As consciousness slowly returned, the first thing I heard was a sharp, furious female voice.
"So, you're telling me my son has had a child? How old is he? Who is his mother? What is his name?" The words came out rapid and clipped, laced with anger.
Another voice, strange and trembling, answered nervously. "Master Regulus said he was only one. He did not mention the mother, nor if the child had a name. He also instructed that no one be told about the baby unless he failed to return—not even Mistress Black. Kreacher only did as he was ordered."
Fear laced the second voice. I couldn't tell where I was so I kept my eyes shut, listening intently. Moving would only draw their attention to me, and for now, it was better to remain unnoticed.
The woman's voice softened, but a sharp edge lingered. "Well, it matters not. My son is already dead. But at least he produced a true heir. Finally, we can strip that bastard of the title as the heir to the Black family."
"Yes, Mistress," the strange voice replied eagerly, sounding strangely happy. "This is the true heir."
"Good. We'll need to make an official announcement. The Black family are far from falling. Our line will only grow stronger with this new heir, this should deter others from challenging us—for now at least."
The conversation continued, but I could no longer ignore the faint itch of curiosity. Against my better judgment, I opened my eyes.
The first thing I noticed was the softness of the blanket wrapped around me. It was black, embroidered with intricate silver patterns, clearly of exceptional quality. The room was dimly lit, but I could make out an elderly woman holding me. She had sharp, aristocratic features: black hair streaked with gray meticulously styled, cold blue eyes, and a stern expression. She wore an elegant gown, exuding wealth and status.
She must have been stunning in her youth, but her presence now was more intimidating than beautiful.
I glanced down at my hand—and froze.
It was tiny.
Huh. Interesting. It seems I've become a baby.
My mind raced as I processed the implications. Was I the child they were discussing? If so, that meant I was barely a year old. And the Black family. Why does that name sound so familiar? It's right there, on the edge of my memory. Something about it feels important, dangerous even. But more importantly... What world was I in and how much danger was I in?
Frustration bubbled within me, but I shoved it down. There was no point in panicking now. One thing was certain: they planned to make me the heir.
Heir to what, though?
Politics, power, and intrigue—I knew little about navigating such things. But if these people were as dangerous as they sounded, I would have no choice but to learn.
For now, I'll stay quiet, observe, and gather information.
I didn't know what this world had in store for me, but one thing was clear. Survival was my top priority.
The woman seemed to notice my slight movement. Her gaze shifted downward, and she smiled warmly at me.
"Hmm, it seems I must give you a name," she mused, her voice soft but certain. "I'll name you Aryan—meaning noble, illustrious, honorable, and educated."
The name rolled off her tongue with purpose, and, strangely, it resonated with me. Aryan. It wasn't bad—dignified, even. Much better than being stuck with something like Fredrick.
"Well, little Aryan," she continued, "we'll need to get you some proper baby supplies. Kreacher, prepare the carriage for travel," she commanded, her tone suddenly brisk.
"Yes, Mistress," came a peculiar voice. It was raspy and low, belonging to someone—or something—I couldn't see. I assumed it was Kreacher, whoever or whatever that was.
My grandmother—yes, I was beginning to accept that she must be my grandmother, given her earlier mention of being my father's mother—held me firmly but gently. She had said my father was gone, but at least I still had family, even if I didn't fully understand the circumstances.
There was a soft pop, and my grandmother began to move. The manor around us seemed vast, though I could only catch glimpses of it as I was cradled tightly against her chest. I couldn't see much beyond her, but the rhythmic sway of her steps and the distant echoes of her heels on the stone floor told me this place was immense.
After what felt like several minutes of walking, I heard the creak of a door opening. We entered a room, and I was carefully laid down on a bed. I heard the sound of running water, and my grandmother disappeared into what I assumed was the bathroom. The momentary freedom allowed me to take in my surroundings.
The room was unlike anything I had ever seen before. The walls were cold stone, lit softly by flickering candlelight. Ornate black furniture dominated the space: a large cabinet, a sturdy desk, and the grand bed I was now lying on. Each piece bore a crest—likely the family emblem. The air was heavy with the scent of old wood and something faintly floral.
Eventually, the water stopped, and my grandmother reappeared, now dressed in an elegant gown. The fabric shimmered in the candlelight, and her jewelry sparkled with an almost otherworldly brilliance. Everything about her screamed power and refinement.
"Come, little Aryan," she said with a gentle smile, approaching the bed. "We need to find you a proper place to sleep."
She scooped me up effortlessly, cradling me against her once more. Before we could leave the room, however, there was a knock at the door.
"Mistress, the carriage is ready," Kreacher croaks.
"I'll be out in a minute. Go wait by the carriage," she replies sharply, not bothering to glance his way.
"Yes, Mistress," Came the obedient response, followed by retreating footsteps.
With that, she began walking again, and this time I'm facing forward so I took in my surroundings. The stone walls of the house loomed around us, cold and ancient, their rough texture illuminated by the soft glow of candles. The manor felt like something out of a medieval movie. Antique furniture lines the corridors, each piece looking as though it belongs in a museum.
Eventually, we reach the massive front doors, and my grandmother pushes them open. A burst of sunlight greets us, revealing an overgrown garden filled with twisted hedges and thorny roses. Beyond the garden, a sleek black carriage waits, its polished surface gleaming. A small, hunched creature sits a-top the driver's seat, reins in hand. Its leathery face is unpleasant to look at, and I can't help but think: Is that an elf? I thought they were supposed to be beautiful... but I suppose every world has its share of different creatures.
My grandmother approached the carriage, her steps deliberate and unhurried. She climbed inside, cradling me securely, and the door shut behind us with a soft click. As the carriage began to move, I caught a glimpse of the manor's exterior through the window. It was enormous, with two visible floors and towers that stretched high into the sky. The building exuded both grandeur and an unsettling darkness, like a castle in a storybook filled with secrets.
As the carriage rolls forward, my thoughts wander. What world am I in, and what year is this? I wonder, staring at the trees and rolling hills that line the path. The absence of modern vehicles is unsettling. I try to piece together clues about this world, but my musings are cut short when the carriage jerks to a stop.
My grandmother stepped out first, and I peered past her shoulder. We had arrived in a bustling street, lined with shops of all shapes and sizes. The cobblestones gleamed underfoot, and the air buzzed with chatter and activity. People hurried in and out of stores, their arms laden with parcels. Yet as we moved through the crowd, I noticed something strange—they were all staring at us. Or rather, at me.
Some kept their distance, others whispered behind their hands. My grandmother seemed unbothered, her head held high as she strode toward one particular shop.
The shop we entered was cozy and warm, filled with shelves of cribs, baby clothes, and jars of food. The scent of lavender and freshly polished wood hung in the air. Behind the counter stood an elderly woman with silvery-white hair tied into a loose bun and sharp grey eyes that brighten when she saw us.
"Ah, Walburga! It's lovely to see you again," the woman says warmly, though her tone carries a note of concern. "How have you been?"
"I'm fine," my grandmother replies briskly, clearly uninterested in small talk. "I'm here to get my grandson some supplies."
The woman's eyes widen in surprise as they flick to me, perched in my grandmother's arms. "Oh! I didn't know one of your sons had a child," she says, curiosity evident in her voice. "Whose son is he, if you don't mind me asking?"
"He's Regulus's," my grandmother replies, her tone flat.
"Regulus?" The woman's eyebrows shoot up. "Well, that is a surprise. I would've thought Sirius would have been the one to give you grandchildren first—he's always been the outgoing one."
"Yes, well," my grandmother says curtly, clearly uninterested in entertaining the topic. "I need some custom items."
"Of course," the woman replies, all business now. "What can I do for you?"
"I want a full black crib with the Black family emblem engraved on the front," my grandmother says. "And I'll need some custom-tailored clothing for him."
The shopkeeper nods, jotting down notes. "The crib will be ready by the end of the day. As for the clothes, I'll need to take some measurements. They should be done later this week."
As my grandmother discussed the materials and designs for my new clothes with the shopkeeper, her voice was calm and decisive. I could tell this wasn't her first time making these kinds of arrangements. After finalizing the details, and getting my measurements, she added a few more items to her shopping list—baby food, powdered milk, and some toys—before promising to return in a few hours to pick up the crib.
Outside, Kreacher had already loaded the supplies we'd purchased into the carriage. My grandmother, ever the picture of efficiency, took her time strolling down the busy street, glancing at shop windows and occasionally stepping inside to purchase a few more things. The day felt endless. Whether it was the strain of being carried around or the sensory overload of shopping with a woman who clearly loved it, I felt my eyelids growing heavy.
When we finally returned to the baby shop, the crib was ready and waiting for us. The shopkeeper gave a precise time for when my clothes would be completed, and with that, we made our way back to the carriage. The ride home was mercifully uneventful.
As we arrived, my grandmother wasted no time giving Kreacher instructions. He was to place the crib in the room beside hers and organize the rest of the day's purchases. She had a certain grace in managing her household, but her tone left no room for questioning.
Once the crib was taken care of, she brought me to the kitchen. She prepared a bottle of milk, her movements deft and practiced. It wasn't terrible—better than I'd expected, at least. But the baby food? That was another story entirely. The taste was foul, and my body rebelled almost immediately. I spit up several times, grimacing at the texture and flavor. Yet, my grandmother's patience was unshaken. She fed me with a calm persistence, her face soft with affection.
After that ordeal, she carried me to the room beside hers. It was almost a mirror image of her own, with ornate furniture and decor that felt far too old-fashioned for my taste. I couldn't help but think, I'll have to redecorate when I'm older.
She carefully placed me in the crib, tucking me in as though I were made of glass. Her hand brushed my hair, and she kissed my forehead softly. "Sleep well, my little Aryan," she whispered before leaving the room.
As I lay there, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, my thoughts wandered back to the day. Something about all of this—her appearance and the name black the elf ,the streets and stores all of it—felt strangely familiar, like a dream I couldn't quite place. But my drowsiness soon overwhelmed me, and with a final thought—I'll figure it out eventually—I let sleep take me.