The Unseen Ignition
The ritual had begun in silence, but it did not end quietly.
The instant Lily's heart stuttered and ceased, the sigils carved into the nursery floor erupted—not with fire, but with light that defied naming. Colors no human tongue had ever claimed spilled outward: molten amethyst bleeding into liquid starfire, veins of impossible emerald threading through veins of bruised violet, hues that seemed to remember the birth of galaxies and the death of gods. The geometric runes spiraled inward like collapsing nebulae, tightening, coiling, collapsing toward the center of the circle where the crib stood. Each line burned brighter as it drew closer to Hadrian, until the entire pattern imploded in a silent, blinding flash.
Then—nothing.
To anyone who might cross the threshold next—Albus Dumbledore with his piercing blue gaze, Minerva McGonagall with her sharp intake of breath, Sirius Black arriving too late with fury and grief already choking him—there would be no evidence. The floorboards were smooth, unmarked, ordinary oak once more. The walls bore only the faint scent of cedar smoke and spilled pumpkin spice. The protection Lily had woven was invisible to every eye but the one that had closed forever. It lived now only inside the sleeping child.
Her magic had not departed the world. It had simply changed addresses.
Lily's final breath carried everything she was. Not just the raw power she had wielded in life, but the essence beneath it: her brilliance, sharp as a scalpel; her will, unyielding as iron forged in secret; her hunger to understand, to master, to protect. All of it threaded through the air like molten silver, poured into Hadrian's small body, seeped into his bones, fused with the marrow, wrapped around the already-bright spark of his own core. His magic had always been formidable—unruly, instinctive, far beyond what a child of fifteen months should possess. Now it shimmered with something deeper. Her fire. Her edge. Her impossible refusal to yield.
And then, as the last ember of her spell sank beneath his skin, the world trembled.
It was not a quake felt in the bones of the earth. It was subtler. Deeper. A ripple that passed through the very weave of magic itself.
For this was the moment the ancient promise of Mother Magic finally ignited.
In the long millennia since her sacrifice, wizards and witches had carried her gift like a half-remembered dream. They had borrowed magic from the world around them—drawing ambient energy into their cores like sponges soaking up rainwater. They used that borrowed power as a battery: fill, expend, refill. Slow. Safe. Limited. They never truly understood what the goddess had given them.
The magical core she had placed inside every one of her children was not a reservoir. It was a generator.
A living engine meant to produce magic endlessly, to fuel itself, to grow stronger with every cycle. The body she had crafted for them was designed to adapt—evolve—with every surge of self-generated power. Muscles, nerves, senses, even the structure of their very cells were meant to change, strengthen, refine. To become something more with every breath of their own magic.
But the gift had lain dormant.
Wizards had never learned to kick-start the generator. They had never pushed enough raw magic into their cores to force the engine to turn. Even Merlin—greatest of them all—had come close, brushing the edge of true awakening, but never fully crossed the threshold. The rest had settled for rituals: bloodletting, potions, ancient pacts that altered flesh in crude, painful ways. Temporary fixes. Crutches. Never the full glory Mother Magic had intended.
Until now.
Lily's sacrifice had changed everything.
She had not merely shielded her son. She had flooded him.
A torrent of magic—far greater than any single witch could channel in a lifetime—poured into Hadrian's core at a speed no living wizard could absorb on their own. His small body, already humming with innate power, had no choice but to react on instinct. There was no time for thought. No ritual to guide him. Only need.
And so his core responded.
The generator stirred.
At first it was a low thrum, a vibration deep in his chest like the first heartbeat of a newborn star. Then it quickened. Faster. Deeper. The flood of Lily's magic crashed against the walls of his core, filling it to bursting. Pressure built—unbearable, exquisite. The engine could no longer remain still.
It turned.
A spark ignited.
Magic began to flow inward—not borrowed from the air, but born within. The core spun faster, generating its own power in a self-sustaining cycle. Excess magic—too much for the core to hold—spilled outward into Hadrian's body. His skin glowed faintly beneath the surface, a soft inner light that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. Cells drank it in greedily. Nerves fired brighter. Muscles knit themselves denser. Bones grew subtly harder, more resilient. His small form began to adapt—not in pain, not in violence, but in quiet, relentless evolution.
It would take time. Years. Decades, perhaps.
But the lock had been shattered.
The true potential of the species Mother Magic had birthed was no longer a distant promise. It walked, breathed, slept in a crib in Godric's Hollow.
Hadrian Potter stirred once in his sleep, tiny fingers curling around the edge of his blanket. The cloth dragon beside him puffed one last harmless cloud of smoke, then stilled.
Outside, the night wind carried the faint scent of ash and ozone. The stars above seemed to burn a little brighter.
And somewhere in the vastness beyond worlds, the higher beings who had once watched Mother Magic die felt the ripple pass through them. A shiver. A memory of dread.
The engine had started. And nothing in any verse would ever be the same.