The grand hall of the Black Mansion stood still and cold, as if time had paused for a breath. Thomas descended the staircase, dressed in a black tailored cloak Kreacher had prepared, the Black family sigil etched subtly into the collar. His steps were precise, deliberate. Today was no ordinary day.
Kreacher waited by the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, holding a crimson velvet pouch. Alaric stood nearby, quiet and alert, his eyes scanning Thomas with the admiration of a soldier watching his commander prepare for war.
"Gringotts?" Thomas asked simply.
Kreacher gave a solemn nod. "The goblins await, young master."
A moment later, they apparated directly outside the marble entrance of Gringotts. Wizards and witches bustled by, pausing briefly to glance at the strange sight: a young boy flanked by a regal, tuxedo-clad house-elf walking with the poise of pureblood nobility. The whispers began.
A Black. A living Black.
The marble doors opened with a groan, and the trio stepped inside. The goblin at the front desk blinked up at them.
"We seek audience for an inheritance claim," Thomas said, voice firm. "Black and Gaunt bloodlines."
That was enough.
Minutes later, they were escorted into a private chamber where a ritual basin had been set up. The account manager—Gnorluk, lean and silver-toothed—entered with a stack of aged parchment and a calculating glint in his eye.
"You understand, heir, that bloodlines this old require verification."
"I wouldn't be here otherwise."
Gnorluk gestured. "If you please."
Thomas rolled up his sleeve. Kreacher stepped forward, handed him a silver dagger from the pouch. Thomas didn't hesitate. He sliced across his palm and let the blood fall into the basin.
The moment his blood touched the runes etched into the basin's rim, golden light surged outward. Symbols emerged mid-air, dancing and spinning until two emblems solidified above the basin: the crest of the House of Black, and the coiled serpent of the House of Gaunt.
Gnorluk's eyebrows rose ever so slightly.
"Recognition confirmed. Heir of two lines. Not current Lord due to age—but partial access granted."
From a side drawer, Gnorluk retrieved two boxes. One—obsidian, trimmed in starlight silver—hovered toward Thomas. It opened slowly, as if recognizing him.
Inside rested a black ring with the Black sigil, wrapped in shadows that pulsed gently.
"The Black signet ring," Gnorluk said. "As for the Gaunt ring…"
He hesitated.
"It was marked as lost. Last known in the possession of one Albus Dumbledore. It has not returned to the vault. You retain access as heir, however."
Thomas's gaze flicked to Kreacher, then back to the goblin. "Very well."
They descended into the vaults next. The cart ride rattled and screamed through the tunnels until they stopped before two doors.
One bore the crest of the Blacks—proud, commanding. The other was stone, ancient, engraved with a coiled serpent whose eyes gleamed emerald green. Parseltongue marks wove along the edge, a silent challenge.
Thomas stared at them both, the weight of his lineage pressing against his chest.
In the Black vault, gold shone in towers—but what drew him most was the old tomes, the enchanted armors, the blades sealed in protective cases. This was a war room disguised as a vault.
In the Gaunt vault, darkness lingered, but so did power. Amid strange relics, Thomas found a single object encased in black iron glass: a Grimoire, bound in snakeskin, the writing on its cover slithering in Parselmagic.
His heart beat faster.
Kreacher stepped forward. "This belonged to the Gaunts. They recorded knowledge not meant for common wizards."
Thomas touched the glass. The Grimoire hissed, and its runes shimmered.
He heard a whisper.
Not darkness. Not light. Purpose.
He blinked. A presence… it had come from the book? Or—
"Did you hear that?" Thomas asked.
Alaric looked around. "Hear what?"
"Nothing," Thomas muttered. But he knew what it was. He was a Parselmouth.
After they left the vaults, Thomas made a personal withdrawal—ten thousand Galleons—and slipped them into a bottomless pouch.
The next stop was Eeylops Owl Emporium.
He wasn't particularly drawn to animals—but something inside whispered that now was the time. The moment he entered, his gaze was pulled toward the farthest perch in the back. A black bird, sleek and powerful, more hawk than owl, with crimson eyes and a watchful demeanor.
"Female," said the shopkeeper. "Rare breed. Mix of owl and dark forest hawk. Bit aggressive. Doesn't bond easily."
Thomas met her eyes. She tilted her head, unblinking.
He bought her without another word.
"Name?" asked Alaric as they stepped out.
"Skylar."
She let out a sharp, low cry, almost a warning. Thomas smirked.
As they moved through the alley, a whisper pulled at his mind. Not a sound exactly—but something familiar. He paused. Turned.
Inside a corner terrarium of a magical creature shop, a serpent coiled. Scales black with streaks of silver. Eyes like molten onyx.
She stared at him.
"You are one who speaks."
Thomas blinked. The voice was in his head. Parseltongue.
He stepped forward slowly. "How do you know that?"
"Magic serpents feel the tongue when it's near. It's been long since one spoke to me."
She wasn't some ancient force, no riddles or riddled prophecies—just… there.
Calm. Watching.
"I'll take her too," Thomas told the shop owner.
Alaric raised an eyebrow. "You're building an army?"
Thomas gave a dry chuckle. "Companions."
He named her Nox.
Back outside, Skylar flapped once and glared at the snake.
Nox slithered up Thomas's shoulder and hissed lightly in amusement.
They'd get along fine.
The sun dipped behind clouds as they turned off the main street into Knockturn Alley.
Eyes followed them—especially Kreacher, still in his full Black formal attire. Whispers rippled behind them as they walked.
They stepped into Borgin & Burkes.
Dark. Dusty. Heavy with cursed objects.
Borgin himself emerged, mustached and hunched. "Can I… assist you?"
"I'm looking for something specific," Thomas said. "The vanishing cabinet."
Borgin's eyes sharpened. "Rare. Damaged. Valuable."
Thomas folded his arms. "Three thousand Galleons."
Borgin snorted. "Five. And that's generous, considering it—"
"I said three," Thomas repeated.
Borgin's eyes narrowed. "Boy, I've dealt with—"
He didn't finish.
Thomas stepped forward. Just one step—but something shifted. The room felt colder. The shadows clung tighter. The air pressed down.
Thomas's presence expanded, silently, like a blade unsheathed in a quiet room.
Borgin stumbled back, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow.
Kreacher didn't move. Only looked on, vaguely pleased.
"Three thousand," Borgin croaked. "Fine. It's yours."
Thomas paid, then turned to Kreacher. "Have it delivered to the mansion."
As they stepped out, Alaric whispered, "What was that? That feeling?"
Thomas smirked. "Just a reminder."