Chapter One: Ancient Magic

The room was dim, illuminated only by the pale light filtering through the narrow window. A boy sat on his bed, his hand stretched out before him, fingers spread wide in tense concentration. Slowly, tiny, colourful sparks flickered to life at his fingertips, casting brief flashes of light across the walls. A quiet smile tugged at his lips as he watched the sparks dance, the fleeting glow filling the darkened room with a sense of wonder.

In the world of wizards and witches, magic flowed through the fabric of life. From the bustling streets of Diagon Alley to the hallowed halls of Hogwarts, spells and enchantments were as natural as the changing seasons. Wizards learned to control their power through wands, words, and ancient traditions passed down through generations. Magic, for most, was structured — bound by rules, harnessed by technique.

But not for the boy in the orphanage.

His magic was different. It didn't follow the precise, controlled methods taught in wizarding schools. It didn't need a wand or an incantation. It was raw, ancient, and for now, it slept just beneath the surface. The sparks he played with were only a glimpse of something far greater — a power older than the magic most witches and wizards knew. And one day, that power would awaken fully, whether he was ready or not.

Most children born with magical abilities didn't truly tap into their power until they were older. For most, magic came in fleeting, uncontrollable bursts — accidental magic triggered by strong emotion. A vase would shatter in a fit of anger, or a broomstick might fly when they were scared. These moments were rare and usually unpredictable, fading as quickly as they appeared.

But for the boy in the orphanage, it was different. Magic came to him more easily, though it wasn't because of discipline or training. It was the ancient power coursing through his veins that set him apart. While other children his age struggled with their first accidental sparks, he could summon them with only a thought.

And yet, despite this natural affinity, true control eluded him. The power within was vast, but it was wild — beyond the reach of any simple spell or technique. All he could manage were the tiny flickers of light, small enough to go unnoticed but constant reminders of the immense potential lurking beneath the surface. He could feel it, like a river rushing just below a thin sheet of ice, ready to break free at the slightest shift.

For now, the sparks were all he could conjure, but even those came with a sense of both wonder and unease. Deep down, he knew there was more — much more — but he was also aware that the moment he reached for it, everything could change.

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He had always felt different.

It wasn't just the way he looked that set him apart, though his South Asian features — dark skin, thick black hair, and almond-shaped eyes — certainly didn't help him blend in with the pale-skinned faces of the other children in the orphanage. They teased him for it, of course, for looking different, for being "other" in a place where everyone was supposed to be the same, where they had all lost something and yet somehow, he had lost more.

But it wasn't just his appearance that made him feel isolated. There was something else, something that went far beyond what the other children could see. Something deeper.

Strange things happened around him, things no one could explain. He didn't know what it was or why it happened, but he knew it made him different in a way that scared the other children — and even himself, at times. Objects would move when he was angry. Lights flickered when he felt scared. Once, when he was furious after being bullied, the window next to him had shattered with a sharp crack, glass flying everywhere, even though he hadn't touched it.

The other children didn't experience anything like this. They lived in a world of normalcy, untouched by the strange force that seemed to linger around him. They whispered behind his back, avoiding him, not just because of his skin but because they didn't want to be near the boy who could break things without touching them, the boy who seemed cursed.

He couldn't explain it. No one could.

The orphanage staff dismissed it as misbehaviour or bad luck. They didn't see what was really happening — they just saw a boy who broke things, a boy who was difficult. And when he tried to explain, they simply punished him, their patience long gone. He had learned to stop arguing, to take the blame in silence. After all, even he didn't understand what was going on.

But deep down, he knew something was different inside him. The sparks that flickered at his fingertips when he was alone in his room were proof of that — they were small, barely noticeable, but real. He could feel the energy, the power, simmering just beneath the surface, waiting to burst out.

The other children couldn't see it, but they felt it. That was why they kept their distance. It wasn't just his skin, or the way he spoke, or the fact that he didn't look like them. It was the strange, unexplainable force that surrounded him. It made them uneasy, and it made him feel even more isolated than he already was.

He didn't belong, not in the orphanage, not in the world he knew. Whatever was happening to him, whatever this power was, it set him apart in a way that nothing else could. He wasn't just different on the outside — he was different *inside, too. And no matter how hard he tried to fit in, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was something more — or perhaps something less — than everyone around him.

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A/N wrote with AI cause cba to actually write and ive had this idea for time, so fuck it. IDGAF about flames this is for me. Taking inspo from the game as well