The dim morning light filtered through the stained glass windows of the Black Mansion's library. Dust floated like ghosts in the air as Thomas sat atop the backrest of a green leather chair, watching the smoke from his cigarette curl lazily upward.
It wasn't an ordinary cigarette. Runes spiraled down its surface, releasing a mix of moon-mint essence and myrtle extract. A self-made blend designed for mild magical stimulation: mental clarity, opened magical channels, and a state of near-prophetic awareness.
The silence broke.
Knock. Knock.
Thomas turned his head slightly. It wasn't the front door. The sound echoed from down the hallway.
Boom. Boom.
Another thud, heavier this time, like something large thrown against the wood.
He didn't flinch. Didn't move. Just took one last drag and extinguished the cigarette in a black obsidian ashtray.
He walked with calm steps to the oak front door. The seal was unmistakable: red wax, the Hogwarts crest, the parchment aged and precisely rolled.
He held it in his hand for a moment. It was warm—not aggressively magical, just enough.
He smirked.
"Punctual," he muttered, turning on his heel. "Time to tell him."
**
He moved through the mansion toward the training basement. The black stone walls were scarred with spells and old battles. In the center, Alaric was locked in combat with a metallic minotaur illusion. His breathing was heavy, spells erupting from his wand—Reducto, Expulso, Confringo—each one landing with booming impact.
Thomas watched from the entrance, arms crossed. The boy had talent. And fury. His body moved with precision, his magic channeled better through motion and anger.
He waited.
The illusion fell with a clean strike to the neck and dissolved into a violet mist.
"Not bad," Thomas said at last. "But you still think too much before you move."
Alaric turned, smiling through exhaustion.
"And you think too much before you live."
Thomas walked to the center of the training circle, drawing his wand. No further words.
The duel began.
First, physical movement: fists, knives, dodges. Pure taijutsu. Alaric was direct, fast, with well-placed power. Thomas barely moved. His blocks were gentle, like he'd already seen every move. His Magic Eye glowed faintly under his dark fringe.
Then the spells came. Alaric opened with Sectumsempra, but Thomas was already airborne. A Serpensortia exploded from his wand, birthing a serpent made of black smoke.
"Bite," he commanded in Parseltongue, and the creature lunged with venomous precision.
Alaric shielded himself with Protego Maxima, followed by a fiery chain—Incendio! Incendio! Incendio!—while Thomas manipulated the smoke to create illusions of himself, shifting like shadows.
A blade of energy grazed Thomas's cheek. Blood. Small. Controlled. Real.
He smiled.
The duel escalated.
Glacius. Aguamenti. Diffindo. Bombarda.
The chamber turned into a controlled storm of destruction. Until Alaric fell to his knees. His eyes glowed black—the Obscurus stirring beneath his skin.
Thomas raised his wand. The cursed tattoo on his forearm shimmered. Hellfire surged. Dark. Pure. Magical.
The Obscurus withdrew, and Alaric collapsed, gasping.
"Enough," Thomas said, conjuring an illusion of rain to cool the room.
**
Hours later, they wandered through the library. Kreacher appeared with a soft snap, holding a scroll sealed in black wax.
"Master Thomas," he said with an exaggerated bow, dressed in a butler's suit with the Black family crest embroidered on his chest. "The Dome has returned from Scotland. Full report. Would you like the details?"
"Later. For now, just new orders."
"Regarding Hogwarts?"
Thomas nodded, flipping through a tome on Advanced Runes.
"We'll regroup there. You'll act as external liaison. They'll be our eyes and ears. I want information. Internal maps. Secret routes. Identities of students with political or magical bloodlines."
Kreacher bowed.
"And the primary objective?"
Thomas snapped the book shut.
"To learn. Understand the terrain. We're not an army. Not yet."
**
In the dining hall, the Hogwarts letter lay open. Thomas ate spiced chicken over rice, using a book as a tray. Alaric bit into an apple nearby.
"Which House?" Thomas asked without looking.
"I don't care. As long as there's space to train."
"Good answer," Thomas muttered.
His Magic Eye pulsed faintly. Hogwarts was approaching.