The grand manor of the Blackthorn family was silent by evening, save for the faint crackling of the fire in the drawing room. Elias sat before it, the flickering flames casting long shadows on the walls, mirroring the storm of thoughts within him. The earlier conversation with his father had settled like a weight on his chest—his path ahead was neither easy nor ordinary.
Lucian Blackthorn entered with his usual graceful silence, dressed in deep velvet robes that bore the Blackthorn family crest over the heart. His eyes were sharp, but tonight there was a seriousness in them that Elias rarely saw.
He poured himself a drink and sat across from his son. For a moment, there was only silence—then Lucian spoke.
"You've grown, Elias. More than I expected in such little time."
Elias didn't respond with words, only met his father's gaze with unwavering calm. It was Lucian who broke the silence again.
"Let's speak plainly. You're not like the others. You've always known that. The magic inside you… it's deeper. Stronger. But if you want to walk the path toward true power—real, enduring magical greatness—then you must begin now."
Lucian continued, "You already know magic reserves grow with age. But for some—those with potential, discipline, and vision—they can be expanded through intense and dangerous training. Not all methods are equal. The one we possess… is unlike any in the world."
"Our method," Lucian said, voice low, "has no side effects. No mutations. No degradation of the soul or mind. Unlike others."
Lucian smiled faintly at his son's composure. "Good. I've begun acquiring the rarest of the materials. Most of them are banned or considered extinct. But the Blackthorn name opens many doors."
The quiet in the manor study was absolute, broken only by the gentle crackle of fire in the hearth. Elias sat across from his father, posture composed, yet the intensity in his eyes betrayed the thoughts storming beneath.
Lucian stood and walked to a tall cabinet at the far end of the room. With a touch of his wand and a quiet incantation, the wood shimmered and split open to reveal a secured inner vault. Inside, vials, crystals, parchment scrolls, and small chests glowed faintly with enchantments. He retrieved a single, black-bound tome and turned toward his son.
"This," he said, placing the book on the table between them, "is Ars Magica: The Silent Heart. It's been passed down through generations of our family, hidden from the wider magical world."
Elias leaned in, eyes scanning the old runes etched onto the leather cover. The book radiated quiet power. His Occlumency training kept his emotions masked, but even he couldn't suppress the awe completely.
"This is the method?" Elias asked softly.
Lucian nodded. "The true method. Every magical being has a core, Elias. Most never consider its limitations. They train spells, brew potions, duel with flair—but few ever think of what fuels it all."
He turned the book open with reverent fingers, flipping to a page marked with a ribbon of midnight-blue silk.
"Core expansion is… dangerous. Most techniques are crude. That fool Grindelwald experimented with magical absorption and soul fusions. It broke him long before Dumbledore stopped him. Voldemort—" Lucian's lips curled into a thin line "—used something darker. Forbidden spells and rituals that twisted his body and shattered his soul."
Elias listened silently. He knew this, vaguely. But hearing it like this, from someone who had survived both eras, gave it weight.
"Dumbledore," Lucian continued, "expanded his core using phoenix magic. Albus was already an exceptional wizard, but it was the sacrifice of his phoenix, Fawkes, that allowed him to bind regenerative magic to his core. It nearly killed him. Few know how fragile he became afterward."
Elias tilted his head. "And our method?"
Lucian's gaze sharpened. "Safe. Controlled. No side effects—if the wizard has sufficient talent. The Blackthorn method enhances the natural potential of a magical core through a gradual infusion of mystical materials, specialized runes, and ambient magical fields. It's not instantaneous. It's a ritual that must be done in phases."
He pulled a scroll from the side of the tome and unrolled it. A circular diagram filled with arcane symbols, constellations, and elemental paths unfolded like a magical blueprint.
"There are seven stages of core strengthening. Each requires a unique combination of catalysts—some costing more than a fortune. The first stage alone demands powdered heartwood from an Arcane Oak, starlight-infused moonstone, and dragon marrow from an elder drake."
Elias's eyes narrowed slightly. "Even the first stage costs millions of Galleons?"
Lucian chuckled. "Yes. And it only gets more ridiculous. The third stage calls for a single tear from a Veela queen—something believed extinct. But I've already secured what we need up to the fourth stage."
The magnitude of Lucian's efforts sank in. Elias wasn't surprised, but he was grateful. "And what of your own journey, Father? How far did you reach?"
Lucian's expression shifted to something distant. "Fourth stage. My potential plateaued. I was brilliant by the standards of the Ministry, perhaps even feared. But I was never destined to stand beside Dumbledore or Voldemort. My magic is on par with someone like Severus Snape—formidable, but not legendary."
There was no shame in his voice, only truth.
"You," he added, locking eyes with his son, "are different. I saw it the day you were born. You have a capacity that outstrips mine. We will test your limits—but wisely."
Elias nodded. "I'm ready."
Lucian stood again and walked toward the fireplace. With a flick of his wand, the hearth twisted open, revealing a passage that descended below the manor.
"go" The ritual begins at tomorrow"
As Elias stepped out of the ritual chamber, the cool air of the corridor struck his flushed skin like a balm. Every step felt different—not heavier, but more solid. More anchored.
He didn't rush back to his chambers. Instead, he walked through the east wing slowly, letting the magic within him resettle. It pulsed with a strength and clarity that hadn't been there the night before. His senses were sharper, more attuned. The very air around him seemed to respond to his presence, like a breeze shifting toward a flame.
By the time he reached the private library, he already knew.
He could feel it—not just the usual awareness of having magic, but the weight of it. It didn't coil restlessly like it had before. It moved with rhythm, with depth. Controlled, yet vast. When he flexed his fingers, small sparks danced beneath the skin—not visible to the eye, but there in the hum, in the pressure.
He sat down at the carved mahogany desk and reached for his wandless magic instinctively. A simple levitation charm—Wingardium Leviosa. Before, it had required a mental nudge, a word, a tiny push of will.
Now?
The chair at the far end of the room rose off the ground without a flicker of resistance.
Elias didn't even murmur the incantation.
He slowly turned his palm upward, and the chair spun in mid-air with a graceful ease, responding not just to his intent but to his will. It was like directing a part of his own body.
He lowered the chair back down gently. Not even a sound as it touched the floor.
"Graduation level," he whispered to himself.
The realization wasn't surprising—Lucian had prepared him, warned him of the leap—but experiencing it was another thing entirely. His reserves now dwarfed those of most Hogwarts students. Even sixth and seventh years, save for a few outliers like Bill Weasley or perhaps Nymphadora Tonks, wouldn't come close.
The expansion hadn't just increased his magical storage—it had refined his control.
Elias summoned a cup from the far bookshelf with another thought. It snapped into his hand like a loyal hound. He caught it, turned it over, and conjured hot tea with a simple flick of his fingers, no wand in sight.
He sipped, then allowed himself a rare smile.
This wasn't just a step forward. This was a foundation. One more ritual next year, and another the year after that, and by the time he reached adulthood... he would be beyond the grasp of any who might try to control or manipulate him.
And Dumbledore—he had noticed already, of course. But now the ring enchanted continued to veil his true magical signature. To the outside world, he still appeared no stronger than a second-year.
Let them underestimate him.
He stood again and began channeling. Small spells first, letting his new core stretch into motion. Charms, transfigurations, shield spells—one after another, each more complex, each more draining than the last.
And yet he never came close to exhaustion.
He conjured a shield large enough to cover the entire reading room, then shrunk it into the size of a pendant. He turned a wooden chess piece into a living raven and reversed it without leaving a trace. The air shimmered faintly from the accumulated magic, but Elias's breathing remained steady.
Even dueling spells came easily. He practiced silent Expelliarmus, Stupefy, and Protego Maxima, layering them together and launching mock sequences against a conjured training dummy. Each spell was sharper, faster, more efficient.
By the time evening fell and the magical wards of the manor began humming with protective rotation, Elias had tested more than two dozen advanced spells—and hadn't even tapped the bottom of his reserves.
Satisfied, he extinguished the lights in the room and returned to his chambers.
Lucian was waiting for him there, seated by the fire, a goblet of mulled wine in his hand.
"You've tested yourself," his father said, without looking.
"I had to know," Elias replied. "And you were right."
Lucian turned then, his expression calm but satisfied. "So you've reached the level of a graduate."
"Easily," Elias answered.
His father sipped the wine. "Then remember this: power reveals more than just strength. It reveals character. Use it well, Elias."
The fire crackled between them, casting long shadows on the walls. For a time, neither spoke.
And then Lucian added, with a small smile, "Next year's ritual will be harder. And more expensive."
Elias chuckled quietly. "Start collecting."