Arc 1: The Awakening
Chapter 13: The Selwyn Compromise
Year: 1960 – Age 8, Blacktorn Manor
POV: Cassius Arcturus Blacktorn
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I sit in the high-backed chair carved from Thestral bone and silverwood, sipping black tea laced with a single drop of unicorn blood—enough to energize, not to curse. The Pact of the Black Sigil now binds House Nott. And with one domino toppled, the others must fall in place.
Today, I call upon House Selwyn.
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Their manor lies deeper in Wiltshire, hidden behind blood wards older than the Ministry itself. When I cross the threshold, the wards hesitate—not in warning, but recognition.
I belong.
Even the old magics can taste my blood.
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Lord Marcus Selwyn greets me at the door, younger than Lord Nott but harder to read. His smile is faint, polite. He masks his ambition with civility, but I see it—in his posture, the way he glances at my wand hand, the way his fingers twitch near his cuff.
He knows I'm dangerous.
But he doesn't know how much.
Yet.
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"I appreciate the invitation," I say.
He gestures me in. "When a Blacktorn reaches out, one listens. We thought your family lost."
"Lost things still return," I say. "Sometimes… stronger."
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We sit in his study, watched by family portraits. His daughter, Callidora Selwyn, passes by—dark hair, sharp cheekbones, calculating eyes. Older than me by five years, but blood magic doesn't care for age when marriages are arranged.
She pauses long enough to observe me.
I hold her gaze.
She flushes and disappears.
She'll be one of mine.
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Lord Selwyn wastes no time.
"You seek alliance?"
"No," I say. "I offer power."
That catches him.
I open a black scroll, revealing the Pact of the Black Sigil. I explain—what Nott has agreed to, what Avery will agree to soon, what Rosier is considering.
I don't hide my goal.
A new internal coalition of the Sacred Twenty-Eight—bound not by pride, but fear, ambition, and fertility. Five children per marriage. Magical education optimized. Vaults pooled. Secrets protected.
Legacy reborn.
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"I assume you want my daughter," he says, tone flat.
"I want your future."
He frowns.
So I lean closer and whisper:
"Would you rather see your line fade into obscurity, diluted by half-bloods… or reborn as the new core of the next magical age?"
His eyes widen.
I continue, "When Voldemort rises, he'll purge bloodlines, not protect them. But I will protect those who kneel early. Those who give me heirs."
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Silence.
Then: "And what of Dumbledore?"
"Let me worry about him," I say coldly. "He only sees light. He never watches the shadows."
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He doesn't sign right away. Selwyn is careful. He asks to discuss with his wife. I allow it. He's already leaning.
I leave the Pact scroll with him. Just holding it plants the mark—ancient compulsion weaved into the contract. Soon he will sign, whether he understands it or not.
Magic works better with a choice.
Even if that choice is a lie.
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That evening, I receive an owl.
Rosier agrees.
Three down.
One to go: Avery.
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Before sleep, I visit the vault beneath Blacktorn Manor—deep in the catacombs. I light the sigils and descend into the Chamber of Echoes, where the walls whisper past oaths and old power.
There lies the Mirror of Noctis—a cursed twin to the Mirror of Erised.
It doesn't show your desire.
It shows your power—what you will become.
I stare into it.
I see myself older, crowned in onyx, wands shattered at my feet, dragons circling above, three wives kneeling, each pregnant with magic-laced heirs.
I smile.
The Mirror never lies.
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