So, turns out being adopted isn't as bad as it sounds — unless you count the suspiciously polite people who raised me like I was some sort of magical vase.
Yeah, the Blakes. That's what they called themselves. Proper, polite, overly pleasant… a bit too perfect, if you ask me. They were like if tea cozies were people. Always dressed up for dinner even when no guests were coming, and I swear they once apologized to a bookshelf for bumping into it.
They loved me, sure — but in that very specific, very curated, please-don't-ask-about-the-basement kind of way.
Seriously. Never talked about family. Never took me to Diagon Alley. I wasn't even allowed to step past the third stair in the west wing, which I'm 99% sure led to either a dark secret or a really dusty wine cellar. And the basement? Always locked. Always quiet. And every time I asked about it, they smiled like they'd swallowed a cactus and said, "Not for you, darling."
Totally normal parenting.
Anyway, life was peaceful — weird, but peaceful. I had toys. I had books. I had suspiciously good access to ancient magical theory for a five-year-old. I spent my days pretending I was an ordinary boy with extraordinarily refined taste in tea and a very sarcastic inner monologue.
Then something happened.
Something that didn't belong in the quiet, rule-bound world the Blakes had built.
My adoptive mother — who had always been gentle and warm and a little too tired — fell seriously ill.
Not from a curse or accident or anything dramatic. Just… faded.
Her hands shook. Her voice grew weaker. The fire in her eyes dimmed, like a wandlight snuffed out in slow motion. All I knew was that each day, she looked more and more like she was slipping away.
I didn't understand much at the time. Not the condition. Not the silence. And definitely not the way Mr. Blake started locking the doors more often.
Then one evening, she stopped breathing.
No yelling. No screaming. Just stillness.
And that's when everything fell apart.
The room temperature dropped by ten degrees. The lamps flickered violently before bursting like overcooked pumpkins. The ancient grandfather clock shattered. Even the floor under my feet twisted slightly, like it was trying to curl up and hide.
And me? I stood there, wide-eyed, too young to know grief, too confused to cry.
But magic doesn't wait for emotional clarity.
Books launched themselves off shelves like they'd been ejected. The good china exploded (sorry again, Mum). The east wing windows imploded. A magical painting screamed and fainted.
And then — the moment it happened — I felt it.
A pulse.
A deep, thundering heartbeat, but inside my own veins.
🧬 Bloodline Awakening Detected
Slytherin
Gryffindor
Ravenclaw
Hufflepuff
Ambrosius (???)
⚠️ Primary Lineage: Sealed⚠️ Bloodline Limiters Engaged⚠️ Estimated Unlock Age: 7 Years⚠️ Magic Surges Must Be Controlled
🎁 Trait Unlocked: "Magical Suppression Field" – Automatically initiates lockdown during emotional bursts. Side effects may include floating furniture and concerned portraits.
I froze.
I'd seen some of those names before — barely, through the haze of half-loaded system screens and the Hogwarts Book of Admittance with all its blurry ink and magical censorship. But now? They were sharp. Clear. Claimed.
And then there it was again.
Ambrosius.
That name. Again. Like a clingy library ghost who won't stop recommending books you're too young to read.
No context. No clarity. Just there. Watching. Whispering.
Honestly, if Ambrosius turns out to be a cheese and not an overpowered ancient ancestor, I'm demanding a refund from the universe.
Whatever was inside me, waiting behind some cosmic child-lock, had finally stirred. The thing is, it didn't feel like power. It felt like recognition.
Like the magic inside me was saying, "Alright kid, you've suffered enough. Here's your pre-access pass to Hogwarts: Chaos Edition."
What I didn't know was that this burst would echo far beyond this manor — and not everyone would be pleased to hear that the so-called vase had just cracked the floorboards.