Arc 1: The Awakening
Chapter 6: Lessons in Shadow and Silk
Year: 1956 – Age 3, Blacktorn Manor, Wiltshire, England
POV: Cassius Arcturus Blacktorn
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Power doesn't rest in spells alone.
It breathes in secrets.
It thrives in influence.
And it dresses in silk.
Today, I learn politics.
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My tutor is not a wizard.
She is worse.
Lady Desdemona Malfoy.
My mother's cousin. A pure-blood witch of the old ways, raised in the court of the French Ministry, educated at Beauxbatons, and feared in every ballroom from Vienna to Cairo.
She once made a Bulgarian ambassador weep during a dinner party without lifting her wand. Her tongue is sharper than a basilisk's fang, her perfume is laced with calming draughts and truth serum, and her eyes never blink when she lies.
Perfect.
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She enters the drawing room without knocking. Silk robes whisper behind her like ghosts.
"Cassius," she says, sitting opposite me, crossing her legs with grace honed by centuries of breeding. "Have you learned to lie yet?"
I tilt my head.
"I prefer the truth that sounds like a lie."
She smiles. Slightly.
"You'll do."
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She begins with posture.
Not just how to stand, but when. Never lower your gaze unless to feign submission. Never raise your chin unless you're about to kill.
I listen. I absorb.
Next is voice.
Softness disarms. Pauses confuse. Charm is a blade sharpened by tone.
"You will never be the loudest in the room," she says. "But you will be the most dangerous. Make people want your silence more than your words."
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We study bloodlines.
Not genealogy—leverage.
The 28 Sacred Houses. Who married whom. Who's in debt. Who holds dark secrets beneath shining reputations.
She teaches me how to spot weakness in family trees like cracks in a shield.
"The Greengrass girl has dragon pox in her maternal line. No one speaks of it. Use it when the time comes."
"The Rosiers pretend loyalty to France. But they fear scandal. Bait them with it."
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Then she speaks of wives.
Not women.
Alliances.
"Three wives," she says, running her gloved fingers across a map of wizarding Europe. "One from each of the ancient tongues—English, French, and Slavic."
"One will give you sons of blood."
"One will give you magic."
"One will give you access."
"Breed them well."
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At night, I return to the vault.
Not to take—
To train.
I pour over forbidden grimoires by candlelight. I burn my fingertips learning blood sealing spells. My magic no longer obeys wandwork alone. I can feel it coiling around my fingers like smoke.
I test the Rite of Painless Fire on a rat.
It does not scream.
It simply stops being.
Perfect.
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My mother notices changes.
She doesn't question.
She watches me with fear and pride twisted together. She once dreamed of shaping me into a political heir.
Now she sees something else.
Something older than politics.
A true heir of Blacktorn.
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Lady Desdemona brings me guests.
The children of allies. Future tools. Future enemies. I play with them. Smile. Laugh.
Then I learn their fathers' investments. Their mothers' ambitions. Their fears.
One boy cries when I mention his dead grandfather. He calls him "grandpère."
So I smile and say, "I speak to the dead too. Would you like to?"
He doesn't come back.
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At three years old, I can manipulate adult emotions with silence and a glassy stare. I can bend house elves with my voice alone. I know how to poison with potions and promises.
But I'm not strong enough yet.
Not nearly.
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So I wait.
And I plan.
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The Ministry of Magic sends another letter this month. A quiet reminder of my father's obligations to the Wizengamot.
He ignores it.
They can do nothing. Not while the wards around Blacktorn Manor are woven from blood magic and prophecy.
But they know I exist now.
That will matter—soon.
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Lady Desdemona departs after six weeks. She kisses my hand like I am already Lord of the House.
"You are not a child, Cassius," she says. "You are an empire waiting to awaken."
I do not reply.
I simply nod.
Empires do not thank people.
They consume them.
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When I sleep that night, I dream of thrones.
Not the ones in London or Paris.
But the obsidian seat beneath the Vault.
And the voice of Cassian Blacktorn whispering—
"Rule, or be ruled."
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