Arc 1: The Awakening
Chapter 3: The Wandless Spell
Year: 1955 – Blacktorn Manor, Wiltshire, England
POV: Cassius Arcturus Blacktorn
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Power doesn't need permission.
It needs precision. Will. Silence.
And blood.
I sit alone in the eastern tower of Blacktorn Manor. A stone table rests in front of me, carved with runes so old even the magic around them trembles. My wand lies untouched beside me. I do not reach for it.
Wandless magic is not a feat—it is a declaration.
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The room is still. A circle of unlit candles surrounds me. A single raven feather floats in a glass bowl of crushed obsidian and basilisk scale—ingredients I stole from my family's hidden apothecary.
Today, I test the first true spell.
No light. No sparks. No incantation.
Only intent.
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I close my eyes.
Breathe.
Focus on the feather. Imagine the flow of magic—not from my hands, but from my core. Like water rising in a sealed glass, seeking any crack to escape.
I open my eyes and speak, not aloud, but within.
Levo.
Lift.
The feather shudders. The crushed obsidian ripples. The candle wicks twitch.
Then the feather rises—slow, elegant, flawless. Not from brute force, but from control.
A ripple of power spreads through the room.
The wards feel it.
The manor feels it.
I feel it.
---
Footsteps.
I let the feather fall and the spell fade as my father enters.
He says nothing at first. Just eyes me—calculating, always calculating. He sees the bowl. The crushed basilisk scale. The unlit candles. The silence.
And the untouched wand.
His lips twitch.
"You didn't use the wand."
"No," I reply simply.
He walks to the table, lifts the feather with two fingers, and inspects it. His expression doesn't change, but something shifts in the way he looks at me.
"You're not just a prodigy."
"I'm a Blacktorn."
That earns a pause. Then a nod.
"Come with me."
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He leads me deep into the manor. Lower than the cellar, past stone halls sealed with blood-magic. I count six anti-Apparition wards, two traps keyed to intruders, and a barrier that tastes of ancient dragonbone.
We stop before a wall made of solid onyx.
He raises his wand.
"Mors Hereditas."
A crack splits the wall. It opens like a mouth.
Inside is a room of mirrors.
No dust. No age.
Only reflection.
But these mirrors do not show me. Not as I am.
They show possibilities.
In one, I see myself with eyes like burning suns. In another, I sit on a throne woven from serpents and silver. In a third, I stand beside a woman cloaked in fire, with five children at our feet, all marked with the Blacktorn crest.
My future. Or my warning.
"I saw this room once, at fifteen," my father says quietly. "The mirrors showed me nothing but ruin."
"And now?"
He looks at me, expression unreadable.
"They show me survival."
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He leaves me there for hours.
Each mirror pulls at me—tries to seduce, threaten, distract. One whispers glory, another whispers madness. One shows me bowing before Dumbledore, another before the Dark Lord.
I shatter that mirror with a thought.
I bow to no one.
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By nightfall, I return to my chamber. My hand bleeds from where I touched the broken mirror. The blood glows faintly. My magic pulses through the cut.
Wandless magic.
Blood-born magic.
Blacktorn magic.
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Before I sleep, I write a word on parchment.
Dominate.
The ink soaks deep.
It's not just a goal.
It's a prophecy.
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