Arc 1: The Awakening
Chapter 4: The Forbidden Spellbook
Year: 1956 – Age 3, Blacktorn Manor, Wiltshire, England
POV: Cassius Arcturus Blacktorn
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Knowledge is the purest drug. The deeper the secrets, the sweeter the addiction.
And today, I plan to overdose.
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The library of Blacktorn Manor is older than some wizarding bloodlines. Stone walls wrapped in layers of enchantment. Shelves stacked with tomes wrapped in dragonhide, cursed leather, and veiled in illusion. Books that whisper when no one's listening.
Most children are told bedtime stories. I read The Treatise on Soul Fracture before I turned three.
But one section of the library is sealed by blood rite: The Forbidden Aisle.
I've waited until my third birthday.
Because that's when the wards recognize me as heir.
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I slice my palm with a ritual silver knife. Blood drips onto the lock—a carved serpent swallowing its tail.
It hisses.
Glows.
And opens.
The temperature drops instantly. Not from weather—but weight. The kind of magic so heavy, so ancient, that the walls seem to breathe with it.
I step inside.
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The first book I pull is bound in red scales.
"Occult Transfigurations: Flesh, Bone & Fire"
The second is heavier—its title burned into obsidian:
"Dominatus: The Art of Magical Control"
I don't flinch when a third book tries to bite me.
I bite it back—with a spell whispered in Parseltongue.
Yes, I speak the language of serpents.
It came to me naturally. Like breathing. Like cruelty.
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Hours pass as I study. No fairy tales. No Hogwarts-level spells. This is knowledge meant for warlords, not children.
But I am no child.
Not really.
Not inside.
Not with the memories I carry.
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I remember reading Harry Potter. I remember Voldemort's rise and fall. I remember Fantastic Beasts, the bloodlines, the betrayals, the future.
And now, I make that future mine.
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By midnight, I find it.
The spellbook.
It is hidden behind an illusion—a false shelf that only reveals itself under dragonbone dust and basilisk venom.
I use both.
The book is slim. Wrapped in faded grey leather.
No title.
I open it.
Inside: no words.
Only ink that shifts, morphs, waits.
It tests me.
Who are you?
I don't speak. I bleed again. Let the book drink.
And it accepts.
The pages burst into flame—cold, silver-blue—and then reveal spells.
Spells that should not exist.
Time-slicing charms. Memory manipulation. Spells that rip magic from others and bind it to your soul.
One spell stops me cold.
"Umbra Nascitur – The Birth of Shadow."
The ink is written in blood. I don't know whose.
But the description says:
"To cast this spell is to split the self, to become what the world fears. To rise beyond mortality."
I smile.
Perfect.
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The book binds to me. A seal forms on the inside of my wrist—a small silver serpent biting its own tail.
It glows faintly.
Like a promise.
Or a warning.
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I seal the aisle again.
My father doesn't ask what I did.
He doesn't need to.
That night, he pours me a glass of potion laced with wyvern's root and says, "You opened the aisle. Good."
"You knew?"
"I built the wards. I knew the day you were born you'd surpass me."
He places a single key on the table.
The key to the family vault.
Not the Gringotts vault. No. The true one—beneath the manor. Beneath the dead.
"Your legacy is buried with your ancestors," he says. "Unearth it."
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I don't sleep that night.
I lie in bed, the spellbook against my chest, magic whispering in my ears.
Power is no longer a goal.
It's a path.
And I've already started walking.
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