Path to Power

After leaving Grimmauld Place the previous day, Damian turned to Kreacher. "Apparate me back to the orphanage, Kreacher," he said, giving him a direct look.

Without a word, Kreacher nodded, and with a crack, they vanished and reappeared in front of the orphanage gates. The building looked the same as always—quiet, a little run-down, but familiar. He quickly packed his few belongings, stuffing everything into the small bag he'd brought. He knew this would be his last night there.

The next morning, he prepared himself for an emotional farewell with Miss Jensen, the orphanage matron. As he entered her office, she looked up, her warm eyes softening.

"Damian," she said, her voice filled with affection. "I heard you're leaving us."

He nodded, trying to manage his emotions. "Yes, Miss Jensen. My father left me a house... in London," he said, handing her a letter Kreacher had carefully prepared, complete with a Confundus Charm to ensure there were no complications.

She blinked at the letter, her brow furrowing as she read it. The magic of the charm did its work quickly, though. She looked back up at him and smiled. "I understand. You've been through so much, Damian. I hope this will be a fresh start for you." Her voice cracked slightly. "Take care of yourself, my boy."

He nodded, feeling a lump in his throat. "Thank you, Miss Jensen, for everything."

With that, he left the orphanage, hailing a taxi to take him to 12 Grimmauld Place. It was strange to leave the place he had called home for so long, but as the taxi pulled up in front of the concealed house, he felt a sense of purpose. This was where he belonged now.

Once inside, Kreacher appeared at his side. "Take my bags to the cleanest room, and bring me some tea," he instructed, heading into the main hallway.

As he sipped the tea, he couldn't help but reflect. This house had been abandoned and neglected for years, but it was still filled with power—his power now. The warmth of the tea calms his nerves as he stared thoughtfully at the flickering fire in the hearth. Soon enough, this place would be a proper home.

Finishing the tea, he set the cup down. "Kreacher," he called. The house-elf appeared almost immediately. "Take me to the library."

The library, vast and shadowy, was lined with shelves full of ancient, dusty tomes. He began searching for the books he needed—mind magic, Occlumency, anything on the protection of the mind. His fingers ran over the spines, old leather worn with age. There was knowledge here—dark, forbidden knowledge.

As he examined one of the older tomes, he suddenly heard a voice behind him. "So, the House of Black has not fallen yet."

He turned quickly to see an aristocratic portrait on the wall. The figure in the painting was unmistakably Arcturus Black, his cold eyes watching him with disdain.

"You," he said with a sneer, "you seem weak. Worthless. Is this what the Black legacy has come to?"

Damian met his gaze evenly, refusing to back down. "I don't need a portrait to judge my worth."

A silence fell between them, thick with tension. Then, Arcturus's expression shifted slightly, a hint of respect creeping into his eyes.

"Ah," he said, his tone changing. "A Black who can stand his ground. Perhaps there's hope for you after all."

Damian nodded, taking a step closer to the portrait. "You might think I'm weak because I haven't lived the life others in this family have, but I see more clearly than most. The wizarding world has grown lazy—content in their own overconfidence. The entire system is stagnant."

Arcturus studied him for a moment before giving a short, sharp laugh. "You're not wrong. Wizards have allowed themselves to grow complacent, thinking their bloodlines are enough to carry them through. It's pathetic."

Damian raised an eyebrow, a small smile forming on his lips. "And yet, they cling to the old ways, believing they're untouchable. It's almost amusing how they hold onto traditions that keep them rooted in the past."

Arcturus chuckled darkly. "The irony is lost on most of them, boy. But not on us. The Blacks have always been forward thinkers, even if others couldn't see it."

They shared a brief moment of understanding, an odd connection between the past and present. Despite being nothing more than a portrait, Arcturus was sharp—intelligent, even if hardened by his time. And for the first time, Damian felt like he wasn't entirely alone in his thoughts.

But as the conversation drew to a close, he stood, determined. "I have no intention of letting this house fall further into decay. I will bring the Black name back to its rightful place."

Arcturus nodded approvingly. "We shall see if you're up to the task."

Damian turned away, continuing his search through the bookshelves. The Black legacy might have faltered, but he would not let it fall. This was only the beginning.