The first thing I remember is warmth.
It wasn't the comfortable warmth of a blanket or the sun. No — this was the deep, humming warmth of magic, pulsing through my tiny newborn body like a river of light. I didn't need to open my eyes to know it was there. I could feel it in every cell, like I'd been born breathing magic instead of air.
And then the chit appeared.
Not physically — it was a screen, translucent and softly glowing, floating in the darkness of my newborn mind. A neat font greeted me:
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[Welcome, User]
[System Activated: Ultimate Adaptability]
[Subsystems Integrated: Evolution / 10,000x Critical Amplification]
[Note: Critical Amplification Trigger Chance: 100%]
[Warning: User is currently… a baby.]
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I blinked. Or at least, I think I blinked. It was hard to tell — newborn eyes are more for decoration than actual seeing.
Still, I understood the gist: I had just spawned into the Harry Potter universe as some sort of cheat-code wizard.
Ultimate Adaptability meant nothing could hurt me for long. Evolution meant I'd only get stronger. And the 10,000x Crit System… with guaranteed activation? That meant every little thing I did would have world-shaking consequences if I wasn't careful.
I decided not to sneeze.
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My ears caught soft voices.
"Look at him, Alaric," a woman whispered. Her voice had the musical warmth of a lullaby. "Our little miracle."
My father — Alaric Blackthorne — chuckled. "He's already looking around like he's plotting something. Definitely my son."
Good to know I was in a family where plotting was considered a positive trait.
---
I decided to test something. Carefully, very carefully, I lifted my tiny fist. Babies can't really control their strength, but I had a feeling I could. My system pulsed faintly in my mind — like a green light saying go ahead.
I waved.
It should have been adorable. Instead, every single speck of magic in the room surged toward me like I was the gravitational center of the universe. The candles on the walls flared so brightly they nearly turned to liquid wax. The runic wards on the door flashed in alarm. The air shimmered.
My mother gasped. "Did you feel that?"
"Yes," my father said slowly. "That was… unusual."
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I quickly withdrew my hand and pretended to be an ordinary baby. You know, the whole wide innocent eyes, occasional drool routine.
Internally, though, I was already analyzing what had happened.
Action: Baby wave.
Effect: 10,000x Crit triggered — pulled all nearby ambient magic into me.
Result: I had basically flexed at reality and reality had said Yes, sir.
---
That night, as my parents finally drifted off, I began my real work. Not that I had much to do — I was still in a crib, after all. But my mind, enhanced by the system, was already working at an adult level.
I reached out, mentally touching the threads of magic in the air. Magic wasn't invisible to me — it was a tapestry, a weave of glowing filaments that connected everything. My Ultimate Adaptability let me sense the way it moved, the way it hummed, the way it responded to thought.
I decided to try something small.
I thought about light.
A single thread of magic wove itself into a sphere of glowing white in front of me. It was tiny — about the size of a marble. But the Crit System didn't care about size.
The marble instantly flared into a blazing orb as bright as the sun. The shadows fled from my nursery like scared mice. Outside, an owl screeched in alarm. I panicked and tried to disperse it — but the crit turned the dispersal into a miniature shockwave.
Thump. My father jolted awake.
"What was that?" he muttered, stumbling toward the crib.
I froze — well, as much as a baby can freeze — and let the system automatically adapt. My magic hid itself, cloaking my aura so well that even Dumbledore himself wouldn't detect me unless I wanted him to.
When my father reached the crib, all he saw was a peacefully sleeping infant. I even let out a tiny sigh for good measure.
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Over the next few days, I kept experimenting. Not because I wanted to become powerful — I already was. But because I wanted to understand. My past life memories (fuzzy as they were) told me that in stories like this, the arrogant ones who flaunted their power always ended up as cautionary tales.
I preferred the other route — the quiet prodigy. The hidden ace. The one who could change the world but chose to explore it instead.
So I practiced subtlety.
Instead of lifting a block with magic, I'd make it light as a feather and push it casually.
Instead of fixing a broken toy instantly, I'd "find" another one to distract my parents.
Instead of stopping rain entirely, I'd just nudge the clouds aside over my window.
Still, the Crit System made it tricky. Once, I sneezed and accidentally made every flower in the garden bloom at once — in the middle of winter.
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It wasn't long before I realized something important: if I wanted to live a calm, friendly, adventurous life without attracting too much attention, I'd need to master control now, before Hogwarts.
And that… was going to be fun.
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By the time I was six months old, I could already:
Sense and manipulate magic without a wand.
Hide my magical aura completely.
Store spells for later use like preloaded arrows.
Absorb magical energy from the environment.
But most importantly, I'd learned how to smile innocently while hiding the fact that I could level a mountain by clapping.
For now, I was just Aarav Blackthorne — pure-blood wizard baby, adored by my family, harmless in appearance.