Tom woke to an unfamiliar silence. His bed was far more comfortable than any he'd ever known, but it was the unexpected sensation of calm—an unnatural stillness—that stirred him first. At Wool's Orphanage, mornings were always loud: the slamming of doors, Mrs. Cole's impatient shouts, the clatter of young feet and voices blending into the routine chaos. Here, there was only the soft rustle of curtains and a faint glimmer of light filtering in from the high, arched windows beside his bed.
He blinked, his gaze settling on his surroundings that were a far cry from the orphanage's worn-down bunks. The deep color of the curtains, embroidered with silver designs, seemed to glow in the morning sun. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he was still dreaming.
And then he saw it.
A creature stood beside his bed, tall enough to reach the edge of his mattress, with large bat-like ears, sharp features, and eyes that glowed with a strangely intense light. It wore a robe of soft cotton mixed with silk, a garment far finer than the shabby clothes he had seen on Mrs. Cole and the orphanage staff. The creature's expression was unreadable, a touch stern and unbending, like someone used to following orders exactly and without question.
"Young Master," it said, its voice cool and even, sounding oddly formal in its clipped, high-pitched tone. "Golby has come to awaken you for the day."
Tom sat up slowly, his eyes fixed on the strange being before him, his mind racing to make sense of what he was seeing. It was as if all his doubts and disbelief from the night before had materialized in this single creature. He couldn't tell if he was still dreaming—or if something far more remarkable was happening.
"Who... what are you?" Tom asked, the curiosity and wariness in his voice betraying his attempt to stay calm.
"Golby is the Blackwoods' house-elf, Young Master," the creature replied, bowing its head slightly, though its expression remained severe, as though trying to decide what to make of this young boy who was now part of its life. "Golby is here to serve the Blackwoods and their guests, including you, Young Master."
Tom stared. The word elf conjured an image from the few fairy tales he had been reading at the orphanage, though they were usually forgotten by now, replaced by cold reality. But this creature was real, standing right here, bowing slightly, and referring to him as though he were important. The whole scene made him feel strangely disoriented, and, for perhaps the first time in his life, he was at a loss for words.
"I—" Tom started, then stopped, searching for the right response. "How am I supposed to... call you?"
Golby's stoic expression softened a fraction, almost as if he understood Tom's bewilderment. "Young Master may call Golby by his name. Golby will guide you if you need help in Blackwood Manor. Master Alexander has given Golby orders to help Young Master adjust to his new home."
The weight of the creature's words hung heavily in the air. Tom felt an unusual warmth bloom within him. The idea of having someone—something—that existed solely to serve him was intoxicating and unsettling at once. He wanted to question further, but he held back.
"I... thank you, Golby," Tom said, his voice low and guarded, as though he were afraid that expressing any kind of gratitude might somehow expose him.
Golby's response was a bow, his head lowered briefly in acknowledgment. "Golby will help Young Master prepare for the day, then escort you to the Masters."
Tom nodded, and under Golby's watchful eye, he dressed in a new set of clothes—a finely tailored clothes that fit him so perfectly it was clear it had been made to measure. The fabric was unlike anything he'd ever felt, soft and smooth, and he ran his fingers over it in wonder. With each step, it was as if he was shedding the remnants of his past life, leaving Wool's Orphanage and its hardships behind.
As they moved through the house, Golby led him down another wide hallway, where Tom's eyes were drawn to the tall windows, through which the light filtered softly, casting long shadows on the floor. The grandeur of the house was overwhelming. Tom had never seen anything like it in his life. Even the most magnificent rooms in the orphanage paled in comparison to the opulence of the Blackwood Manor.
Finally, they reached a large dining room with an elegant table set for four. There, Alexander and Helena Blackwood were already seated, their posture impeccable, as though they were waiting for the final guest to arrive. The soft clink of silverware echoed through the otherwise silent room.
Tom hesitated at the door, but Golby gave him a small push, and he stepped inside. The room was warm, yet strangely sterile. The light from the windows glinted off the polished wood of the long dining table, where two silver goblets stood on either side of a gleaming porcelain plate.
"Young Master," Golby intoned as he led Tom to a seat at the table, "your place is here."
Tom sat down, eyes darting toward the Blackwoods. Their morning greetings were formal, exchanged with a stoic nod and few words. Alexander's sharp gaze was focused intently on him, while Helena sat on his right, her posture equally poised, though there was something faintly distant in her expression.
"Tom," Alexander started, then he gestured toward the girl sitting beside Helena. "This is Ophelia, our daughter." She looked to be around Tom's age, with dark hair that cascaded down her back and pale, almost ethereal gray eyes. Her gaze met his briefly before she lowered her head, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.
Ophelia offered him a shy smile. "Hello," she said in a voice barely above a whisper, her tone soft and polite.
Tom, who had never been good at understanding social cues yet, simply nodded in acknowledgment. He gave her a brief glance, his gaze lingering on her for a moment. There was something about Ophelia that was different from the Blackwoods, something fragile and soft in her demeanor. He had not expected that from the daughter of such wealthy and imposing people. He wasn't sure what to make of her.
The tension in the room seemed to linger for a moment before Alexander's voice broke the silence.
"Let us eat," he commanded, though not unkindly, and a full plate of food appeared in front of Tom with a soft pop from nowhere.
Tom was stunned for a moment, but quickly masked it, unsure of what to make of the sudden display. Deciding to focus on the food, he took in the spread: tender cuts of meat, fresh, soft bread, and a medley of carefully prepared vegetables—all crafted with a precision and care he had never encountered. Only then did he realize just how empty his stomach had felt since his arrival.
He picked up his utensils, still hesitant, but after a few moments, he began to eat. The food was surprisingly good, rich and flavorful, the kind of meal he had only heard about from other children in the orphanage—stories of grand feasts and the kind of life most could only dream of. But even as he ate, he could feel the weight of the Blackwoods' presence at the table. They were quiet, observing him, their eyes calculating, as if waiting for something.
Alexander and Helena exchanged a glance, their eyes speaking volumes before Alexander finally broke the silence again.
"Tom," he began. "you must be aware that you are different from the other children at the orphanage."
Tom didn't immediately answer, but he felt a flicker of unease. He had always known this about himself, something he couldn't name. He had also seen the way the other kids would look at him when they saw him speak to the snakes in the garden. They'd whispered, eyes wide with something between fear and awe, but no one had ever dared to say anything outright.
Tom glanced up, narrowing his eyes as he met Alexander's gaze, his fingers pausing mid-motion with his fork. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice steady, but with a hint of suspicion. He wasn't sure what the man wanted, but he didn't trust him. Not yet.
Helena's voice interrupted before Alexander could respond. "We've seen you, Tom. Outside with the snakes," her tone cool, but with an edge of curiosity. "You spoke to them. Not as a child playing with them—but as if you understood them." Her eyes sharpened, studying him intently.
Tom's heart skipped a beat. He hadn't expected them to bring that up—not in the way they had. He shifted uncomfortably, his dark eyes flicking between the two of them, realizing they had witnessed far more than he'd thought. "I don't know," he said slowly, his voice quieter now, as though testing the waters. "I can talk to them. I've always been able to."
Helena tilted her head slightly. "That's no ordinary gift, Tom," she said. "Your ability to speak to serpents is something rare—a mark of Salazar Slytherin himself. Did you know that?"
Tom swallowed, trying to mask the surprise he felt. He had always thought his ability to communicate with the snakes was just something he could do—not anything special, just something that felt natural. "Slytherin?" he echoed, his voice filled with disbelief. "What's that got to do with me?"
"Salazar Slytherin was one of the four founders of Hogwarts," Alexander interjected as though imparting knowledge that should have been understood. "And you, Tom, come from his bloodline. Your mother was a witch—a descendant of Slytherin himself."
Tom froze, his fork clinking against his plate as his hand went still. His thoughts swirled in confusion. A witch? His mother? No one had ever told him this—he doesn't remembered anything about her. "A witch?" he repeated, unsure of how to process the information. His stomach twisted with a mix of confusion and something deeper, something like a yearning he couldn't quite name.
Helena's voice softened a bit. "You are special, Tom," she said, her eyes glinting quietly. "You have abilities, abilities that others don't. The potential for greatness runs through your veins. It's in your blood."
Tom's brow furrowed. The orphanage had always told him he was different, but never like this. They'd never spoke of magic, of bloodlines, or of anything beyond his ability to get into trouble. All he knew was that the other children would whisper about how freakish he was, or how the caretakers would suggest he be looked at by specialists.
"Can you prove it? That what I can do is magic." Tom asked, his voice low, his curiosity piqued but guarded. He wanted to understand, but a part of him recoiled from the weight of their words.
Without answering right away, Helena raised her hand, and suddenly, a spoon lifted from the table and hovered midair, spinning slowly before gently setting itself back down. Tom watched, wide-eyed, as the impossible unfolded before him. It was real.
"That," Alexander said, his voice steady as he observed Tom's reaction, "is magic. The kind of magic you possess. It is in all witches and wizards, but it must be learned and controlled."
Tom's mind raced, his heart pounding as everything began to click into place. This—this was why he was different. This was what he had always felt lurking just beneath the surface. Now the weight of it was settling in. He wasn't just different—he was something more.
"Teach me." Tom said, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes flicked toward Helena and Alexander, both of whom were watching him closely.
"We will." Helena said simply.
A flicker of something powerful ignited inside him. He didn't fully understand it yet, but he knew this was the path he had been waiting for—the chance to become something more.
"And your father…" Alexander began, but before Tom could hear it, Helena cut him off.
"We don't speak of him." she said sharply.
Tom's mind buzzed with questions, but he held his tongue. There was something about the way she spoke that told him not to press further. Instead, he shifted his focus back to the conversation at hand.
"Tell me more," his voice eager. He felt his curiosity growing by the second. "about magic."
And so, the Blackwoods continued. They explained the world of magic to him—how wizards and witches were different from muggles, how magic was hidden from the non-magical people, and how Tom, with his lineage, was meant for greatness. Tom soaked in their words, his mind absorbing everything like a sponge.
After breakfast, Ophelia led Tom into the manor's drawing room. The grandeur of the Blackwood estate felt as imposing as ever, its silence almost tangible, but with Tom there, it was different—less empty, less quiet.
The two children walked side by side. She peeked at Tom from under her dark lashes, observing the way he moved around the room. He seemed to absorb every detail, his sharp eyes darting to the portraits, the shelves filled with ancient books, the polished silver. It was as though he was trying to understand everything at once, like he was solving a puzzle only he could see.
Ophelia hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the lace of her sleeve. Her mother's words still echoed in her mind: "Tom needs time, Ophelia. Let him adjust before you say too much." She had promised not to reveal certain family practices or their plans for Tom. He was to be tested first, guided, before Father would decide if he would be made heir.
She took a small breath, deciding to speak. "Do you… like books?" she asked quietly. It was a safe question, and she hoped it would bridge the gap between them.
Tom turned to her, his expression unreadable but curious. "I do," he replied, his tone careful. "But only the ones that teach me something important."
Ophelia's lips curled into a small smile. "We have a lot of those here," she offered gently. "Father's collection has books on spells, ancient magic, things I've only been told about so far. He says we'll get to learn soon."
Tom's eyes sparked with something akin to hunger at her words. "Real magic," he murmured, almost to himself. "Not the useless stories I've seen before."
Ophelia tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. "What kind of stories?"
Tom's face hardened, just a bit. "Fairytale nonsense. They talk about magic like it's a game or a trick." His voice was laced with a hint of disdain, and Ophelia noticed it, though she wasn't sure why it mattered so much to him.
She nodded slowly. "I haven't read those. Mother and Father don't let me. And… they don't let me meet anyone outside the family to talk about it, either."
Tom's expression shifted, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were piecing together a puzzle. "Why?" he asked, his voice steady but probing.
Ophelia hesitated. She knew she couldn't tell him everything, not yet. But she wanted to be honest, as much as she could. "It's tradition," she said. "They say we need to be prepared first. To learn things properly before we go out into the world."
Tom watched her closely, his gaze sharp, as though he was trying to read between her words. "Prepared for what?" he pressed.
Ophelia bit her lip, her shyness surfacing for a moment. It wasn't that she was afraid of Tom—he wasn't intimidating in the same way her parents could be—but there was something about his intensity that made her pause. "Mother says it's important to understand our magic before we show it to others," she explained carefully. "And that we need to be strong. It's… the way things are done in our family."
Tom's eyes flickered with a flash of understanding, a glimpse of something darker and more calculating. "That makes sense," he said, almost to himself. "Power without control is useless."
Ophelia felt a small warmth bloom in her chest at his agreement. "That's what they believe, too," she said quietly. "Father always says that strength comes from knowledge, from understanding what we can do."
Tom nodded, his expression thoughtful. He looked at her, really looked at her, as though seeing her in a new light. "You understand some things," he remarked. There was a note of approval in his voice, subtle but there.
Ophelia's cheeks flushed slightly at the unexpected compliment. She wasn't used to praise, especially from someone her own age. "Thank you, Tom," she replied, her voice almost shy but filled with genuine warmth.
For a moment, silence settled between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable.
Tom gave a small, curt nod, and his gaze softened just a fraction. "You'll show me the books later," he said, but it wasn't a question—it was a statement.
Ophelia smiled, feeling the first stirrings of a connection she hadn't anticipated. "Of course," she agreed easily. "We can look together."
And in that small, shared moment, it felt like the beginning of something important, something neither of them could fully grasp yet.