The world was heavy with silence when he was born.
He remembered the pain, the screams, the blood—his mother's arms trembling as she held him. Her eyes, filled with terror and love, were the first thing he ever truly saw. In those brief moments, he had understood something few did: love was power, and grief… grief carved scars into the soul.
Her death came quickly. She didn't scream. She simply stopped breathing, as if whatever held her together had finally collapsed.
He never cried.
He understood, from the beginning, that emotions were tools. His body was that of an infant, but his soul was forged in fire. Thomas Black was no ordinary child. He was a man reborn—an assassin, betrayed and murdered, reborn in a world soaked in hidden power and ancient magic.
The orphanage was his new battlefield. A place with gray walls, dull faces, and children who stared at him like he didn't belong. The matron found him curious—too intelligent, too calm. But she never questioned him deeply. No one did. That suited him.
He spent his days watching, cataloging, meditating. Every breath, every blink, calculated. At five, he began trying to recreate spells from memory. "Lumos," "Accio"—basic magic, nothing fancy. But no matter how precise his wandless attempts were, he failed. Magic wasn't like muscle memory. It was elusive. Still, he felt it—inside, coiled and quiet.
So he meditated. Focused. Disciplined. He was training, not just his mind, but his essence. And on the night of his fifth birthday, it happened.
The pain struck like fire behind his eye. He fell to the ground, gripping his face. For hours he burned in silence. And when the pain faded, he opened his eyes to a new world.
One of his eyes was now pale white—not dead, but shining with strange life, like moonlight trapped in crystal. With it, he could see the flow of magic. Lines of energy pulsing through walls, objects, people. Paths of potential. Motion before it began. Not emotions—but intentions. The magic itself whispered its secrets.
The Eye had awakened.
And with it, Thomas saw something else.
Alaric.
A boy like no other.
---
The screams echoed through the back courtyard.
Thomas didn't run. He didn't panic. He walked.
As he approached, the scene revealed itself—five boys surrounding a smaller one, curled up on the ground. Alaric. The boy everyone called weird. The boy Thomas had been watching for weeks.
A stick was raised.
The air shimmered. Magic, raw and unstable, crackled like invisible lightning. Thomas activated the Eye.
What he saw was not just magic. It was a storm. Inside Alaric, something dark and coiled—like a serpent sleeping in chains. An Obscurus… not fully born, but forming.
Fascinating.
He stepped into the circle.
"Hey! This isn't your business, Thomas!" one of the boys barked.
Thomas didn't respond.
He struck.
A kick to the thigh brought the first down. A sharp twist and grip to the neck—perfect pressure—knocked him out. The second one tried to run, but Thomas closed the distance, hitting his solar plexus and then striking his temple. He crumpled.
Another panicked. Too late. Thomas ripped the stick from his hand and cracked it against the back of his head—measured, not lethal. The rest scattered like rats.
Alaric trembled, silent, tears down his face.
Thomas crouched beside him.
"Look at me."
No response.
"Look at me," he said again, voice calm and cold.
Alaric's eyes met his. No comprehension. Just pain. Confusion. Hopelessness.
"You shouldn't have helped… I'm not worth it," Alaric whispered.
Thomas stared at him, still as a statue. In another life, he had seen this same scene. Another boy. Another battlefield. Another broken soldier. He remembered the words that turned that child into something more.
He repeated them now, in the same cold tone.
"If you don't want to live for yourself… then live for me."
Alaric blinked.
"For you…? Why?"
"Because you belong to me now."
That was all.
No promises. No warmth. Just truth.
He extended his hand. Alaric, trembling, took it.
And from that moment on, he was not alone.
---
That night, Alaric didn't speak. He sat near Thomas in the dormitory, quiet, but his eyes never left him. Thomas said nothing either. The Eye was calm now, the storm subdued. The seed of the Obscurus was still there—dangerous, unstable—but contained.
Alaric had potential. Real magic. Not trained. Not refined. But wild and raw. His parents had been Muggles, murdered in some random act of violence. But Alaric… he was something else. A magical child born of trauma and pain. Isolated. Bullied. Repressed.
Perfect soil for an Obscurus to grow.
Thomas didn't pity him. Pity was useless. But he did see value.
Alaric would become strong—or he would die. There was no middle ground.
And Thomas… Thomas would make sure he didn't die.