The halls of Hogwarts had changed. December had arrived with a breath of frost, dressing the castle grounds in silvery white. Snow blanketed the turrets and towers, and sharp icicles hung like ancient swords from every windowsill. The Black Lake had begun to freeze along the edges, and students bundled themselves in thick scarves and cloaks as the wind swept through the courtyards like an invisible beast.
Elias Blackthorn stood at the tall window of the Slytherin common room, the green-hued glass fogging slightly from the warmth inside. He had been rising earlier than the rest of his peers, preferring the quiet moments before dawn when even the dungeons were still. In the dim glow of magical lanterns, he sipped on warm tea, a cup laced with a hint of his own concoction for energy and focus.
He had spent the past weeks consumed with routine—silent training in the Room of Requirement, studying ancient magical theory, and practicing spells well beyond his age group. His magical reserves had expanded noticeably, something he felt not just in the raw power of his casting but in the very flow of magic through his body. His control, honed over hours of precise wandwork and silent incantation, had reached a level most fifth years would envy.
Despite his progress, Elias remained careful. His aura, powerful as it was becoming, was cloaked beneath a veil of practiced subtlety. There were no flashy displays, no attention drawn in the corridors. He avoided duels, ignored challenges, and answered only when required in class, always modest in tone but exact in content.
It was the way of the Blackthorns—power worn like a well-cut robe, not flaunted like armor.
Elias's weekdays were structured with almost military precision. After breakfast in the Great Hall—where the enchanted ceiling mirrored the bleak, overcast skies—he attended every class on his schedule. Potions with Professor Snape had quickly become his favorite, not because of the professor's demeanor, which was as cold and cutting as the weather outside, but because Elias respected the art. Brewing required focus, subtlety, and patience—virtues he valued. Snape had taken notice, often hovering nearby during Elias's work, offering the occasional grunt of approval or a sharp nod.
In Transfiguration, Elias matched Professor McGonagall's high standards with clean, deliberate wandwork. She rarely smiled, but when Elias transfigured a matchstick into a hummingbird that flew loops around the classroom before turning back into a toothpick midair, she paused.
"Well done, Mr. Blackthorn," she said, writing something in her notes.
Defense Against the Dark Arts was the most unpredictable. Professor Quirrell's stuttering lectures were dull at best and incoherent at worst. Still, Elias paid close attention—not to the man's words, but to his aura. There was something wrong with Quirrell. He felt… tainted. Elias had no intention of exposing anything, but he stayed alert. He knew what was hidden under that turban. He had read this tale, seen the signs, and would not be caught off guard.
He merely watched.
Charms with Flitwick was easier, and Elias appreciated the precision the professor demanded. Flitwick was fair, excited by talent, and in his class, Elias allowed himself to perform just a touch above average—enough to stand out, not enough to invite whispers.
When classes ended, he went straight to the Room of Requirement. The room always appeared as a candle-lit dueling chamber for him, its polished floor enchanted to silence sound, its walls lined with arcane symbols glowing faintly. Here, he practiced without limits—silently casting non-verbal spells, weaving elemental magic, and experimenting with shield charms, explosive runes, and old wandless techniques that required perfect focus.
While other students spent their evenings gossiping by the fire or preparing for the upcoming holidays, Elias Blackthorn kept to himself. His evenings were occupied with studying arcane theory, pouring through aged grimoires in the library's deeper sections. Madam Pince, who usually loomed over curious students, allowed him silent access—he never misbehaved and always returned books in pristine condition.
Even Hermione Granger, who had grown used to dominating the front rows and answering every question, had started casting glances at Elias. She had noticed how professors often directed questions his way now, how he never raised his hand—yet when called upon, always answered precisely.
He remained indifferent. She was sharp, but Elias had lived a life beyond this place. He admired her dedication but did not seek her attention.
During one evening, Daphne Greengrass approached him as he sat near the frost-coated windows of the common room, a thick leather-bound book resting in his lap.
"You don't talk much," she said, sitting beside him.
"Neither do you," Elias replied, not looking up.
There was a pause, then a faint smirk from her. "Touché."
They didn't talk long, but an understanding began forming between them. Daphne wasn't easily impressed, nor was she a fool. She noticed Elias's restraint—the way he watched people, the way he measured every word before speaking.
As snow thickened across the castle grounds, excitement for the Christmas holidays buzzed in the air. Hogsmeade trips were discussed in whispers, decorations were slowly being unpacked, and even the Great Hall began to sparkle with early floating lights and garlands.
Elias had no intention of staying at Hogwarts during the break. As the final week of classes before the holidays began, he received a letter from his parents confirming the portkey schedule. It was a formal invitation issued through the Ministry for transportation rights—a courtesy not extended to all wizarding families, but the Blackthorns were not ordinary.
"Going home for the holidays?" Blaise Zabini asked casually one morning over breakfast.
"I always do," Elias answered with the calm dignity that never left him.
A few students, including Daphne and Malfoy, had also planned to leave. The Weasleys, as expected, were staying, and Hermione Granger looked unsure—torn between staying to study or going home.
Elias had no interest in their plans.
On the last evening before departure, as the snow fell thick over the castle and muffled even the distant sounds of laughter, Elias stood alone by the Black Lake. The moonlight shimmered on the frozen surface, casting silvery light across his face. He had grown stronger in these few months—his control, his magical power, his confidence—it had all sharpened.
On the final morning before the Christmas holidays began, the corridors of Hogwarts were filled with excited chatter and dragging trunks. Students bustled about, some wearing knit scarves from their houses, others pulling on enchanted mittens that sparkled or changed colors with each step. The energy in the castle felt different—lighter, freer, as though the very walls were exhaling.
Elias Blackthorn walked with quiet composure, his trunk gliding behind him, charmed to follow at a slow, silent pace. He passed through the great double doors of the Entrance Hall, where snowflakes danced in the air like tiny white fireflies. His cloak, trimmed with silver runes, fluttered slightly in the breeze.
"Mr. Blackthorn," came the familiar voice of Professor McGonagall. She was standing by the enchanted portkey point with a clipboard in hand.
He nodded politely. "Professor."
"You're cleared for the ten-thirty portkey to the Blackthorn estate, I believe," she said, checking her list. "One of the few students leaving by Ministry-authorized travel."
"Yes, ma'am."
She gave him a small, knowing look. "Do enjoy the holidays. And rest. I imagine you're the sort of boy who forgets that part."
He didn't answer, only gave a polite smile and stepped onto the glowing Ministry disc. A second later, the world twisted—and with a flash of cold blue light, he was gone.
Blackthorn Manor, nestled deep within a magically hidden valley in the Scottish Highlands, was grand and silent under the weight of winter. Ancient, dark-stone towers stood tall against the snow-covered mountains, and spell-lanterns glowed softly along the winding paths. Protective wards shimmered faintly in the air, like heat ripples over snow.
Elias appeared on the marble portkey platform at the manor's edge. Before he could take a step, a voice called out to him from the main path.
"Welcome home, son."