R.O.B. 37

The informal dining room of Black Manor held its silence with weighty patience. Light filtered through tall, curtained windows, casting soft lines across polished wood and velvet walls. The round mahogany table at its center gleamed beneath the muted chandelier, its surface pristine save for the subtle indentations where cutlery had rested, and the faint ring of condensation from Josh's now-empty glass.

The air held the ghost of roasted brisket and herbed duck, layered beneath the sharper scent of cold stone and lemon-polished floors. Plates had been cleared with quiet precision. Robert, the Black family's house elf in tailored silver-trim, stood against the far wall, posture perfect, presence non-intrusive.

Each of the nine chairs around the table was now occupied, save for the two left intentionally untouched, silent symbols of absent names. The remaining seven held their chosen guests: Josh and Percival, Arcturus, Andromeda and Ted, Nymphadora and Amelia. The two empty chairs stood as silent symbols of absent names. Arcturus Black sat straight-backed, hands folded over a thick leather-bound folder resting before him. His gaze swept the table once, then settled.

Arcturus spoke with the calm authority of an avalanche waiting to fall. "Before we begin, let us acknowledge the truth this room already holds. That our world has lost much, and that not all of it was to war."

Josh's awareness shifted inward as the elder Black began. The focus in the room turned slowly toward the patriarch. And so did his.

"My family," Arcturus said, "was once mighty. Numerous. Not alone in this. The Bones family, seated before me, has suffered the same. The Potters, the Longbottoms, the Prewetts. All aligned once with the Neutral Faction, now scattered, silenced, or brought to heel."

He gestured subtly to Amelia. "The Lords meet now in a chamber more echo than action. Our balance is artificial. Too many votes controlled by faction heads who bear no true blood ties. The old names dwindle while the power consolidates elsewhere, in the hands of those who treat it as currency, not heritage. Not all families receive equal standing under the law, despite the illusion of parity. We will return to that point before we adjourn."

He flipped the cover of the folder open but did not look down.

"It is not enough to name an heir. Magic does not accept the unworthy. Ritual magic, once scorned, now whispers its vengeance, subtle and true. Without it, bloodlines fail. Titles weaken. Even if a family survives by name, its claim grows brittle."

His eyes flicked to Josh. "That is why the book you published is invaluable. A call to those lost. Squib lines may yet return to the fold if given reason, language, and understanding. Your use of the old tongues, subtle but clear, will stir something dormant. And more than that, it offers a path for those of lesser birth to stand tall in their majority. That is what a true lord does: elevates those who serve, not only commands them. It is the heart of noblesse oblige. Too many of our peers have forgotten this, playing petty games for profit while the foundations of our world crack beneath them."

Josh nodded, but said nothing.

"I intend to write as well," Arcturus continued. "Not a spellbook. A declaration. One that explains why we do as we do. The solstices. The sabbats. The rites. Not to impose, but to illuminate. The old ways were not chains. They were wards. They were keystones."

He paused.

"That, however, was the opening act."

He turned to Andromeda. His expression softened.

"I call now, as Lord Black, for Andromeda Tonks, born of my line, to be restored as a full member of House Black. Her marriage stands. Her worth stands higher. Her daughter, Nymphadora, shall be recognized henceforth as of the blood, Black in name and magic. Her husband, Ted Tonks, by virtue of alliance and honor, shall be afforded full protection of the House.

Andromeda had never truly been disowned, not by magic. Walburga's screaming, the burning of her name from the tapestry, those were acts of rage and spite, not ritual. The wards of the house had never turned her away. But she had believed it. Believed she was cast out. Believed she was unworthy. And in believing, she had turned her back on the magic that was still hers.

That belief, unchallenged for years, had created distance even magic struggled to mend.

But the proof had always been there, in Nymphadora. A metamorphmagus born of two lines not known for the trait. The blood spoke. It sang, even when no one listened."

Now, with Arcturus's declaration, magic stirred again. Quietly. Eagerly.

Recognition whispered its approval through the unseen threads woven into the walls. The House knew her. The House had always known her.

A quiet breath passed around the table.

Then Arcturus opened the folder.

"Two nights ago, I received two letters. From account holders at Gringotts I did not know, each of them containing... breadcrumbs. One of them held a letter from Joshua."

Josh kept his expression steady.

"I investigated. I looked where no one had been allowed to look. And what I found was... nothing. No trial. No record. Every mention of Sirius Black's defense was buried or redirected. Every attempt to raise the matter in the Wizengamot? Quietly suppressed. By both Light and Dark.

And this brings us back to the law. Ancient and Most Noble Houses are protected by more than parchment and seal. They are bound by rites, oaths, and the very will of magic itself. These protections were not respected. They were sidestepped, undermined, and ignored. And yet, they remain. Magic does not forget. It does not forgive easily when slighted. What was done to Sirius Black was not just a legal failure, but a spiritual affront. And the magic of our world, our bloodlines, our oaths, our Houses, may yet choose to answer that insult. Violently, if necessary."

He turned a page. "Some even spoke of installing Lucius Malfoy's son as heir after my death."

He gave a dry, sharp laugh. "The old fossil couldn't object, they said."

The room didn't breathe.

"Let me be clear. Sirius Orion Black is the heir of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black. He was imprisoned without trial. Without defense. He has rotted in Azkaban for nearly a decade while cowards played politics."

Magic stirred. Lights flickered.

Then Arcturus exhaled. "I envy you, Percival. Your heir did this. Discovered it all through scattered pieces and subtle gaps. Sought out his roots. Trusted his instincts. Trusted his family. And brought truth to light."

Amelia Bones had remained silent, watchful. But at that last note, she sat forward. Her fingers tapped the edge of the folder before her.

She spoke calmly. "As Head of the DMLE. As Lord Bones. As a woman who grew up beside Sirius Black, studied with him at Hogwarts, trained beside him at the Auror Academy... I need to ask. Why wasn't this brought to me?"

Josh met her gaze evenly.

She continued, "Was this about justice for Sirius? Or something larger? The presence of Lord Myrddin," she nodded toward Percival, "tells me this may not be a simple correction. Is this about forging a new political front? One that draws from Light, Dark, and Neutral to create something else entirely?"

Her voice dropped half a note. "A new superfaction, perhaps?"

She turned to Percival. "Is this your design? The Myrddins are known to play the long game."

Percival threw back his head and laughed. Not a chuckle, but true, bright mirth.

"Oh, Amelia. No. Not me."

He pointed to Josh. "Him."

All eyes shifted.

Robert stepped forward, silent as shadow. He placed a plate before Josh.

Six layers of chocolate cake, darker than sin. Ganache so rich it seemed to warp light. A quiet decadence in a world of fire and law.

Josh nodded politely. "Thank you, Robert."

Robert gave a small bow, then spoke clearly. "It is my honor to serve, young master. And for the record, the cake was your grandfather's suggestion. I merely ensured it would be memorable." He snapped his fingers once, crisp and sharp. With a quiet pop of magic, identical slices of cake appeared before each guest still seated.

That earned a faint snort from Percival.

Josh took a bite.

His eyes closed. He made a small sound that might have been reverent.

Tonks stared. "You're dramatic. That's just cake."

"You haven't tried it yet," Josh said around another bite.

Andromeda smiled softly, arms folded. "It is good to see the table alive again. Even if it took chocolate to do it."

Ted chuckled beside her, already halfway through his slice. He paused mid-bite, gave a satisfied hum, and grinned. "I've had worse meetings. None with dessert this good."

Josh swallowed, licked the fork clean, and set it down. Then he met Amelia's gaze.

"Same thing I told Arcturus," he said, smile slow and Southern.

"Ma'am, I just wanted lunch."

A beat passed.

Ted blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh into his plate. "Well," he said, brushing a crumb from his collar, "that's one way to kickstart a political realignment."

Tonks grinned, stabbing another bite of cake. "Honestly, that's kind of iconic."

Andromeda shook her head, though her lips curled into something fond and exasperated. "You're impossible. But I see it now. You've got the same sideways logic as your grandfather."

Arcturus leaned back slightly, lips twitching at the corners. "If nothing else, you certainly know how to command a room."

Amelia studied Josh in silence for a moment longer, then gave a short, sardonic nod. "Just lunch," she repeated, half to herself. "Well, I hope you enjoyed it. Because the fallout from this meeting might last for decades."

Josh offered a modest shrug, one shoulder rising in the way that said everything and nothing all at once.

"I'll take that under advisement," he said, reaching for his ice-cold glass of Coke.

Percival chuckled. "He's not wrong, though. If you start a revolution, it ought to come with dessert."

Josh tapped his interface under the table and quietly uploaded a photo to the group chat.

Attached: [Image — Chocolate Cake. Cross-section. Sinful.]

cartoon_nightmare: Bro. You did NOT just eat that without us.

momfriend.exe: IS THAT FROSTING-LAYERED GANACHE. SEND HELP. SEND CAKE.

disinteresteddoorknob: This is cruel and unusual. I demand restitution.

momfriend.exe: I will hack a Stargate and portal myself into your pantry. Try me.

'Diplomatic Dessert Delivery'** Objective: Send a slice of Black Manor chocolate cake to Momfriend.exe and Disinteresteddoorknob via multiversal courier.

Reward:

1x Sentient Toaster (won't stop humming elevator music and occasionally judges your life choices)

1x Pie (partially eaten by Dean Winchester, still warm, infused with emotional damage)

1x Sam Winchester's Lost Shoe (has residual eldritch anxiety and faint demon warding)

1x Crowley's Old Phone Number (may summon sass, sarcasm, and possibly favors if used ironically)

1x Vial of Imaginary Friend Blood (glows when you're lonely, tastes like cotton candy and regret)

Failure Penalty: Emotional guilt. Possibly memes.

Would you like to accept this optional quest? [YES] [NO, but I'm not proud of it]

cartoon_nightmare: Oh no. It triggered a quest.

disinteresteddoorknob: Please tell me this is real. I want that pie.

momfriend.exe: If I don't get that cake, I will personally rewrite reality to make you lactose intolerant.

OffScript: Please. As if lactose intolerance would stop anyone in this chat. We're two steps from trading magical baked goods for minor miracles.

SYSTEM RESPONSE: Optional Quest Declined.

momfriend.exe: 😭😭😭

disinteresteddoorknob: THIS IS INJUSTICE.

most_interesting_demigod: 😂🍰😂

Josh closed the chat window.

SYSTEM: Brilliant. You had a direct line to the multiversal broadcast hub and thought, "Better not use it." Truly, a masterclass in strategic obliviousness.

Omake: Good Things Come to Those Who Wait

The warehouse was cold. Abandoned. Reeking of sulfur, old blood, and rotting magic. Momfriend.exe, known locally as Aidan, cracked her knuckles and drove an angel blade cleanly into the jaw of a lesser demon that had been a little too smug for something held together by duct tape and spite.

"Prince of Hell," she muttered, stomping the corpse as it twitched. "Should've been a clue when the only 'sign' was badly faked Enochian on a Waffle House menu."

Dean Winchester kicked open a door across the room. "Clear!"

"Not clear," Castiel corrected, driving his angel blade into the host's chest. "Three more. Very rude."

Sam stepped into view, panting slightly. "Aidan, you good?"

"I'm fine," she said tightly. "I was until someone ruined cake day."

Dean blinked. "Cake what?"

She didn't answer. Instead, she opened her interface, tapped twice, and stared at the glowing image of the chocolate cake.

"Don't worry about it," she said flatly, voice tight.

The photo still shimmered on-screen. Cross-section. Sinful. Moist. Perfect.

She did not show them the screen. Just glared harder into the interface.

The others hesitated.

Dean squinted. "You sure you're good?"

Castiel tilted his head. "You seem... unsettled."

Sam exchanged a look with Dean but didn't press further.

Aidan did not respond. She drew an angel blade in one hand and raised her other toward the shadows. Two quick shots rang out. Her pistol, loaded with enchanted rounds, found their marks. Four more demons fried instantly. She smiled without warmth.

Then, from behind her, came the soft purring of a tiny engine.

A Vespa coasted silently into view, trailing faint blue fire. The rider wore a glittering helmet, silver jacket, and black gloves. He parked with precision, stepped off, and held out a pale box tied with crimson ribbon.

"Special delivery," the courier said.

Aidan stared. Then took the box.

Inside was a full, untouched cake. Black Manor chocolate. Six layers. Ganache. The works.

Resting atop the inner lid was a small card:

OffScript: Good things come to those who wait. Also, sorry about the pie shoe combo. That was a weird reward tier.

Aidan exhaled slowly. "I forgive nothing. But I accept this offering."

Dean looked over her shoulder. "That looks... terrifying."

Sam's voice was reverent. "That's not dessert. That's a weapon of mass affection."

Castiel tilted his head. "I believe it's still warm."

Aidan took the first bite.

Reality hiccuped around them in approval.

Dean nodded slowly. "I want one."