Cool air brushed Regulus’s skin, a stark contrast to the burning agony that had previously consumed him. He lay on a plush cot within a secluded wing of Peverell's castle, healing magic humming around him. Healer elves, small and serious, flitted about, murmuring incantations and pressing salves to his ravaged arm. Raven watched from a comfortable armchair, a book in her hands, but her eyes often flickered to him, assessing his progress. His recovery was slow, grueling. The dark magic had eaten deep, leaving an ugly scar even after the first day. By the end of day one, the tremors had lessened. Day two saw him sitting up, weak but lucid. Day three, the elves declared him mostly healed, though his magic felt like a bruised limb. “Twenty-five days remain,” Raven stated, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of residual magic. She closed the book with a soft thump, placing it on a nearby table. “We need to accelerate.” Regulus nodded, pushing himself to stand. A dull ache persisted, a reminder of his folly. “What’s next?” “Sirius. And Snape,” Raven replied, her gaze sharp. “I need to know if their minds are truly their own. The Dark Lord’s and Dumbledore’s influence runs deeper than simple loyalty.” He hesitated. Sirius. His brother. The thought twisted his gut. “How will we know?” “Gringotts has ways,” she assured him. “Ancient magics designed to detect compulsion, loyalty potions, even subtle charms on the psyche. Arrange a meeting. Tell them it’s urgent Black family business. We’ll use a neutral Gringotts chamber. No wands allowed.” Regulus swallowed. This was a dangerous gamble. His family’s pride, his brother’s volatile temper. “And the rest of the family?” “Every Black,” Raven affirmed. “Married, disowned, current. Send out the summons through Gringotts. They’ll ensure it reaches even those who’ve tried to cut ties. This isn’t just about Voldemort. This is about the Black family’s very essence.” --- Days blurred into a focused whirlwind of activity. Regulus, though still recovering, moved with a newfound purpose. He drafted messages under Raven’s careful guidance, utilizing Gringotts’ secure communication network. The goblin couriers were swift, efficient, ensuring no owl could be intercepted, no message tampered with. Sirius’s reply was terse, suspicious. He agreed to the meeting, but only after much prodding from Regulus, and a guarantee of absolute neutrality from Gringotts. Snape’s was colder, almost dismissive, but he too accepted, likely intrigued by the involvement of the Peverell heiress. Summoning the entire Black family proved a monumental task. Complaints flooded in. Outrage. Confusion. Andromeda Tonks, Bellatrix Lestrange, Narcissa Malfoy, Orion and Walburga Black – even distant cousins long forgotten. Raven insisted on everyone. The goblins, seeing the Peverell seal on the requests, handled it with unwavering resolve. Blood calls, they said, and blood magic was potent. Finally, the day of the Black family convocation arrived. Raven stood within a cavernous Gringotts meeting chamber, its walls carved with ancient runic wards. A long, polished obsidian table dominated the center, surrounded by chairs. The air crackled with a mix of anticipation and hostility. One by one, they arrived, escorted by stern-faced goblins. Sirius strode in first, his face a mask of wary defiance, his eyes sweeping the room until they landed on Regulus. A flicker of something — surprise, perhaps relief — crossed his features before settling back into a grim set. He stopped short at the sight of Raven, a stranger commanding a meeting of his family. Snape entered next, his black robes billowing, his expression a familiar sneer. His eyes narrowed at Raven, a silent question in their depths. He seemed to take in the gravity of the situation, the lack of wands, the heavy Gringotts presence. Other Blacks followed. Bellatrix, her insane laugh echoing slightly before a goblin glare silenced her. Narcissa, elegant and haughty, her hand resting protectively on Draco’s shoulder. Andromeda, looking bewildered but resolute. Old, wizened Orion and Walburga, their faces etched with decades of pure-blood prejudice, their eyes burning with aristocratic disdain for the unknown woman at the head of the table. “Welcome,” Raven said, her voice clear and calm, cutting through the murmuring. “I am Raven Peverell. And this meeting concerns the very survival of your ancient house.” Walburga scoffed, her lip curling. “And who are you, girl, to summon the House of Black? A mere Peverell. Our family has stood for millennia.” “And for millennia, your family has served a purpose you’ve been forced to abandon,” Raven countered, her gaze unwavering. “Before we delve into history, we must address the present. Griphook, if you please.” The lead goblin, Griphook, stepped forward, a small, intricate device of silver and obsidian in his clawed hand. “Each member of the House of Black, by blood and by marriage, will submit to a truth and will scan. This is non-negotiable. It detects all forms of magical compulsion, loyalty oaths, and mind-altering enchantments. Failure to comply will be seen as an admission of guilt and will result in expulsion from this chamber.” Outrage erupted. Sirius surged forward, his hand instinctively going for a wand that wasn’t there. “You can’t! This is an invasion!” “Sit down, Sirius,” Regulus said, his voice firm, surprising his brother. “It is necessary.” Bellatrix shrieked, her eyes wild. “The Dark Lord protects us! No goblin magic can touch his marks!” “Then you have nothing to fear, Madam Lestrange,” Raven said smoothly. “Unless, of course, you do.” One by one, reluctantly, the Blacks submitted. Griphook moved around the table, the device glowing faintly as it passed over each person. Most showed subtle signs of influence. Drowsy spells, minor compulsions to ignore specific facts, or simple obedience charms. But for some, the device pulsed a vibrant, angry red. Bellatrix Lestrange’s scan flared scarlet, a violent, almost screaming red. Narcissa Malfoy’s showed a deep, pulsating orange – strong loyalty compulsions to her husband and the Dark Lord. Even Walburga Black’s registered a sickly green, indicating long-standing obedience charms related to pure-blood dogma. Sirius’s was clean, save for a faint blue indicating strong emotional manipulation, but no direct compulsion. Snape’s, surprisingly, was mostly clear, a very light grey – indicating self-imposed biases rather than external control. “As expected,” Raven murmured. “Many of you have not been acting entirely of your own free will for some time.” Her eyes scanned the stunned faces. “Your ancestors would weep.” “What… what are you talking about?” Andromeda asked, her voice trembling slightly. Her scan had been a pale yellow – minor societal pressures, nothing insidious. “The House of Black holds a sacred ancient oath,” Raven began, her voice dropping, demanding attention. “An oath to serve as the ‘Eyes and Ears of the Ancient Kingdom.’ You were the sworn spies, the information gatherers, the administrators of the shadows, ensuring the balance of power, specifically on what was known as the ‘Black side’ of the royal court.” She paused, letting the revelation sink in. The pure-blood dogma they clung to was a distorted echo of their true purpose. “Your family was never meant for idle luxury or self-serving power. You were guardians, observers, facilitators. Your magic, your heritage, was designed for this. You were meant to protect, to foresee threats, to root out corruption from within.” Orion Black, usually so stoic, looked utterly flummoxed. “This is… preposterous. Our house has always been about power, about pure blood!” “A perversion of your true calling,” Raven corrected. “The Dark Lord exploited this noble purpose, twisting your innate talents for observation and strategic thinking into instruments of his own tyranny. He didn’t create your ambition; he merely redirected it, weaponized it, and then bound you to his will so you couldn’t deviate.” She looked directly at Regulus. “You were meant to be the master strategists, the ones who saw all sides, who understood the subtle currents of power. Not to be blindly loyal, but to be fiercely independent, using your cunning for the greater good of magic itself, as defined by ancient covenants, not by the whims of a Dark Lord or a manipulative Headmaster.” “So, what now?” Sirius asked, his earlier anger replaced by a deep, thoughtful frown. “We’re to become… spies again?” “You are to reclaim your ancient oaths,” Raven clarified. “To be the true House of Black. To be free thinkers, capable of independent judgment, using your skills to protect the magical world, not just a bloodline or a misguided ideology. Gringotts will help you purge the remaining compulsions. You will be given a choice: reclaim your freedom and your heritage, or remain shackled.” She then turned to Griphook. “Now, Griphook, it’s my turn. The Peverell family archives. Specifically, any ancient oaths or duties recorded. I need to know the true calling of my house.” The goblin nodded, leading Raven to a smaller, more private vault deep within the bank. The air grew colder, heavier with untold history. Scrolls, runes, and ancient parchments filled alcoves carved into the rock. Griphook produced a thick, leather-bound tome, its pages brittle with age. Raven’s fingers traced the elegant script. The Peverell line, far from being mere masters of Death’s Hallows, were sworn protectors. Her heart pounded as she read. Her family was tied to a far older, grander destiny than she had ever imagined. The Peverells, it stated, were the guardians of the Ancient Royal Line of Arthur. Their magic was inextricably linked to this duty, dormant until the last of Arthur’s bloodline was in grave danger. It was a covenant, a sacred bond that resonated deep within her core, stirring a dormant power she hadn't known she possessed. Death’s mission. Saving the Potters. It wasn’t just about the timeline anymore. It was about an ancient duty, an ancestral awakening. Her Peverell magic, the very essence of her being, was stirring, demanding action. She had to find them. She had to protect them. The Potters were one thing, but Arthur’s line… that was a whole different magnitude of responsibility. And the last of Arthur’s line was in danger. Her magic thrummed, a silent alarm, a deep, insistent call that demanded her immediate attention. It was a name she knew, a face she recognized, a child whose fate was intertwined with the very fabric of the wizarding world. This new revelation changed everything. She looked at Griphook, her mind reeling, a single thought crystallizing into an undeniable truth. Harry Potter was not just the Boy-Who-Lived. He was the last heir of Arthur Pendragon, and the Peverell oath was now active, demanding her immediate, absolute intervention. But how could she protect a child who was meant to die, and who would soon become the target of two warring factions, one of which was now unknowingly her own family, the Blacks, while the other was the manipulative wizard she was trying to undermine? The threads of destiny had just become impossibly tangled. She had to act, and fast, before a prophecy, a dark lord, and an old man’s machinations stole the last vestige of ancient royalty, along with her own Peverell magic, from the world. This new reality was a monumental, terrifying shift, a silent scream of magic reverberating through her very soul. She was not just saving Harry Potter; she was saving a king. And her oath was binding her to a path far more perilous than she had ever envisioned, a path that would pit her directly against forces far older and more insidious than Voldemort himself. The true game had just begun, and the stakes were higher than the continued existence of the Peverell line. She had to secure this child, but first, she needed to know if he was truly…

Chapter 6: Preparations