Arc 1: The Awakening
Chapter 1: The Rebirth
Year: 1953 – Somewhere in Wiltshire, England
POV: Cassius Arcturus Blacktorn
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Darkness. Stillness. Then… thought.
It begins with a flicker. A sharp, searing awareness that does not belong in the void I now inhabit. Most infants enter the world screaming. I enter it remembering.
My name is Cassius Arcturus Blacktorn. At least, that is what it will be. For now, I am not yet born. I am weightless and small, curled in warmth, floating in amniotic silence—but my mind burns like an ancient wand lit after centuries of slumber.
This world is not new to me. I remember it. I remember Hogwarts. The boy with the scar. The Dark Lord. The foolish headmaster with half-moon spectacles and twinkling eyes that hide too much. I remember the rise of Grindelwald. The fall of Voldemort. The betrayals. The bloodshed. The lies.
I was a reader of these stories—once. In another life. On another Earth. There, I was weak. Ordinary. Mortal in every sense. But death gave me a gift: rebirth, not as a Muggle, not even as a common wizard, but as the heir to something ancient. Something cursed. Something erased.
Blacktorn.
Even the name tastes forbidden. It does not exist in books. Not anymore. Purged from the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Burned from Ministry records. Branded as dark, dangerous, and unnatural. But I know better. I remember what they tried to erase.
We were old when the Peverells were children. We were feared when the Blacks were still merchants. We ruled through magic the world dared not name—blood sigils, soul-binding, bone-chained pacts. Dark magic was not wicked to us. It was sacred.
And now, I will reclaim it all.
I stretch my limbs inside the womb. My body is small, soft, and unfinished, but I can feel the blood already listening to me. Ancient blood. The blood of the Blacktorns. It sings when I will it. It hums with dormant curses and sleeping power. I will awaken it in time.
Magic coils around my eyes even before they open. I see nothing—and yet, I see everything. Veins of power flicker through the skin of my mother. Runes old and faded rest on the bones of this manor like whispers trapped in stone. Forgotten enchantments stir when I listen.
This place… it remembers me.
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The days blur. I grow.
With every beat of my unborn heart, my mind sharpens. My soul adjusts. I do not cry. I do not kick without purpose. My magic whispers with me, a serpent wrapped around my bones. I do not waste energy. Everything is preparation.
My parents speak little. My mother's voice is soft but strained, as if she carries not just a child but a burden of history. My father speaks less, but when he does, I feel the weight of regret in every syllable. They know what I am. Perhaps not entirely. But they feel it. The Blacktorn blood has awakened in their line once again, and it frightens them.
Good.
Fear is a useful beginning.
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Time bends. The womb tightens. Pressure builds. Pain ripples through the woman who will soon scream my name. I feel the magic in the air turn sharp—protective wards flicker like old soldiers raising rusty spears. The ancestral magic of the Blacktorns resists the act of birth itself. As if trying to keep me within, to keep the secret buried.
But I do not come into this world in chains.
No.
I will be born.
With a final surge of motion, the world bursts open. Light assaults me. Cold air rakes across my skin. The connection to the womb shatters. Voices shout—my mother, the midwife, perhaps even my father. But I hear none of them clearly.
What I hear is the silence between their words.
Their fear.
I do not cry.
I open my eyes.
They gasp. One drops the blanket. Another crosses herself.
Because my eyes—oh, my eyes—are not those of a newborn. They glow faintly. Like molten silver, laced with violet streaks, shining with ancient enchantments and cursed sight. These are not human eyes.
They are Blacktorn eyes.
The room stills.
In that moment, I am no longer just a child. I am proof. Proof that the bloodline has returned. That the darkness they buried lives again.
They do not smile. They do not celebrate.
They whisper.
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The following days pass in observation. I pretend to be slow, ordinary, quiet. But my mind races. I catalog every wand movement my father uses. Every potion my mother takes. The enchantments on my crib. The old elf that appears in the shadows, bowing with trembling reverence to my name.
"Young Master Blacktorn…"
I remember everything. I do not forget.
At night, I do not sleep. I watch the ceiling. I listen to the manor breathe. And I plan.
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Soon, I will speak.
Soon, I will walk.
And when I do… the world will begin to shift. First subtly. Then violently.
Let them raise Voldemort. Let them worship Dumbledore. Let the Boy Who Lived stumble into destiny.
I am not here to follow a story.
I am here to write one.
And the name that will stain history in ink, blood, and gold… is Cassius Arcturus Blacktorn.
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