but it helped me find a rhythm. A slightly more coordinated smile here, a better-timed giggle there. Nothing major. Nothing overt. Just enough to smooth out the rough edges and ensure my already baby-sized charm was a little more polished. It wasn't perfect, but it worked.

Or at least, it worked well enough. Babies have the easiest job in the world when it comes to earning affection. The bar's so low it might as well be underground. Smile at the right time, and everyone's convinced you're a genius. Let out a happy squeal when someone walks into the room, and they'll swear you're the most delightful thing on the planet. All «Acting Mastery» did was keep me from tripping over my own metaphorical feet. And in that house, where everyone seemed to practically bathe in pride and expectation, that little edge went a long way.

Was it ethical? Let's not pretend that's a real question. If you suddenly had the ability to turn every interaction into a win, you'd use it too. Don't even try to argue otherwise.

So there I was, a slightly polished, slightly more charming version of myself, coasting on the goodwill of a family that seemed determined to find brilliance in every gurgle I made. It wasn't much, but it was a start. For once, I wasn't drowning in indecision or fear of failure.

Not bad for a guy who, just a fortnight or so ago, couldn't decide where to put his first Skill Points.

For a while, I was content. And why wouldn't I have been? I was thriving—at least by baby standards—in a household that seemed to see me as the most precious thing in the world. It was a good life, a comfortable one, and for the first time in that strange new existence, I didn't feel like I was scrambling just to keep up. I had time. I had space.

And I had the distinct privilege of being born as the youngest son of Walburga and Orion Black.

Yes, those Blacks. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, with all the capital letters, grandiose titles, and suffocating self-importance you'd expect from a family that took their family tree so seriously it was stitched into a massive, wall-dominating tapestry.

Fun fact: realising I'd been reborn into that illustrious bloodline was how I figured out exactly what kind of world I was in. And let me tell you, finding out you've landed in a world of wands, broomsticks, and magical creatures does wonders for your perspective. Suddenly, a lot of things started making sense—like my name, for example. Antares. A star, of course. The kind of name that fits snugly into the Blacks' pretentious cosmic naming convention. Who came up with my name? I didn't know for sure, but I'd have put money on Walburga.

My new mother seemed like the type.

But I digress.

Living within the Black family, even as an infant, was exactly what you'd expect if you've ever seen one of those old, expensive portraits of aristocratic families, the ones where the subjects glare down at you from the walls of a lavish manor. There was that same unspoken expectation, that weight of history sitting on every word, every gesture. If you're thinking it was like stepping into a historical drama, complete with brooding figures and icy glares, you'd be right.

The Black family had an atmosphere—one that hung in the air like smoke, thick with tradition and the unspoken understanding that every movement of yours would be scrutinised, dissected, and possibly used as an excuse for yet another lecture on blood purity.

You know, just the usual.

Thankfully, my age shielded me from most of the family's demands. At least for the time being. No one expected anything from me beyond the simple duties of a baby: eat, sleep, cry when the mood struck, void my bladder and bowels at the appropriate times. The essentials, really.

But despite all that, it wasn't all cold and stiff. Not entirely. There was warmth too. Plenty of it, in fact, especially considering how many children were running around. My brothers: Sirius, of course, the eldest—the golden boy, the heir—and then Regulus, the now-middle child. Around three and one, respectively. Both were already blessed with that aristocratic handsomeness that would, in due time, make them impossible to ignore in any room. Honestly? It gave me a tiny sliver of hope, some comfort, that maybe—just maybe—I had a shot at being attractive too. But we'll get back to that later.

Then there were my cousins—Andromeda, nine, and Narcissa, seven.

Funny thing about them, they were always there. I had always imagined them as the type of cousins who would make their rounds: visit on weekends, turn up for the odd birthday or holiday, and then vanish back into whatever lives they had waiting for them. You know, the way relatives do—seen, appreciated, and then gone. But Andromeda and Narcissa? They just stayed. Always. Like they'd made themselves at home, not just in the house but in the air itself, as though leaving wasn't even an option worth considering.

No one said a word about it. No one even acted like it was strange. It wasn't like they were intruding, per se—they were just... there. Fixed into 12 Grimmauld Place much like the ornate wallpaper or the heavy velvet curtains, draped not so much to block the sunlight as to remind you that sunlight wasn't particularly welcome. The one glaring absence in the otherwise complete set was Bellatrix, of course, but given her age, she was most likely off at Hogwarts, only gracing us with her presence when the universe deigned to allow it.

At first, I didn't think much of it. They had their own homes, didn't they? Families to return to? It only made sense. But the longer I watched them, the harder it was to believe that any of that existed. The more that easy assumption began to unravel. The idea of them having somewhere else to go started to feel oddly flimsy; a threadbare excuse that couldn't quite hold up under scrutiny. They weren't just visiting; they lived here, as much as anyone did. And the thought nagged at me—why?

Then, one day, I met their parents. Or rather, I noticed them—when they poked their heads above my bassinet, all polite smiles and no real interest.

Druella and Cygnus—my aunt and uncle—were the kind of people who seemed to have stumbled into parenthood by accident. Like two kids who had wandered off the playground and somehow ended up in the adult world, only to discover that grown-ups had real responsibilities, real consequences, and real things to do. They weren't so young as to make you do a double take, just in their twenties—old enough to be parents—but looking like they never figured out what the hell that actually meant. At first glance, they just looked like a couple playing at being adults, awkwardly draped in the costume of parenthood, like two children who'd borrowed their parents' clothes. But then you remembered the ages of their daughters, and suddenly you couldn't meet their eyes.

I had to do the math a couple of times, but sure enough, when I scratched at the edges of my memory, I remembered something no one else seemed to mention: they'd had Bellatrix when they were barely thirteen. Thirteen! I did the math again, but it still made no sense. Seventeen when Narcissa came along. Seventeen—just barely able to hold their own lives together, let alone raise children. And yet, there they were, expected to carry the weight of a family name, to live up to an impossible legacy—a legacy they couldn't have possibly understood, let alone uphold. The burden of something that wasn't theirs to carry in the first place.

Uncle Cygnus had that look in his eyes—the kind of sharp, predatory glint that suggested he was always, always a step ahead of everyone. But the longer you looked at him, the more you realised it was just a trick of the light, a mask he wore to make you believe he was. You didn't need to be a genius to figure it out; you just had to pay attention.

And Aunt Druella?

Well, she clung to her husband like a shadow, like an afterthought, like she wasn't even sure why she was there, except to just be there.

Truly, it was as if they had been handed a pair of adult shoes, too big for them, and they just shuffled around in them, hoping no one would notice they didn't quite fit. They were playing the part of parents, but they had no idea what it meant. No idea how to play it right.

It was the kind of realisation that made your stomach twist, the kind of thing you don't want to understand. And yet, once you did, it became all too clear why their daughters would prefer to stay at Grimmauld Place. Why they'd rather become part of the furniture than live with parents who couldn't—or wouldn't—give a damn about raising them.

My heart went out to the girls, honestly. I didn't envy them one bit.

There wasn't much I could do to help. Scratch that—there wasn't anything I could do, really, except offer a silent vote of support and hope they caught the vibe. As a baby, if I wanted to keep up the act, my options were limited. All I had in my arsenal were extra smiles, some well-timed cooing, and the kind of wide-eyed wonder that made babies universally endearing. I leaned into it hard, and judging by how often the girls drifted into my nursery, I'd say it worked.

Andromeda and Narcissa seemed to like having me around. Or, if they didn't, they at least liked being near me, which was good enough for me. It wasn't unusual to find one of them perched nearby, reading aloud while I laid flat on my back in the bassinet, staring up at the ceiling with what I hoped passed for quiet fascination. In reality, I was busy working on my «Occlumency» Skill. Not that they could tell. To them, I probably just looked like a baby zoning out, which, technically, I was.

Sometimes, they'd sit with me without saying a word, watching as I gurgled or made the sort of baby noises people seem to find endearing for some inexplicable reason. Other times, we just shared the silence. It was nice, really. Their presence was soothing in a way I hadn't expected. Comforting, even. I wanted to tell them as much, but you try explaining existential gratitude with nothing more than giggles and drool. All I could do was flash them what I hoped came across as 'accidental' smiles, giggle at all the right moments, and radiate as much serene contentment as a baby possibly could.

Apparently, it worked. Not only did they keep coming back, but «Acting Mastery» soaked up Experience like a sponge. It was more than the usual trickle I got from maintaining the daily ruse of "adorable, clueless infant." It was practically a flood. And let me tell you, the satisfaction of watching that little progress bar inch forward was almost as good as the company itself. Almost.

The two sisters probably spent more time with me than my brothers did—not that I blamed Sirius or Regulus. They were little kids themselves, after all. It's hard to compete with the grand adventures Sirius was likely conjuring up or the slowly expanding thoughts Regulus was quietly exploring in his toddler mind. And to be fair, they weren't neglectful or even disinterested with me. They interacted and played with me when they could, as much as two tiny children could with a sibling whose most remarkable achievement, in their eyes, was blinking enthusiastically.

But then, there were times—rare moments—when we were all just there. All of the children. Together. And in those precious moments, I think I grew to care for them more than I ever expected. More than I ever planned on caring.

It was one particular late afternoon, I think, that really sealed it—the moment when my affection for these people, who had once been little more than fictional characters on a page, or a screen, turned into something more real. Tangible. The memory is still vivid, almost disturbingly so, lodged in my mind like a well-worn photograph I can't shake off. It's the kind of memory that feels stitched together with a few careful, deliberate threads—everything lined up just so. It wasn't anything special, at least not in any grand sense, but it felt important. The sort of moment that hangs around long after it's passed, even though nothing truly changed.

We were in the drawing room, a place so riddled with pomp and circumstance that it wouldn't have surprised me if the furniture had suddenly risen up, cleared its throat, and started reciting the Black family history from the very beginning—complete with footnotes and an appendix. The room had everything; the sort of everything that made you wonder if it was supposed to impress you or just make you feel insignificant for daring to occupy the same space.

Large windows—luxuriously large—stared out at a street waiting for the world to apologise for existing outside. The view? The road in front of the house. A spectacle, in its own way, one that could swallow you whole if you sat there long enough, watching whatever "filthy Muggles" my parents deemed fit to be seen. The curtains, thick and heavy enough to strangle light itself, were pulled back just enough to let the last fingers of weak sunlight slink in and caress the room with the softest touch.

Beneath us was a floor of dark wood, too polished to walk on without feeling a little self-conscious about it. You could tell it was slick, the way you could tell a person had a bad habit of showing off without even trying. Mostly, though, it was covered by an enormous, intricate rug. Above, a chandelier hung—a gleaming crystal star, both accidental and deliberate, casting down its opulent light with a need to be admired.

Then there was the fireplace; a massive thing, roaring and proud, flanked by glass-fronted cabinets full of who-knows-what. Relics. Trophies. Magical treasures that looked like they belonged to some family's collection of "don't-touch-unless-you-have-to-know-where-this-came-from."

Priceless, surely, but what did that word even mean in a place like this?

But the true centrepiece—the undeniable star of the room—was the tapestry.

Oh, the tapestry. That infamous monstrosity of family pride. A sprawling, wall-devouring thing with a life of its own. Each Black before me was stitched into its fabric, their names woven into eternity like some absurdly ambitious attempt to immortalise the bloodline.

It wasn't just a decoration. It was a declaration—loud enough to slap you in the face. It reminded you, constantly, that the Black family didn't simply exist in Britain's magical history. No, it loomed over it, casting a shadow across centuries of magic, blood, and glory. By standing beneath it, you were suddenly under the weight of something that had already decided who you were and where you belonged—whether you liked it or not.

And there I was, wrapped up like a sausage in cloth, tucked into Andromeda's arms—finally, they let her hold me. The others—Narcissa, Sirius, Regulus—were all sprawled out on the rug, each claiming their own patch of floor, sitting or laying in whatever position suited them best. All of us huddled together, at least in the broadest sense of the word, as my grandfather, Arcturus, began reading us a story.

It was about a wizard and a dragon. I didn't catch much—frankly, I wasn't interested. Not with the literal, moving dragons flitting around the room. All it took was one careless flick of my grandfather's wand, and the nearby cushions turned into dragons, flying excitedly through the air like they had nothing better to do. I was transfixed, or maybe just hypnotised.

How could I not be?

The small dragons were ridiculous. Spectacular, yes, but also ridiculous. They swooped and spiralled with the grace of dancers who'd never bothered to practice, roaring as though they'd spent their formative years impersonating boiling kettles. Sirius, sprawled on the rug, laughed so hard I thought he might injure himself. Regulus smiled like he'd never had a reason not to. Andromeda held me close, warm and steady, while Narcissa managed to look regal even as she giggled, her hair catching the firelight like it had been styled with pure sunlight and an entire team of professionals.

It was absurd. Perfectly, wonderfully absurd.

And yet, it was magic. Real magic. The kind that you couldn't fake with mundane tricks or excuses. It filled the room, alive in every crackle of fire and every glint of light, wrapping itself around the dragons as they breathed their tiny, harmless plumes of flame. For a moment—just a moment—I forgot everything else.

Then, of course, I remembered.

I remembered the tapestry on the wall, the one that loomed over everything like a self-righteous family ghost, judging us for daring to breathe in its presence. I remembered the stories I'd read, the tragedies I'd seen unfold on a screen. I remembered exactly where this family was headed: into war, into betrayal, into ruin.

Sirius, still laughing so hard he could barely breathe, would one day rot in this very house, haunted by memories he'd never escape until the day he died at the hands of his own family. Regulus, so bright and young now, wouldn't even live to see what his sacrifice might achieve. Andromeda and Narcissa—sisters divided by blood purity and ideology, neither of them walking away unscathed.

It was all there, a bad punchline whose end I already knew.

I looked back at the dragons. They didn't care about wars or bloodlines or destinies. They flew as if the world didn't matter, as if gravity were a polite suggestion they'd chosen to ignore.

I wanted that for them.

Maybe for all of the Blacks.

But was that really me? The fan, clinging to characters I'd loved from a distance, desperate to rewrite their fates? Or was it something deeper, something messier?

A tug in my chest whispered, they're your family now.

They weren't really my family though, were they? Not yet, at least. I hadn't earned the right to call them that. I hadn't grown up in this house, under this tapestry, choking on these expectations. I was an outsider with insider information, a stranger dropped into their lives with the audacity to care about people who had no idea who I really was.

And yet, I couldn't stop the thought from burrowing in.

Sirius. Regulus. Andromeda. Narcissa.

They deserved better. Better than that war, better than a Dark Lord proclaiming glory in exchange for support, better than the futures waiting to crush them.

It was a stupid, impossible idea. Nevertheless, I knew I had the capability to do it. With the presence of the System, power and potential was at my literal fingertips.

The transfigured dragons spiralled overhead, looping and diving again with the reckless confidence of creatures that didn't know failure. Maybe I could learn something from them.

Maybe I already had.

All I had to do was choose.