Life in Black Manor had settled into a structured routine. Each morning began with intense physical training, followed by study in the library. Thomas had divided the day as if he were a commander with his personal squad. And in a sense, he was.
On the ground floor, the magical training room had become his personal battlefield. Wooden swords hung from the walls, practice wands rested on pedestals, and ancient runes covered the floor. Thomas and Alaric faced each other in duels that combined both body and magic.
"Expelliarmus!" Alaric shouted, his face focused.
Thomas deflected the spell with ease, spun on one foot, and aimed a kick at Alaric's hand. The blow didn't connect. The blonde boy barely dodged it, and they both paused, breathing heavily.
"You've improved," Thomas murmured, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve. "But you're still predictable. Change the rhythm."
Alaric nodded seriously, but there was a spark in his eyes, the excitement of someone who had finally found purpose. Nearby, Kreacher watched, now in his new black formal attire, the silver Black family crest proudly sewn onto his chest.
"Master Thomas," the elf grumbled, appearing beside them. "I have prepared the energizing tea, as requested. With magical ginseng and a pinch of malvarrosa root."
"Perfect," Thomas replied without looking at him. "And your breakfast?"
Kreacher muttered something unintelligible.
"Kreacher…" Thomas turned to face him sternly. "You can't serve if you're weak. You're part of this now. You train with us. You eat with us. And you improve with us."
Kreacher scowled but nodded with a dramatic sigh.
"Kreacher will obey… though the oats with fruit are unworthy of a warrior elf's palate..."
"I'll get you dragon protein if you survive the week," Thomas responded dryly, earning a suppressed laugh from Alaric.
Kreacher disappeared with a pop, muttering about "youngsters with no respect for traditional elf cuisine."
Hours later, in the library, Thomas ran his fingers over an ancient tome on rune alchemy. Beside him, the Slytherin locket rested on the table. Kreacher had handed it to him solemnly that morning.
"My master Regulus died for this," the elf had said. "And you are his legacy."
Thomas studied it, his magical eye activated, the white pupil vibrating with energy. The object pulsed with a dark aura, its magical lines forming a pattern that seemed to slither like a living being. He didn't open it. Not yet. He only studied it.
"You're not just a trinket..." Thomas whispered. "But I will know you."
At a distance, Alaric flipped through a book on magical creatures, stifling a shiver. Something within him buzzed with a growing tension.
That night, they trained with wooden swords. But Thomas had begun to inscribe basic runes on the weapons: runes of durability, stability, and magical absorption. The contact between them left blue sparks floating in the air.
And then it happened.
Alaric stopped, panting. A dark shadow began to emerge from his back, swirling like thick smoke, and his eyes filled with a cold emptiness.
"Thomas..." he said in a trembling voice. "I can't... contain it..."
Thomas raised his sword and his wand.
"Fight, Alaric! Not against it. Against what it wants you to believe you are."
The shadow attacked. A black tentacle lunged toward Thomas, who dodged and countered with a Rictusempra aimed directly at the base of the darkness. The magical laughter destabilized its form, but didn't disperse it.
Kreacher appeared in the corner of the room, knives in hand, his eyes burning.
"Shall I strike?" he asked, excited.
"No!" Thomas commanded. "Only if it overflows."
Thomas invoked a magical line with his eye, visualizing the energy's core. He cast a small explosion of Lumus Maxima directly at that point. The shadow screamed, and for a moment, Alaric regained control.
He dropped to his knees, breathing heavily, trembling.
"I... I felt it," he whispered. "Not as something foreign. More like... it was part of me."
Thomas stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Then we must teach you to master it. Not eliminate it. Integrate it. We will succeed."
Alaric looked up at him with devotion.
"With you, yes."
A heavy silence fell, broken only by Kreacher cleaning the knives with a crooked smile.
That same night, in the library, Thomas gave another order.
"Kreacher. Start searching. Only six elves. The best. Loyal. Intelligent. Fast. And ready to train."
"An army?" Kreacher said, almost with a gleam in his eyes.
"No. A shadow. An invisible dome. The Dome."
And as Kreacher disappeared to fulfill his command, Thomas looked down at the locket. His magical eyes saw something within it that he didn't fully understand yet.
Then, he heard a whisper.
A very faint one.
A voice that was neither his nor anyone else's present.
"Remember me..."