He had no idea how long he had been confined in the spartan cell the goblins had unceremoniously thrown him into, but judging by the rumble in his stomach, he had definitely missed dinner at the Leaky Cauldron. The stone floor beneath him was cold, the single torch in the corridor outside flickering dimly and casting long, dancing shadows across the walls.
What gnawed at him more than hunger, however, was the complete lack of explanation. No one had told him why he was being detained. Not a word. The goblins who had escorted him armed with halberds and zero patience made it perfectly clear that resistance was not on the menu. So he had kept his head down and let them shove him into the cell like a package being returned to sender.
He had gone over every possible reason in his head since then. Had he unknowingly violated some obscure goblin law? Was the inheritance test somehow restricted to purebloods? Had someone falsely accused him of line theft? He racked his brain, but found nothing. Just silence. Just stone. Just questions with no answers.
‘Is this day shitty or not? First I got back into London to find out that the orphanage is closed and that I am homeless. Then I got an empty room at the Leaky Cauldron, except it is expensive for me. Then I found a nice guy ready to pay me enough to make my stay permanent at the pub for the whole summer without having to dip into my savings, then I paid the goblins for an inheritance test then finally was sent to jail. It is like a rollercoaster. Up, down, Up, down. What is next?’
His brooding thoughts were cut short by the echo of heavy doors swinging open followed by the sharp, deliberate click of high heels striking the pristine marble of the bank floor. The sound was jarring in its confidence and elegance. For a moment, Rick tensed, wondering if the Aurors had finally arrived to question him. But he dismissed the thought just as quickly. No Auror would be caught dead patrolling Gringotts in stilettos.
“Is this him?” a deep but clear voice came from the front of his cells, beyond the bars.
Looking up, he saw a tall man with sharp glasses perched on a well defined nose, dirty blond hair combed back with just a hint of careless elegance. He wore an expensive dark red robe, rich in embroidery and detail, and stood with the unyielding posture of someone raised in a world of expectations and titles. Everything about him from his carefully groomed appearance to the way he carried himself screamed old money and noble lineage.
Beside him stood a woman, about a head shorter, but no less striking. Her long black hair cascaded down her back like a silken waterfall, its sheen catching the low torchlight. Though she wore a simple black robe, the dark crimson coat draped over her shoulders was unmistakably haute couture its cut impeccable, its fabric charmed to never wrinkle. She radiated a cool confidence that did not need words to command attention.
‘A couple? They must have come in a hurry, they are dressed nicely but a bit disheveled. Now what do they want with me and how are they related to what is happening?’
The woman stood with her hands tightly clasped at her navel, her knuckles stark white from the pressure of her grip. Every inch of her posture screamed restraint, tension coiled beneath elegance. But it was her gaze those piercing eyes of stormy blue and gunmetal grey that drew all the attention. They were unflinching, unblinking, locked onto him with the intensity of a hawk sighting prey.
Rick recognized the challenge instantly. He met it head on, leveling her with a look of his own cool, unimpressed, and edged with a flicker of defiance. His eyes carried the weight of someone who had no intention of being intimidated, no matter how many layers of polish she wore.
“What is your name, young man?” the man asked but Rick paid him no mind. He was too focused on the woman for that.
He did not blink, and neither did she. Even when she lifted a hand with regal composure and signaled the goblin to open the cell door, her eyes remained locked on his. Silent. Searching. She crossed the threshold with deliberate, graceful steps each one echoing against the cold stone like the ticking of a clock counting down to something inevitable.
When they were finally face to face closer than Rick liked he felt his personal space invaded. Her presence pressed in, not physically, but emotionally, probing. Her gaze bore into his as if seeking a memory she could not quite place, like his eyes held a ghost she recognized but could not name.
“It is you,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of disbelief and fragile hope as she slowly raised her hand to cup his cheek. Her steely gaze softened into something painfully tender, a flicker of long buried love emerging behind tear glossed eyes.
But before her fingers could reach him, Rick’s hand shot up and caught her wrist with unwavering precision. His grip was firm, a silent wall between them, and though he did not squeeze or lash out, the message was clear: not yet not without answers.
“If you think I would let you lay your hand on me when I do not know you and after being arrested for no reason, you are mad, ma’am.”
“I am your mother.” she answered with a slight frown on her face when she heard him talk.
“Right. I am an orphan muggle born since birth and you are one of the sandwiches of the magical world. You being my mother is unlikely and I am being polite.”
“...Sandwiches?” she asked, confused.
“Expensive clothes, high standing manners and attitude. A bit snotty. You are clearly a member of a noble or ancient house. Inbred so much they are closer to sandwiches.”
She looked at him in shock then snorted and began to laugh. Her eyes never left him even as she called out to her husband. “You heard that Dear? We are sandwiches! Morgana, that is a good one!” Then she spoke to Rick. “That makes you a sandwich too, you know? Because you are not a muggle born.”
“Ah, yes, because you are my ‘mother’.” he said, rolling his eyes.
“Yes, I am.”
“We are still at square one, you say that but bring no proof. Do you have any identification to verify your claim?”
He decided to set aside for now his burning questions about why he had been arrested and what these strangers were even doing here. Dismissing the woman’s claim outright would only prolong the exchange, and Rick had neither the patience nor the appetite for a longer interrogation. He would play along, for now, and see where it led.
“I do not. Would an unbreakable vow suffice? With me swearing I am your mother?”
Rick’s eyes widened in shock. The woman before him had just proposed something not just bold but dangerous to prove she was telling the truth. An Unbreakable Vow was not a gesture; it was a magical contract sealed in life and death. Break the vow, and you do not get a second chance you simply die. That is why it was called unbreakable. The sheer finality of it, the absolute weight behind her offer, left him momentarily speechless.
“Sure.”
“Charlus!”
The man looked toward the goblin standing beside him, who gave a silent nod of approval. Without hesitation, the man stepped into the cell, drawing his wand in a smooth, practiced motion. The woman whose name Rick still did not know took a deliberate step back, then extended her right arm with solemn resolve. Her movements were calm, but her eyes flickered with restrained emotion.
Rick regarded her for a long, thoughtful moment before stepping forward and gripping her forearm. It was not a gesture of warmth, but of grim agreement. As soon as their arms connected, the man Charlus raised his wand. Green ropes of light burst from the tip, wrapping around their forearms in an intricate, glowing knot of magic that shimmered with silent power.
“I vow that I am your blood mother and Charlus, your blood father. So mote it be.”
Rick raised an eyebrow at her declaration. It caught him off guard not for its content, but for its sheer simplicity. From a woman of her stature, he had expected something long winded and ceremonial, full of pomp and carefully chosen words meant to impress or manipulate. Instead, she had delivered something raw, direct, and airtight.
No room for clever phrasing or evasion. He found himself not disliking it. In fact, he did not dislike her either, not with the kind of courage or reckless conviction she had just shown. If she was wrong, if he was not truly her son, that vow would kill her. That kind of belief was dangerous, but also… oddly moving. Not that he would ever admit it aloud.
The glowing lights seeped into their arms and vanished like whispers swallowed by magic. A beat of silence followed tense, breathless and she was still alive. Another beat, and Rick suddenly found himself caught in a bone crushing embrace as the woman burst into tears of joy, her sobs muffled against his shoulder. Under normal circumstances, Rick would have recoiled on instinct he did not like being touched, especially by strangers. But his brain was still somewhere in orbit, overwhelmed and stunned, so he remained still, too shell shocked to do anything but blink.
‘She is my mom!? They are my parents!? What the fuck!?’
Coming to grips with what was happening, Rick shoved her back with a sudden, jarring motion, holding her firmly at arm's length. His entire body tensed, fury rushing through his veins like wildfire. His voice, when it finally broke the silence, was glacial every syllable laced with restrained rage and disbelief.
“What the fuck!? You cannot barge into my life after abandoning me fifteen years earlier!”
“Corvus! We did not—”
“What?!” he exclaimed, cutting her off.
“Corvus, that is your name.” the woman said. “After the constellation.”
“Oh fuck no! Please tell me I am not a Black.” He almost shouted, knowing from Marlene and Amelia that the only Magical family naming their member after constellations was the Ancient and Noble house of Black.
“You are not. I was born one though. I am a Potter now.” she replied with a pleased smile who quickly disappeared when Rick shouted.
“THAT IS EVEN WORSE! Goddamnit! Can this shitty day stop already?!” he yelled and threw his arm up in the air in surrender.
“What is wrong with being a Potter?” Charlus said from the side with a frown on his face.
“Or a Black? I mean… Well, okay…” his mother accepted this point.
“Because it means I am somewhat related to that entitled, spoiled, arrogant piece of dragon’s dung of James Potter! And Sirius Black who is barely much better!”
“James? Cousin’s Fleamont’s son? Last time I saw him he was a good lad.”
“When was that? When he was in his mother’s womb?” Rick questioned the man sarcastically.
“Not quite, he was six.” answered his mother. She then turned around to speak to the goblin. “Gorestach, could Gringotts lend us a room to talk privately? You can take the cost directly from the family vault.”
“Of course, Lady Potter. Follow me.”
“Wait a minute! Why was I arrested and detained in the first place?!”
“Because there was the possibility of you being a fraud, trying to pass yourself as our missing son.” his newly found father said.
“And how did you know for a fact that I am?! You did nothing to—”
“Because I felt your magic.”
Rick looked at Lady Potter, noting the faint, knowing smile playing at the corners of her lips a smile that spoke of secrets long kept and truths finally revealed. His brain, still reeling from everything that had just unfolded, took a heartbeat too long to catch up. And then it hit him. He replayed her words in his mind, stunned by the simplicity and finality of them, as if she had just confirmed something the universe itself had been whispering all along.
“You felt…”
“Yes. You should have to. I felt it, I felt that you could too but I think you were too out of it to pay attention.”
Rick quieted down after that, the last of his questions momentarily eclipsed by exhaustion and disbelief. His mother, now holding his arm as if afraid to lose him again, led him through the gleaming corridors of Gringotts to a private, opulent meeting room. The marble floors and enchanted sconces gave the space a polished air, but Rick barely registered it. Behind them, his father followed, a silent sentinel whose subtle glances betrayed a deep concern Rick was not ready to acknowledge.
They settled around a polished round table that shimmered faintly with cleaning charms, its surface so pristine Rick could see the dazed reflection of his own face. He sat because there was no polite way to refuse, not because he wanted to. His father cleared his throat to speak but Dorea raised her hand slightly and cut in with a commanding grace that demanded attention, her tone steady, purposeful, and full of something Rick could not yet name.
“Let us start by who we are. I am Dorea Potter née Black. Little sister of Arcturus III Black current lord of the Ancient and Noble House of Black.” She looked at her husband and introduced him. “This is Charlus Potter of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter. You are our son, Corvus Matthew Potter born on the 22nd of January 1960.” She stopped there to let Rick deal with the information. After a nod from him she picked up where she paused. “You disappeared on the morning of the 3rd of June 1960.”
“That is the day I arrived at the orphanage.” he whispered.
“Orphanage?” asked Charlus.
“Yes. From what Miss Willson, she is… was my caretaker at the orphanage. She said I arrived on that day, brought up by the bobbies.”
“Boobies?” the man asked further, not understanding the word.
“The muggle police. What happened? Why did I disappear? Why did not you look for me?”
“We did look for you! We never stopped!” his mother protested in distress. Her husband put a hand around her shoulder and began to gently caress it in comfort but mostly to calm her down.
“We search days and nights for you without success. We know how you disappeared but that left very little for leads.”
“Someone took you from your crib during the night and aparated away.” his mother explained as she had noticed he was about to ask again. “The wards had registered an apparition during the night but we were never able to know who and how they did it in the first place. No one key to the wards had visited that night nor had the permission to apparate inside the manor to begin with.”
“We were stumped, no magic signature but yours in your room… There were no leads.”
“Hm… Did you… Did you visit St James’ Park with me by chance?” Rick asked, suddenly thinking of something.
“We did once at the beginning of spring that year. Why?” asked Charlus.
Rick closed his eyes, his breath catching for a moment as guilt twisted in his chest like a knife. Of course it would be him who else could it be? A bitter thought echoed through his mind: maybe everything was his fault. Dragging a weary hand down his face, he sighed deeply, exhaustion and self recrimination settling like a weight across his shoulders. Then, in a voice roughened by shame and disbelief, he spoke.
“I was found there. I always loved the place, always felt attached to it. I often visited it after school.”
“I… do not see how” his father began confused.
“I may have aparated there.”
““...””
His words hit like a thunderclap, leaving his parents visibly stunned eyes wide, jaws slack. A beat passed before his mother, her voice unsteady and sharp with disbelief, finally found the strength to refute it.
“That is impossible, you were not even six months old at the time. No child can aparate.”
“I did it when I was four.”
““...””
“Pardon?” asked his father who still had not got back all his head in place.
“I remember aparating when I was four. I was in my room at the orphanage and I wanted to play with the toys two floors down. Next thing I knew I was there.”
““...””
“Since the only magical signature in my room was mine… It is not far fetched to think I aparated at St James' Park if it was not too far.”
“... It is 45 miles away from the Manor. It is too far.”
“Dear, if he can aparate since… It is not outside the realm of possibilities but that would imply…”
Both adults stared at their son in astonishment, the weight of what he had just suggested sinking in. The magic required for such a long distance Apparition was not considerable for an adult wizard. For a child no, for a baby to have accomplished it was almost unthinkable. Yet here was Rick, calm and rational, suggesting that he had done exactly that. If it were true, it was not just a feat of accidental magic it was a display of raw, extraordinary power. The fact that he had vivid memories of Apparating again at the age of four only reinforced the theory: their son was no ordinary wizard..
“So I fucked up my life and yours because for some reason baby me wanted to see St Jame’s park. This is… ludicrous. At the same time… Magical ability aside, I believe it. I like exploring.”
“...It is not your fault if you did.” Dorea said, putting a comforting hand over his across the table. “You were a baby. A baby. Would you father and I have prefered if you did not aparate? Yes, certainly but we do not blame you. I am still upset though but at the ordeal, not at you.”
“To think that we searched the whole Magical Britain for years when you were only 45 miles away in the muggle world. Life has a twisted sense of humor. We really thought the worst. Were it not for our family tapestry telling us you were alive we would have lost all hope. We even checked with Dumbledore the name of every first year when it was time for you to attend Hogwarts but your name was not there.”
“How come?” Rick said, having suddenly a thought. “The Book of Admittance would have let the Quill of Acceptance write my name in it if I aparated.”
“The Quill updates the names. I suppose when the muggle gave you a new name, the Quill erased your birth name and put your new one.” Charlus explained.
“But how would the Quill have known?”
“That is a question for the founders I am afraid. Nobody quite knows of the magic and enchantments placed on the Quill and the Book.”
A heavy silence settled over the room like a weighted charm. No one knew what to say after such a revelation whether it was true or not, it defied logic, tradition, and every magical principle they thought they understood. Rick sat uncomfortably in the stillness, his mind reeling while his stomach made a more mundane protest, twisting with hunger. All the emotion in the world could not drown out the simple, grumbling reminder that he had not eaten since midday. Whatever this was family reunion, magical mystery, existential crisis it would have to wait until he got some food. First escape, then dinner, then maybe a mental breakdown.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Now we bring you home.” his mother answered with narrowed eyes.
“Is it wise? I mean… while my theory is… a bit out there despite some facts pointing to it, we do not know if it is true. A dark wizard could have done it. And… I do not know… for the past four years I thought myself a muggle born. I worked hard to get where I am today and I am… I am not sure I want people to say that it was because I was a pureblood all along.”
Dorea and Charlus exchanged a long, knowing glance a dialogue woven in expressions, subtle shifts of posture, and the tiniest flickers of the eyes. After more than three decades of marriage, words were optional. Their silence spoke volumes: concerns weighed, conclusions drawn, and a united front settled on in the span of a heartbeat.
“You do not like purebloods?” his father inquired. “You called us sandwiches earlier if I remember correctly.”
“Oh, I have nothing against them. Two of my best friends are pureblood. It is just… the majority of the ones I came across are… Well, they are cunts.”
His mother inhaled sharply at the use of the c word, though she held her tongue. Having fought in the war against Grindelwald, she was not one to flinch at coarse language she had heard and spoken worse in battle. But certain words, that one especially, still grated against her upbringing and sensibilities. There were lines, and that word tread too close for comfort.
“The blood purists mainly. Thankfully they are in Slytherin and are quite incompetent but the way they talk and act disgust me. That was why I was here doing an inheritance test in the first place. I was trying to prove that Muggle born came from squib lines or at the very least give me something to continue my research on.”
“Your research?” Dorea wondered aloud.
“Yes. I am trying to disprove the blood purity ideology. Partly at least, because there is magic in blood but thinking that a muggle born is magically weaker than a pureblood especially the ones inbred is… Foolish.”
“I agree.”
Rick looked at his mother in surprise, caught off guard by how calmly and confidently she had denounced the very ideology he had assumed she embodied. For someone born a Black, her clarity and conviction cut through centuries of pureblood dogma like a sword. It was not just surprising it was deeply validating.
“What?”
“Are not you a Black?”
“I am. But I saw for myself that there was no difference between muggle born, half blood and pureblood during the war. After that, my House’s… sensibilities meant nothing but stupidity to me.”
“The war? You fight in the war?” Rick said with eyes as wide as saucers.
“That she did. As a healer first then on the front lines afterward. She gave Grindelwald a run for his money.” Charlus revealed with both amusement and pride.
“Was not it for Dumbledore I would have kicked that Dark Lord in the berries.”
Dorea’s expression soured, her lips tightening and a faint furrow forming between her brows. It was not outright anger, but a deep, quiet discontent that simmered behind her eyes a look reserved for moments when decorum prevented her from speaking her full mind.
“Your mother’s military feats aside… we will respect your decision.”
“Charlus! He is coming home with us!” his mother protested.
“Dear, Our son is old enough to”
“He is not! He is fifteen!”
“He may already have”
“I do not.” Rick said, stopping the fight. “Unless you count the Leaky Cauldron but I do not.”
“I thought you were living at an Orphanage?” his father asked.
“It closed during the year while I was at Hogwarts. I am basically homeless now. Tom gave me a room for the summer, but I do not have enough money to stay there the whole duration.”
“... But you paid for an inheritance test!” his mother exclaimed, not understanding.
“Well. I had 542 Galleons on me. I got a job a bit earlier at a music store right next to the Cauldron. 10 pounds a day for five days.” Noticing that they were not verse in pounds to galleon conversion he explained further. “It is two galleons a day.”
“I see.” said his father.
“I was only missing one galleon which was not hard to find in muggle money so I was more or less settled and decided to take the test.”
“Then you are coming home. As. I. Said.” she added at the end, giving a dark look at her husband who surrendered. “You will not miss for nothing.” she said to Rick.
“Oh, I do not mind the lack of money. I am not very materialistic. As long as I have enough for my school supplies and to buy my friends small gifts.”
“Lack of money? As the heir of our house you will never lack it.” revealed Charlus.
“Heir? I thought the toerag I mean James was the heir? He is always saying he is it and his father is the Lord.”
Dorea’s expression darkened once more, her eyes narrowing and mouth tightening into a familiar line of aristocratic disapproval. Meanwhile, Charlus let out a low snort of amusement, clearly less rattled by the revelation than his wife, as if he found the whole situation more entertaining than alarming.
“I am Lord Potter. Fleamont is just my proxy. He has been at it for the last fifteen years. My duties as Lord were less important than my duties as a father but someone had to do them. I am paying him of course but he is not the Lord. Why his son thinks he is and himself the heir is beyond me.”
“Maybe Fleamont vye for the position?”
“Dorea! Nonsense! Fleamont would not. He is not ambitious for a knut. No, I think like most people, his son believed I handed his father the Lordship or he was the lord all along. That makes me think, we should get you your heirship ring.” Charlus said to his son who just shrugged his shoulders. “I will say, you take everything in stride.”
“I learned from a young age to accept things outside my control and to go with the flow. In a way it is liberating to move forward with the cards I am given rather than think about the cards I do not have and want.”
“Good mentality, son.” approved Charlus.
They stood up and exited the room. Lord Potter approached a nearby goblin with a few quiet words, then motioned for Rick to follow. One rattling cart ride through the labyrinthine tunnels later, Charlus was holding out a small velvet box inside the Potter Family vault. Nestled within was a ring of ancient silver, elegantly crafted, bearing the detailed coat of arms of the House of Potter. When Rick slid it onto his right index finger, a wave of magic washed over him soft and nurturing like a lullaby, yet beneath it thrummed a fierce, protective pulse, like a lion watching over its pride. It was not just a ring. And somehow, it felt... right.
After showing him how to conceal the heirship ring with a simple glamour charm and a mental trigger, they returned to the first floor, where Dorea stood waiting, arms folded and eyes scanning the crowd like a hawk in heels. She nodded once in acknowledgment, her expression firm yet proud. After a brief, hushed conversation, they agreed to Rick’s request: his identity would remain secret until he completed his schooling at Hogwarts. There were too many questions and too many risks otherwise.
They walked together to the apparition point at the end of the Alley, the noise of Diagon Alley fading behind them. Charlus and Dorea waited as Rick excused himself, returning alone to the Leaky Cauldron. In the quiet solitude of his room, he gathered his few belongings his carefully packed trunk, Morrigan’s perch, a couple of loose socks he had not noticed earlier. The room already felt distant, like a memory slowly unraveling. He gave one last glance around before heading downstairs.
“You are leaving, Mister Wald?”
“I am, Tom. I got in contact with a friend who offered me a room for the summer.”
“Since you did not have supper nor are using the room, here is your…
“Keep it Tom. And if it bothers you to be paid for no services then… help a chap in need if you can?”
“I will, Mister Wald.” the barman said putting back the money in his hand inside his pocket.
He stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron into the cool evening air and found his parents waiting nearby. Without a word, his mother seized his shoulder and with a fluid, practiced motion, side along Apparated them both. They reappeared at the foot of an enormous manor so vast and looming Rick had to crane his neck to see the rooftops, though to be fair, they had landed just a few paces from the front steps.
Dorea did not hesitate. She took his hand with a grip that was equal parts motherly and urgent, and all but dragged him through the grand double doors. The moment they stepped inside, Rick was struck silent. It was like walking into a living museum of wealth and wizarding prestige: enchanted chandeliers floated above, casting soft golden light over polished marble floors, gilded portraits whispered amongst themselves on the walls, and ancestral tapestries swayed gently despite the absence of wind. Every inch radiated opulence, history, and magic.
Charlus entered a step behind them, his gait casual but purposeful. Without needing to raise his voice, he called out and three house elves popped into place before the family with audible cracks, bowing deeply in perfect synchronicity.
“We found him, Tipsy. And we brought him home.” his mother said and one of the female elves had her eyes double in size. She began to cry and ran to Rick, grabbing his leg and sobbing against it.
“Young master Corvus is back! Tispy is sorry! So sorry!”
Wondering what was happening, Rick turned to his mother with a raised brow, and she gave him a soft, understanding look before explaining. Tispy, it turned out, had been his caretaker the one who looked after him before his disappearance. For fifteen years, the elf had carried the crushing guilt of losing him, believing herself to be a failure, both as a nanny and as a house elf. That kind of loyalty stunned Rick. He felt a pang deep in his chest not just from her unwavering devotion, but from the unbearable guilt that her pain was rooted in his own magic gone awry.
He had tried to explain, to apologize, but Tispy would not hear it. In her mind, a better elf would have known what he wanted, would have found him, protected him. It broke Rick’s heart. In the end, it was only at his mother’s gentle insistence that he stopped trying to argue.
Then Tispy took charge in the only way she knew how by dragging him to the kitchen and personally preparing him a meal. She had quite literally booted the current cook out of the way, muttering about standards and family honor, then ordered Rick to sit while she bustled around like a whirlwind of guilt, love, and culinary vengeance.
Charlus and Dorea joined him not long after, settling at the table while the smell of roasted meat and buttery potatoes filled the kitchen. As they ate, they began asking questions about his life nothing invasive, just curious, heartfelt inquiries from two parents trying to rediscover the boy they had lost. And for the first time in a long while, Rick did not feel like he had to hide. They listened to every word, truly listened, never interrupting until he reached the part about his Hogwarts letter.
“As a muggle born, well officially you should not have received an owl.” he father said.
“I know. Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore told me when they visited me a few days afterwards.”
“They visited? Why? You got your letter.”
“Well… The owl was smart. She knew I was muggle born and that I should not have received my letter like that, so she stayed with me and hooted a bit. I understood that she wanted me to write back and I did.”
“He has an even stronger gift than you, dear, if he understood the owl’s from her magic.” Charlus said to his wife.
“Seems like it. I am more curious about why Dumbledore visited too.”
“Apparently, thirty years ago another muggle born was living at the orphanage. Since he knew the way, he aparated Professor McGonagall from Hogwarts directly in front of the building.”
““Why?”” they asked, not surprised by the ability of the man to aparate from so far away.
“When she received my letter she was not happy one bit. I thought that the tuition cost money and since I did not have any, I declined attending Hogwarts. She was so angry that one of the students she asked for help to write the envelopes made a mistake by putting mine in the half blood and pureblood pile that she decided to visit me on the spot and that the result was a muggle born who would not be attending despite wanting to. Dumbledore had been intrigued and he came with her.”
Tipsy was done with the food and served everyone with excitement. She was clearly happy over the moon. Eating did not stop his tale however.
“Yes!” his father exclaimed with smugness while his mother was annoyed.
“I guess, I cannot win them all.” she admitted. “Your father was in Gryffindor, I was in Slytherin.” she explained noticing her son’s quizzical face.
He found the fact that the two had married more than a little odd. In his experience, Gryffindors and Slytherins did not mix well oil and water, fire and ice. The only example he could think of was Lily and Snape, and even that relationship had been strained to the point of breaking. As he spoke briefly about his encounters with James and Sirius, then turned the topic to Lily and Marlene, he noticed something odd. Neither of his parents batted an eye at the mention of his girlfriend being a Muggle born. No disapproval, no awkward glances, not even the stiff politeness he half expected. It was not just a relief it felt like a weight he had not known he was carrying had quietly slipped away.
“Seeker, huh? Guess he got it from you this time.”
“You played?” Rick asked his mother.
“Seeker, yes. Your father too but as a chaser.”
“How good are you really?”
“Well… On my first match I sent Aticus Bulstrode to St Mungos for the rest of the year after I caught him in a Wronski Feint with a broken arm.”
His father whistled when he heard that, clearly impressed, a spark of admiration lighting up his features. His mother, on the other hand, did not just smile her lips curved into a sharp, satisfied grin that made Rick feel like she had just mentally added another tally to some invisible scoreboard. It was the kind of expression that suggested she would have paid to watch that Quidditch match live and perhaps, bet on him.
“Rumor is, he is a retard now, though he was known for being all muscles and no brain to begin with so I do not pay any credit to it.”
“That is the case with most Bulstrode. That is what happens when you mate with trolls.” his mother commented.
“In the end with Slytherin without a seeker we completely overwhelmed them and won 1040 to 220. We won the quidditch cup from that very first match, almost.”
He elaborated further on his Quidditch adventures, and his parents were visibly proud to learn that he had led his house team to win the Quidditch Cup three years in a row only narrowly losing once to Amelia. That match had been nothing short of legendary. Both Seekers had spotted the Snitch inside the treacherous trench that lined the pitch a narrow, obstacle laden channel where reckless speed and precision flying were mandatory.
Hurtling after the golden ball at breakneck speed, dodging the jutting wooden beams with razor sharp reflexes, they reached for the Snitch at the exact same moment. Unfortunately, they collided with one of the beams and were violently flung out of the trench, crashing onto the grass below. Both had woken up in the infirmary, dazed, bruised, and sore. It was only then that Madam Pomfrey informed them that the imprint of the Snitch had been left by Amelia’s hand by the slimmest of margins, she had won.
Amelia never gloated aloud, but her smug satisfaction for the rest of the year was unmistakable. That grin was burned into Rick’s memory. But smugness did not last forever. After two subsequent defeats, she had cooled off especially after one particularly devious move. In their last match, Rick had feigned a Wronski Feint.
Mid dive, Amelia bailed out, realizing too late that the Snitch was not there. Expecting him to pull out of the dive and return to altitude, she was left speechless when Rick continued skimming just above the grass, flying low past startled Chasers and right toward the Hufflepuff goals where he snatched the Snitch from under their Keeper’s nose. It was not just clever flying. It was strategy. And it cemented Rick’s reputation as a Seeker who could not be predicted.
“That was brilliant.” his mother commented.
“Now people hesitate when I dive. Do I do it because I saw the snitch, because it is a Wronski feint or because I am feinting them to get to the snitch? They do not know and it is a win.”
Once he finished recounting his Quidditch achievements, Rick turned the conversation back to his school years. This time, however, the dynamic shifted his mother leaned in with sharp eyes and precise questions, dissecting his responses like a seasoned interrogator rather than a curious listener. The warmth of casual curiosity had vanished, replaced by an exacting desire to measure, understand, and perhaps challenge what kind of student and son he had become.
“How are you doing at school?”
“Dear. You could…”
“No child of mine will flunk a single class. It is a matter of pride, Charlus.”
“You do not have to worry about that. I rank first every year with Lily.”
“Good.” said Dorea, pleased to hear that. Charlus was perplexed however.
“The both of you?”
“Yes, there is no second place and the ranking jumps directly to third.”
“Oh, that was not what I was referring to. I am just curious as to how a muggle born and a muggle raised can rank 1st when children born in the magical world have a decade more experience in magic.”
“Lily and I are smart. Really smart. Dabbing into sixth year spell smarts when we were already in our second year.” Rick said and both his parents’ eyebrows raised very high in astonishment. “There are other factors too. Like, some do not bother trying because they think their name or blood status is enough to carry them. Some are not interested in how magic works. Lily and I are, so of course we ended up with a better understanding of magic than regular magical kids and got better than them.”
“Really curious.” his father repeated.
“Not really. Lily and I… we grew up with science, discovering magic was like… discovering color in a world of black and white, so we experimented. A magical child tries to cast Lumos to make some light whereas Lily and I wonder if we can change the normal white light to another color then if we can change the wavelength and dab into other parts of the spectrum.”
His parents looked at him as if he had suddenly started speaking fluent Gobbledegook, complete with wild hand gestures. Rick sighed, the weight of explaining the obvious to people who still thought indoor plumbing was a marvel pressing down on him like a tired fog.
“Without magic, muggles need to study the nature around them. From those studies they discover plenty of things that make up our world. Things that magicals do not bother with because they have magic and do not need the understanding the muggles do. For example, six years ago, muggles succeeded in sending a man to the moon.”
“They did not!” his mother protested not believing it.
“They did.” Rick assured her. “Now if muggles can do it without magic and just their knowledge what do you think a wizard or a witch could accomplish with it? The reason why Lily and I are so good, besides being smart, is because we mix magic and muggle knowledge. I am currently trying to boost the effect of potions with a muggle method called spray drying, which turns into powder liquids and removes everything superfluous. So far results are mixed but the successes I had were blowing away all expectations.”
“I would like to see that.” She challenged.
“Oh boy, you had to awaken your mother’s competitive side.” grunted his father.
“I do not see how. It is not really a competition since I have proven it works. I already won.” Rick replied, sustaining his mother’s stare.
“How about we see that tomorrow, hm? It is quite late already and after the emotionally heavy charged evening we got, I am sure you are all as tired as I am.”
Charlus tried to diffuse the situation. He had noticed by talking and listening with his son that he had taken after his mother regarding his personality. And while he could deal with his wife, he did not think he could deal with both his wife and son at the same time, especially when they were at odds. It would not bode well to have conflict in the family when it had just been reunited after more than a decade and a half.
He called Tipsy and ordered her to lead Rick to his room or rather the empty room next to it. Ever since his disappearance, they had not touched a single thing in his original bedroom and Rick was a bit too big for his crib. They would have to go do some shopping later for him to really feel at home. Once his son was gone upstairs, he turned to Dorea.
“Did you really need to be… that denying?” he asked. She sighed at his words.
“No. I just reacted. But… The moon, Charlus! The moon! As if it was possible for Muggles to send someone there.”
“Everything is possible, dear.” he replied with a shrug. “Not that I believe it too, mind you but he does not seem the type of person to lie. What I am saying is… be doubtful but—”
“Not opposing like I was.” she accepted with another sigh.
“We just got him back, Dorea. After so long. Let us get to know each other before he… just realize he does not want anything to do with us because we are standing our ground on some things.”
“It is not fair! We should not have to walk on eggshells with our own son.”
“You are right we should not and it is not fair but that is life. We just got another chance to be his parents out of nowhere. It is borderline a miracle! Let us not waste it by being… obtuse.”
She nodded in agreement, not out of pride but resolve. Her son was back in her life, and she would cross fire and storm to keep it that way. The ache that had hollowed her heart for fifteen long years was finally easing, warmth returning to places she had thought gone numb. And she was determined fiercely, unshakably to see that void filled, not with guilt or regret, but with love, presence, and every ounce of care she had left to give.
Raising up from her chair, she went upstairs to see her baby boy who was not much of a baby anymore. He was more like his father. Tall, lithe and with his dirty blonde hair. The same eyebrows, the same jaw and forehead. Everything else was hers. In her mind and in her heart he was perfect. When she reached the second floor, she saw Tipsy at the entrance of his room. Getting closer slowly she looked inside and saw her son sleeping on the bed.
“Tipsy put young master Corvus to sleep, Mistress. Tipsy will watch over the young master all night and this time, this time… Tispy will not lose the young master.” the small elf said with conviction and determination.
Dorea said nothing to that, only offering the elf a solemn, grateful nod. She stepped softly into the room, as if afraid to disturb the fragile peace hanging in the air, and sat at the edge of the bed. Her fingers reached out, trembling slightly, to gently trace the contour of her son’s face memorizing each line, each detail, like a sacred sketch. Then she leaned in and placed a tender kiss on his forehead, a gesture full of love and sorrow, before pulling back. With a flick of her wand, she conjured a plush armchair beside the bed, angled just enough to keep him in view. Lowering herself into it, she folded her hands in her lap, unwilling to look away for even a moment.
“Wake me, before he does, Tipsy. It would not do well if he sees that I watched him sleep all night.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
Crossing her legs and resting her cheek against her palm, Dorea watched her son sleep with unwavering focus, her eyes drinking in every slow rise and fall of his chest. The tension that had ruled her features for days had melted into something softer, more fragile maternal awe wrapped in silent gratitude. She did not notice Charlus peeking in from the doorway until he smiled, catching sight of her transfixed expression. There was no teasing in his eyes, only quiet amusement and understanding. Saying nothing, he stepped away and made his way to the master bedroom. Tonight would be the first time in years he slept alone but somehow, it did not feel lonely. Not with their family finally whole again.