𝐀𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤

❖

Time marched forward with the grace of a drunk wizard in stilettos—unsteady, reckless, and far too confident for its own good. It didn’t stroll, it didn’t meander—it charged, like a toddler wielding a pair of scissors and an unsettling amount of determination. Days blurred into weeks, weeks tripped over themselves into months, and suddenly, there I was: one year old. A whole twelve months of babyhood, filled with perfectly timed milestones executed with the kind of meticulous care that would’ve made a Ministry bureaucrat weep with envy.

Here’s the thing about milestones: they’re akin to a poorly brewed potion—get the timing wrong, and suddenly everyone’s looking at you funny, wondering if you’re about to sprout a second head. Nobody bats an eye if you roll over early; that’s child’s play. (Though roll over too late, and everyone starts looking at you like you’ve got the intellect of a particularly underachieving turnip.) But Merlin help you if you start walking and talking flawlessly out of nowhere. That’s when the alarm bells start ringing.

The key wasn’t just to hit the developmental benchmarks—it was to hit them with timing and just the right dose of plausible deniability. Crawl early enough to coax a few delighted coos, but not so early that Walburga Black starts narrowing her eyes and asking ominous questions like, “Do you think there’s a… problem with him?” Because if Walburga Black thinks you have a problem, you’re about one ill-timed act of ‘genius’ away from being the subject of a particularly invasive diagnostic Charm. And trust me, those probably wouldn’t end with a pat on the head and a Sugar Quill.

No, that’s when specialists start getting involved, writing down Very Serious Notes with capital letters, and next thing you know, you’re on a cold table in the Department of Mysteries while some Unspeakable, complete with a dark robe and mask, waves their wand over your head and mutters, “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to open him up and check.”

Walking was the same principle. The moment had to be perfect—early enough to be impressive, late enough to avoid suspicion.

I can still picture it, you know. The grand moment I took my “first unsteady steps” around my tenth month in the world.

▣

My parents and I were in one of the smaller, more intimate sitting rooms—intimate in the sense that it wasn’t quite as absurdly grandiose as the drawing room, but still large enough to comfortably house both a casual tea gathering and the crushing weight of generational superiority. It was the kind of room that exuded wealth in that effortless, smug way only old money could pull off—tastefully adorned, never ostentatious, yet filled with enough moving family portraits to make sure no one ever forgot exactly whose wealth it was.

No mere photographs, mind you—Muggle ideas and contraptions had no place in a respectable pure-blood home. Instead, the room was crowded with enchanted paintings of varying sizes and shapes, filling the spaces where “lesser families” might have settled for those charmed little photographs with their looped, shallow movements. These were proper portraits—perched on the mantel, framed in gilded gold, and arranged with careful precision along the walls, ensuring that no corner of the room was without a reminder of lineage. They watched in quiet vigilance, a constant, steady presence that belonged there as naturally as the Black name itself.

The carpet beneath my feet was softer than expected—dense, rich, and whispering of decadent extravagance—but not so soft that I didn’t feel the full weight of every muscle straining with the sheer effort of pretending to be clumsy. Clumsy, after all, was the goal.

«Acting Mastery» lingered at the edges of my mind, a formless, unseen force whispering cues and nudging my limbs with the quiet authority of something that knew better than me and wasn’t shy about it:

A little more wobble. No, too much wobble—dial it back. Arms up, not too up. Big eyes. Bigger. Perfect.

The whispers—which weren’t really whispers at all—didn’t intrude so much as they suggested; a subtle, persistent presence that shaped each movement with the sort of effortless conviction that made you forget it was there in the first place. A guiding hand? Perhaps. A puppet string? Almost certainly.

Every stumble, every blink, every carefully measured flail was gently sculpted into the perfect concoction of endearing incompetence and nascent brilliance. And the strangest part? It all felt... natural. Not so much an external force pulling me along, but something inherently me, a deep, instinctual knowing that I hadn’t earned but somehow possessed anyway.

One step. Another. The next was a masterpiece—a dramatic stumble, limbs flailing with the kind of chaotic elegance only achievable through meticulous, borderline obsessive rehearsal.

I teetered. Wavered. Wobbled with the urgency of a man standing on a ship deck in a hurricane. And then, with the grace of a collapsing marionette, I pitched forward into the waiting embrace of the conveniently expensive velvet ottoman, sinking into it before bouncing to the floor.

Perfect landing.

Silence.

Then—came the applause.

【 System Alert 】

You have gained +1,250 XP in your Skill: Acting Mastery!

“Oh, well done, Antares!” My mother’s voice soared high, her hands clasped together in front of her.

My father, ever the quiet observer, gave a slow nod. “He learned fast.”

“Of course he did,” my mother preened, as if my stumbling performance were a calculated step in some grand Black family master plan. “He’s a Black.”

I remained exactly where I was—on the floor, blinking up at them with the kind of wide-eyed, dazed expression that could only be described as meticulously crafted confusion. Just the right amount of bewilderment, sprinkled with a dash of innocence, but not enough competence to arouse suspicion.

My father nodded again. A slow, deliberate nod—the kind that didn’t waste energy on trivial things like pride, but instead conveyed a simple, unspoken truth: Yes. As expected.

I soaked it all in, resisting the urge to bow—though, according to the System, my «Acting Mastery» had already handed out the applause in its own special way.

And then, there it was.

The real prize.

Two small, white theatre masks—one smiling, one frowning—hovered at the top of my vision, the representative icon of my theatrical Skill. A thin, circular progress bar wrapped around them, filling gradually, the final sliver closing in with an unhurried inevitability. Inch by inch, it completed itself, leaving no room for doubt or drama.

【 Acting Mastery • Rank 21 】

🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩 99%

I took in a breath.

100%.

The bar pulsed. It lingered for a moment, savouring its triumph. Then—boom.

【 Acting Mastery • Rank 22 】

⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜⬜ 0%

Fireworks.

Fanfare.

Brilliant streaks of red, white, blue, and yellow shot across my vision in dazzling, perfectly synchronized arcs. Each burst fizzled and popped like blooming flowers, the shimmering trails lingering just long enough to ensure maximum visual clarity.

The pop-pop-pop! of the fireworks was intermixed by a triumphant fanfare—loud, brassy, obnoxious, and entirely too pleased with itself. It wasn’t just celebrating my achievement; it was practically composing an anthem in my honour, each trumpet blast more self-congratulatory than the last, like the System itself was basking in my reflected glory.

【 Skill Proficiency Increased 】

Congratulations, your Skill: Acting Mastery is now Rank 22!

•

You have gained +550Level Experience

▼

【 Level Up! 】

Congratulations, you are now Level 3!

•

You have gained +1 Skill Point and +1 free Attribute Point

Blue-boxed System alerts hovered expectantly, glowing in its desire for a handshake. I gave it a mental shove, sending it off to wherever dismissed notifications go to contemplate their existence.

I exhaled slowly, quietly. It was exactly the kind of grandiose, over-the-top spectacle I remembered from some of the games in my past life: gaudy, ridiculous, and absolutely perfect.

The familiar thrill pulsed through me, a well-practiced chemical reaction, endorphins flooding my veins with the sweet, sweet rush of progress. Numbers were rising. Stats were increasing. The System was happy. I was happy. And really, wasn’t that what life was all about?

Oonga boonga, numbers go up.

I grinned internally to myself, pleased and vaguely ashamed in equal measure. Probably why I hadn’t touched the System settings yet—sure, I could tone it down, trim the fanfare, maybe lose the fireworks, but where was the fun in that?

Much later, I found out that my parents had shared the memory of my little “achievement” with the rest of the extended family. Apparently, they were suitably impressed. Which, in Black family terms, meant a collective nod of satisfaction, a few murmured remarks about how “promising” it all was, and a carefully restrained air of inevitability—because, naturally, all Black children were exceptional. Any suggestion otherwise would have been a grave insult to centuries of blood purity and selective breeding.

Toujours Pur.

Always pure, after all.

But here’s the thing—first steps were one thing. Speaking was another.

I couldn’t just say any word as my first and call it a day. No, that would be far too pedestrian. It required planning. Tactics. The sort of cunning usually employed by politicians dodging scandals, goblins securing vault contracts, and cats waiting for their humans to leave the room before knocking something fragile off a shelf. Timing was everything. You couldn’t just blurt it out mid-tea and expect fireworks. No, you had to deploy it with devastating precision, the kind that would ensure people talked about it for days, maybe even weeks to come. All for the impact I sought.

It would be my pièce de résistance.

And so I waited. Watching. Plotting. The perfect set of sounds hovered just beyond my lips, ready to be unleashed at a moment’s notice.

▣

A few weeks after my first toddling triumph, the household underwent a rather dramatic shift. Crawling had been my quiet, dignified mode of transport—slow, steady, with minimal fuss. It had its advantages, primarily in that people were largely unconcerned with where I was going, assuming I wouldn’t get far.

But walking?

Walking was a problem.

It wasn’t just movement anymore; it was mobility. I was no longer a tiny, stationary being waiting to be lifted and carried from place to place at someone else’s convenience. I could move with purpose. And 12 Grimmauld Place, in all its dark, spacious, portrait-lined glory, suddenly had an extra, slightly “unsteady” occupant with an ambitious stride and a worrying tendency to head directly for the most expensive-looking thing in the room.

Sirius, of course, was thrilled. At four years old, he had already perfected the art of speed, with all the grace and subtlety of a rampaging hippogriff. Regulus, the wary two-year-old shadow to Sirius’ blazing comet, watched with quiet calculation—never too far behind, but never too close to take the full brunt of disaster.

And then there was me—the youngest, the smallest, and the one with an entirely unfair mental advantage.

Apparently, that was all it took to tip the scales from manageable chaos to full-scale domestic upheaval.

The days after I stood up and took those first wobbly steps, Sirius saw opportunity. Regulus saw a companion. And I, obviously being a good baby and a good brother, who knew no better, did exactly as expected.

I embraced it—at least, to the best of my supposed infantile capabilities.

Why?

Because, for all my adult mind and previous life experience, the truth was simple: I’d been playing the role of an infant for almost a year. And it was starting to feel... natural.

Too natural. A role taken to its extreme, I supposed.

At first, it had been easy enough—babyhood came with low expectations, a convenient excuse for inaction. But over time, something strange happened. The lines blurred. My carefully constructed performance—the act of wide-eyed innocence and aimless curiosity—had slowly become second nature. The sheer repetition of gurgles, unsteady movements, and the relentless fascination with soft, squishy objects had an almost hypnotic effect. I had, in effect, method-acted myself into a strange middle ground between the baby I appeared to be and the adult I used to be.

And, in some ways, that was terrifying.

There were moments—quiet ones, usually—when I caught myself enjoying it. Rolling around in a pile of cushions with Sirius, shrieking with laughter at nothing in particular, chewing on something purely because it was within reach and nobody was stopping me. I even caught myself babbling nonsense in response to adult conversations, as if I actually believed I couldn’t speak. Or reaching out for random objects without thinking—no thoughts, no plan, just the simple, mindless urge to grab.

It was unsettling—how easy it was to forget myself. How natural it felt to crawl after a rolling ball with the kind of singular focus that would put a Quidditch Seeker to shame, or to smack my hands together with wide-eyed wonder as if I were personally responsible for the groundbreaking discovery of cause and effect.

And in those moments, a small, insidious voice whispered, Maybe you really are just a baby now.

Unfortunately, just stopping was not an option. You don’t just opt out of being an infant—there’s no polite way to excuse yourself from the role and expect people to carry on without comment. If I wanted to maintain my secret, the act had to be relentless, constant, and effective. Nevertheless, I made a decision, a prudent one: I would allow myself time away from it. In moments of solitude, when no one was watching too closely, I’d let the mask slip, stretch my mental legs a little, and remind myself that I was, in fact, still me.

That was the plan, anyway.

Of course, reality had other ideas. Mischief and mayhem felt normal now, as natural as breathing, because I was still so deeply entrenched in the headspace of a small child.

(Or maybe I just enjoyed it a little too much.)

Either way, 12 Grimmauld Place, for all its austere grandeur, was woefully unprepared for us. The grand halls and towering shelves were designed with an air of stately authority, not the tiny, sticky hands of small children who saw every polished surface as an invitation to leave fingerprints. My parents’ perfectly curated sense of order found itself under constant siege. The sound of Sirius’s delighted shrieks, Regulus’ cautious follow-ups, and my own occasional, well-timed babbles and giggles filled the house with an energy that it was simply not built to withstand.

Kreacher, the house’s current, long-suffering house-elf, had always been loyal—painfully, unshakably loyal—but those weeks, his muttering had taken on the distinct tone of a creature shouldering a sacred duty far beyond mortal comprehension.

“Naughty little masters,” he muttered, wringing his hands as we charged—well, in my case, sometimes crawled, sometimes toddled, and quite often stumbled—down the hall like a herd of stampeding Kneazles. “So young, so full of energy, just like Master Orion when he was a boy, yes indeed... Kreacher must clean, Kreacher must keep the house proud for the Master and Mistress, yes, yes...”

He often scuttled after us, his wide eyes darting to every overturned vase and scuffed floorboard with a sort of reverent despair, muttering all the while. “Kreacher must put everything right, Kreacher must keep Mistress happy, keep the little masters safe, oh yes... Mistress trusts Kreacher, Mistress depends on Kreacher, Kreacher will not fail...”

Even as he huffed and shuffled, there was no true bitterness in his words—only the unshakable certainty that we, in our childish destruction, were simply another test of his unwavering devotion to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

Which was fair. Because in the short time since I’d started walking—or waddling, really—Sirius, Regulus and I had made a few... adjustments to household operations.

One of the house’s many rooms had been repurposed into our base of operations—cushions piled into fortresses, stuffed animals recruited into imaginary armies, and the occasional Andromeda or Narcissa (entirely against their will) pressed into service as temporary castle guardians. It was all rather impressive, honestly, considering our collective vocabulary, generously supplied by Sirius and Regulus, consisted largely of dramatic proclamations like “For the House of Black!” “I am the king!” and the ever-reliable “You can’t come in!”—all delivered with the kind of unearned authority only small children could muster.

And then there were the corridors—perfect for high-speed chases and the kind of reckless broomstick flights that should have ended in disaster but, miraculously, never did. To this day, I maintain that the house itself must have subtly altered the physics of certain rooms, just to prevent a catastrophic toddler collision. Personally, I couldn’t wait until the powers that be decided I was mature enough to handle a broomstick, toy or not.

Sirius, with the boundless energy of a small hurricane and the survival instincts of a particularly optimistic lemming, always took the lead in our excursions. Regulus trailed behind in dutiful pursuit, and me... well, I did my infantile best, maintaining a respectable distance—the unassuming observer, the occasional participant, effortlessly blending in as ‘the cute one’. More often than not, that meant lagging behind, offering the occasional babbled encouragement, and playing the role of a stray supporter with impeccable timing and bumbling steps.

It was glorious.

The adults, to no one’s surprise, failed to see it that way. Whoever was tasked with overseeing our combined efforts inevitably emerged from the experience slightly harried, traumatised even, leading to hushed discussions, concerned glances, and, eventually, a household-wide policy shift.

It didn’t take long for my parents to come to the very sensible conclusion that separating us might, somehow, miraculously, result in a reduction of chaos.

They were wrong, of course. Spectacularly so. But you had to admire their optimism.

And so, on one of those rare afternoons where peace had been painstakingly brokered—through a complex system of distractions, bribes, and, I suspect, sheer exhaustion—I saw it.

The opening.

The perfect time. The perfect place.

An opportunity so pristine, so exquisitely timed, that it might as well have come wrapped in a bow and a formal invitation bearing the Black family crest.

That was it. The moment I’d been waiting for.

My first word was about to make its grand debut.

The sitting room was perfectly staged for the occasion. Not that anyone else noticed, but that was hardly surprising. People rarely appreciate the significance of the moment when they’re in it. It’s only in hindsight that they start nodding and murmuring about how obvious it all was—after someone like me has already done the hard work of making it happen.

Sirius and Regulus were absent, whisked away by well-intentioned paternal grandparents under the pretense of education. Sirius, at four, was enduring lessons in literacy, numeracy, etiquette, history and culture—you know, the good stuff—subjects that I could’ve only imagined he approached with all the enthusiasm of someone tasked with extracting Flobberworm mucus one painstaking drop at a time.

Regulus, at two, wasn’t so much being educated as he was being conditioned—marinated, really, in the rich, self-satisfied gravy of pure-blood aristocracy, with carefully portioned servings of superiority and ‘important values’ spoon-fed directly into his impressionable little mind.

Andromeda and Narcissa were similarly missing, off with their actual parents for once at their countryside manor, presumably to engage in whatever well-bred Black girls did when they weren’t staying at the ancestral house of Blacks.

All of which left me alone with my mother.

Well, technically alone.

My father had long since vanished to the Ministry, which, given his usual sentiments on the matter, was something of an anomaly. The majority of the Blacks, you see, were not the sort of people that worked with the Ministry. According to the family, the Ministry existed because we, and people like us… allowed it to.

It was an institution meant to serve, regulate, and, where necessary, contain the “lesser breeds” of witches and wizards—the half-bloods, the Muggle-borns, and the politically ambitious little upstarts who believed a position or a title could compensate for centuries of breeding. Even then, according to my family, their presence, their very inclusion, was a stain on what should have been a bastion of wizarding tradition.

You could always count on a Black family gathering to be punctuated with disdainful comments about the Ministry’s weakness and decay—all of it traced back, inevitably, to the slow infestation of “Mudbloods” and “mongrel half-blood wizards” into positions they had no right to hold.

As my father always liked to say: the House of Black did not ask the Ministry for favours; it dictated terms. To him, and, truth be told, to everyone else in the family, problems weren’t solved—they were erased, quietly and efficiently, with a well-placed donation or a carefully worded invitation to an exclusive gala. When the Ministry grew too bold, money changed hands. When laws became inconvenient, new interpretations were whispered into the right ears over glasses of vintage house-elf-made wine.

It was power, distilled and refined across centuries, and it ran through our veins like an unspoken promise—one that neither gold nor titles could bestow upon “lesser witches and wizards,” no matter how much they grasped for it.

But my father, for reasons known only to him—and my mother, since she always knew these things—had chosen to dignify the place with his presence that day, leaving my mother to host the afternoon’s gathering.

The visitors of the day—family from my mother’s side—had arranged themselves around the sitting room with the well-worn familiarity of people who had long since mastered the delicate art of existing better than everyone else.

My audience.

Tea sat in delicate cups, its strong aroma drifting through the air—hitting the nose first, then the throat, and finally settling deep in the gut, where all important decisions were made. It was the scent of bergamot, black leaves, and something floral lurking just beneath it—possibly lavender, maybe something else I wasn’t sophisticated enough to recognise yet. It was that kind of tea—the sort that made you sit up straighter just by breathing it in.

And then there were the pastries.

Resting on exquisite bone china, they didn’t just smell good; they smelled dangerous. Warm, buttery, sweet—so perfect it was almost insulting. A little fruit, a touch of cream, and just enough sugar to catch the light in a way that suggested they knew exactly how irresistible they were. The sort of pastries that could ruin lives and waistlines in equal measure.

I stared at them, drooling like a fool and feeling entirely justified in doing so. If life was a test, this was an unfair question. Were I just a little older, I could have been eating them instead of watching them like some kind of tragic Dickensian orphan. But no, I was stuck in that ridiculous baby phase, all round cheeks and grasping hands, and no one—no one—was handing me a pastry anytime soon.

It was a shame, really. But there were more pressing things to consider—like the people in the room.

My maternal grandparents, Pollux and Irma, sat side by side on an ornately carved settee, upholstered with a fabric of such a deep, rich green it looked almost black. They weren’t touching, exactly, but there was an air of resigned togetherness about them. Something that, I assumed, came from decades of marriage, shared routines, and a mutual understanding that, at this point, changing anything about the other person would simply take too much effort.

Pollux had that kind of presence that didn’t need volume to be noticed. He wasn’t particularly tall, and he wasn’t particularly bulky, but somehow, he occupied exactly as much space as he wanted. His hair, dark with streaks of silver, was combed back so neatly that it gave the distinct impression it chose to stay that way out of fear. He had one of those faces—sharp, serious—the kind that made you second-guess yourself, even when you hadn’t done anything wrong yet.

Irma, in contrast, radiated a soft warmth—round cheeks, gently arched brows, and a figure that leaned toward the generous side, though never quite enough to qualify as plump. Her chestnut-brown hair—swept up into a chignon so tight it could probably withstand a hurricane—held a faint glimmer of silver, the only concession to age she seemed willing to allow. She held her teacup with the kind of habitual ease that suggested she had never in her life spilled so much as a single drop.

They were, I decided, a well-matched pair.

My uncle, Alphard—Walburga’s younger brother and the middle child of their set of three, with Cygnus as the youngest—was there, too. Though, to be fair, he was more focused on entertaining me as I toddled around him than engaging in the conversation.

I liked him immediately.

He had that look about him—like he knew exactly which parts of the pure-blood dogma needed to be taken seriously and which could be quietly ignored without causing a scandal. Alphard, ever the perfect contradiction, had mastered the expert method of saying or doing just enough to be entertaining, but not enough to be exiled. Yet.

His hair—wavy, dark, and just a little too seductively unkempt to pass for properly respectable—curled around a face of sharp angles and easy charm. There was a looseness to the way he carried himself, the easy confidence of someone who understood rules were more of a polite suggestion than a strict guideline. His eyes—deep-set and perpetually amused—held the kind of quiet rogueishness that made you feel like he was always one good idea away from doing something entertainingly reckless, just to see what would happen.

And, as it turned out, I provided excellent entertainment.

With a few flicks of his wand, Alphard coaxed the napkins into folding themselves into flapping, vaguely bird-shaped things that took off with the kind of erratic enthusiasm usually reserved for headless chickens and particularly nervous pixies. They swooped around my head in chaotic little loops, their wings flapping like they had urgent linen business elsewhere but had somehow gotten lost along the way.

Naturally, being the committed actor that I was, I played along and moved my attention from the food nearby. I swatted at them with all the righteous fury of a man defending his honour against an invasion of wayward tableware—arms flailing, eyes wide, determined to reclaim my personal space. The napkins, of course, had other ideas. They dipped and twisted just out of reach, flapping smugly, as if fully aware they had the upper hand.

【 System Alert 】

You have gained +300 XP in your Skill: Acting Mastery!

Alphard laughed, leaning back with an easy grin. “Almost had it, little man.”

Everyone else, meanwhile, ignored the whole thing and continued their conversation about the current Minister of Magic—a Mudblood—and how the British Wizarding World would surely fall apart if people like him remained in positions of authority.

My mother, Walburga, was particularly passionate on the subject, as it was one she brought up often. “Did you hear,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain, “that Leach is pushing for Squibrights now? Squibs. Right after all those absurd changes pandering to Mudbloods. As if we don’t have enough trouble keeping the riff-raff in line, he wants to parade those… unfortunates around like they actually belong among us.” She sniffed. “They should be grateful we let them exist at all, rather than trying to worm their way into respectable society.”

Pollux nodded solemnly, swirling his tea with the air of a man deeply concerned with the state of the world. “It’s the Muggle influence,” he said. “First they put one of their kind in office, and now we’re expected to coddle Squibs and treat them as—what did he say? Worthy magical citizens.” He spat the phrase like it personally offended him.

Irma tutted under her breath. “It’s disgraceful. Next thing you know, they’ll be putting them in Hogwarts. Imagine the embarrassment! What could a Squib possibly learn there?”

Alphard, still idly distracting me with magic, smirked. “Muggle Studies, maybe?”

My mother shot him a withering glare. “This is not a joke. Do you have any idea what will happen if this continues? Our traditions, our way of life—” she gestured vaguely, as if to encompass the entire world in her sweeping condemnation—“will be eroded. Piece by piece. First Squibs, then next they’ll be handing our heritage over to Mudbloods completely, and soon enough, they’ll be deciding who we can marry, what magic we can practice—what it means to be a witch or wizard.”

Pollux leaned forward, resting his cup on its saucer with a deliberate clink. “We should have put an end to this years ago. Our ancestors understood that. Marry within the bloodline, keep it pure. But now...” He shook his head.

Alphard, to his credit, didn’t roll his eyes. “The way you lot talk, you’d think the Minister’s trying to force us all to take Muggle jobs and live in their quaint little houses.” He gave me a playful wink as he conjured tiny wisps of colourful and odourless smoke from his wand, letting it spiral lazily around me. “But sure, let’s all panic about the Squibs getting better treatment.”

My mother’s grip on her teacup tightened. “Your flippancy will be your downfall, Alphard.”

“I do hope so.” He grinned, flicking his wand to send another napkin bird fluttering toward me.

Irma watched as I lunged at it, nearly toppling into her lap. She caught me with one hand, smoothing down my hair with the other. “But you, my dear,” she murmured, as if I were listening, “you’ll grow up in a proper world, won’t you? One free of all these… distractions.”

I blinked up at her, offering my best wide-eyed gurgle. Inside, I was contemplating the irony of it all—sitting in a room full of people who would probably keel over dead if they knew the truth of my existence.

【 System Alert 】

You have gained +150 XP in your Skill: Acting Mastery!

Pollux let out a heavy sigh. “Mark my words—if that fool Leach continues his little social reforms, he’ll find himself on the wrong end of history.”

Alphard raised an eyebrow. “People have been saying that since he entered office last year, and yet here we are, still grumbling into our tea.” He gave his cup an idle swirl. “If you ask me, he’s doing a fine job of annoying you lot, and that’s worth something.”

My mother sighed. “You don’t get it. You never have.”

Alphard leaned back, looking altogether too pleased with himself. “And yet, here I am, perfectly happy.”

I could tell that was precisely the sort of attitude that infuriated my mother most.

My attention drifted as the conversation spiraled into the usual cycle of bickering and complaining. At first, I’d been doing my best to track who said what, piecing together useful tidbits of information like a pint-sized spy with a drool problem. Information was valuable, after all. So I sat there, dutifully swatting at Alphard’s conjured napkin birds and grabbing at the swirls of colourful smoke, all while keeping an ear and a side-eye tuned to the dialogue around me. But when the conversation turned... uncomfortable, my focus shifted entirely.

【 System Alert 】

You have gained +25 XP in your Skill: Acting Mastery!

At first, I found myself staring at them—Walburga, Pollux, Irma, Alphard—my uncle and grandparents, my mother too, sipping their tea like they belonged in the pages of a history book. And it hit me again, that strange sense of awe I hadn’t quite shaken off. I mean, I’d read Harry Potter. Multiple times, in fact. Too many to count, really. I knew the Black family by reputation, by name, by the vague mentions that had once felt like little more than literary seasoning.

And yet here they were—real, tangible, and fussing about Squibs as if their lives depended on it.

It had been exciting. Despite having been reborn into this world for almost a year, it still caught me off guard sometimes. There was something about meeting them, especially characters that weren’t shown in canon—something I couldn’t quite put into words. Like coming face to face with an idol, or a long-lost mythological figure, except a little more personal. Because here, they weren’t just names scribbled in ink; they were family.

But now... my fascination was wearing thin.

The novelty was giving way to something heavier, something far less enjoyable. It was the same feeling I used to get when my old parents—my first parents—would let slip some casually bigoted remark over dinner. That sudden, awful realisation that no amount of familiarity could bridge the fundamental differences between us. It felt like that—only worse.

Because this wasn’t just an offhand comment; this was their worldview. A whole structured, well-maintained belief system built around ideas I wanted absolutely nothing to do with. And they weren’t just discussing abstract theories—they were talking about real people. People they looked down on, dismissed, and, given the right opportunity, would probably see erased entirely.

It was unsettling. I wasn’t sure how I felt about them anymore. Or about myself, for that matter.

So I did what any reasonable person trapped in the body of an infant would do—I leaned harder into my performance. Pushing down the mounting discomfort with the practiced ease of a man trying not to think too hard about his life choices, I made my way over to my mother and attempted the universal infantile tactic of clambering into her lap.

She picked me up without a second thought, and I let myself settle in, resting my head against her robes.

【 System Alert 】

You have gained +50 XP in your Skill: Acting Mastery!

I emptied my mind with a deep, babyish breath, pushing my thoughts toward «Occlumency» with deliberate care. It wasn’t much—just a slow, steady effort to clear the clutter, like smoothing out the wrinkles in a crumpled piece of parchment. The trick, as always, was control. Not just pushing thoughts aside, but locking them away, tucking them into neat little corners where they couldn’t slip out and trip me up.

It was sometimes harder than I expected. Thoughts had a way of creeping back in—little things, like the sound of porcelain clinking against saucers, or the faint rustling of clothes or Alphard’s napkin birds still fluttering around. I could feel my mother’s fingers absently smoothing down my hair, the soft fabric of her robes against my cheek, and I had to fight the instinct to focus on them.

Distractions. All of it.

No, I needed to focus. I needed to build walls.

I drew my awareness inward, piece by piece, pushing aside the noise of the room.

【 Occlumency • Rank 8 】

🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩⬜ 83%

The System hovered in the background, ticking away silently, feeding me progress in tiny, incremental drips—each point of Experience dropping into place with the slow inevitability of a dripping tap. Watching that little percentage tick upward was almost hypnotic in itself, and I found myself slipping into a comfortable rhythm. Push a thought away. Another drop of XP. Ignore Alphard’s little magical tricks. Another drop. Tune out my mother’s voice. Another drop.

Progress. Tiny, painfully slow progress.

Still, it was something. The numbers didn’t lie, unlike certain enchanted portraits in this house that swore they never gossiped when you walked past.

I exhaled slowly, settling further into my mother’s lap, trying not to look too suspiciously serene. If anyone asked, I was simply a very contemplative baby. Nothing to see here.

As I drifted in and out of focus, the voices around me blurred into a quiet buzz.

I don’t know how long it took, but eventually, I heard my mother speak again, her voice barely audible above the white noise. “—and, of course, we’ll be visiting the Yaxleys tomorrow. It’s their newest child’s first birthday.” She paused, letting out a faint hum.

I was pulled away from my trance and peeked up through my lashes, sensing the shift in conversation.

“Oh,” Irma murmured, with the kind of vague interest that placed the event somewhere between a necessary obligation and a mild inconvenience. “And how is young… Corban, was it?”

My mother made a dismissive noise. “That’s the older one. This one’s called Matthias. Poor dear, fatter than he ought to be. His mother says he’s already taking after his father.”

Pollux huffed into his tea. “Which means he eats too much and contributes too little.”

That earned a thin smile from my mother. “Naturally.”

I tuned them out again, letting the conversation fade to the background. Another meeting with another pure-blood family, another opportunity for them to compare children like prized breeding stock. It was always the same—who walked first, who talked first, whose child exhibited the earliest signs of magic. A perpetual cycle of thinly veiled competition disguised as polite conversation.

And that’s when it hit me.

The moment was now.

If I timed it right—if I played it just so—I could derail the entire conversation. Give them something new to fixate on, something far removed from uncomfortable topics I was often forced to endure. Maybe even for a while. And if I could give my mother something to glow about—something that would make her bask in the sheer brilliance of her youngest—well, all the better. A little extra coddling now could go a long way in the future.

I shifted in my mother’s lap, letting out a soft, deliberate babble that caught her attention. She glanced down, the hint of a smile on her lips, fingers absently smoothing down my hair.

A pause.

I blinked up at her, letting my lips form the word carefully, deliberately, with all the dramatic timing of a seasoned performer.

“Mah-ma.”

Silence.

The good kind.

“Mama,” I repeated, just to drive the point home.

The tea tray rattled slightly as Irma’s hand froze mid-pour. Pollux looked up from his cup, brows inching toward his hairline. Alphard, slouched in his chair like he had no business being that comfortable, perked up just enough to gape.

My mother gasped, eyes wide with something dangerously close to religious fervor. “Did you hear that?” she whispered, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment.

Irma pressed a hand to her chest, practically glowing. “Oh, Walburga, how wonderful!”

Before I could fully process my victory, I was pulled into an enthusiastic hug, smothered against the fine, embroidered silk of my mother’s robes. Kisses rained down on the top of my head, each more reverent than the last.

【 System Alert 】

You have gained +2,000 XP in your Skill: Acting Mastery!

Inside, I allowed myself the smallest, most triumphant of grins—before carefully resuming my innocent baby act.

Mission accomplished.

My mother was still gazing at me like I’d just revolutionized wizardkind with a single word, her fingers absently smoothing my hair in that distracted way that suggested she was already planning how to weave this moment into future conversations. The others were nodding, exchanging those smug little looks that implied of course a Black child was precocious—how could he be anything less?

I soaked it all in, staying perfectly still in my mother’s lap like a prize-winning ornament, all wide eyes and contented gurgles. But I knew this wasn’t the end. That was just the opening act.

▣

Looking back, my first steps had been good—great, even, if you accounted for the dramatic flair, the well-timed stumble, and the impeccable cushion placement. But talking? That was where I really shined.

You couldn’t go wrong with a classic, and I had delivered it with Oscar-worthy performance and timing. Just as my mother had been glancing down at me, her eyes full of that expectant pride, I let the word tumble out—soft, hesitant, with just the right touch of babyish lisp.

And the reaction?

Exactly what I’d hoped for.

Applause, smiles, a glowing sense of satisfaction radiating from my mother so strong I could have bottled and sold it.

Of course, a week later, I balanced the scales with a carefully rehearsed “Papa,” ensuring my father hadn’t felt left out. He responded with the same old nod, slightly deeper, and maybe even slower, this time—a gesture that, in his emotional lexicon, probably meant boundless joy.

Family politics: mastered.

But let’s be honest—playing by the rules wasn’t the only option.

Could I have gone rogue? Absolutely. There was a moment—just a moment—when a part of me considered the chaos of making my first word “Kreacher!” or some variation of it, just to see what would happen. The look on my mother’s face alone would have been spectacular—horror, disbelief, possibly a fainting spell for dramatic flair. It would’ve been peak comedy gold.

But then I thought about the consequences, and let’s just say I wasn’t keen on witnessing what happens when an old family elf becomes a new family ghost. So, I stuck to the script.

Ah, yes. The script.

You didn’t think I was ad-libbing all that, did you?

No, no—that was all strategy. Method acting at its finest. A masterclass in babyhood, courtesy of a little gem I discovered in the Player Forum. It was a guide called How to Act Like a Convincing Baby, written by someone who clearly thought “pretending to be a baby” was a competitive sport.

Part comedy, part survival manual, it even came with this glorious colour-coded chart:

Green for “believable.”

Yellow for “impressive.”

And red for “Congratulations, you’re about to be dissected.”

I lived in the yellow. The sweet spot. Smart enough to impress but not so ridiculous that anyone would start asking uncomfortable questions or waving wands over my head to “check for anomalies.”

Hard pass.

My plan worked beautifully. Beyond the major milestones, my mother practically floated off the ground anytime I did something even remotely clever. You’d think that, with Sirius and Regulus having already provided ample marveling opportunities, she might’ve developed some kind of immunity to the wonders of baby “achievements.” But apparently not. I half-expected her to sprout wings and start circling the chandelier with every display of my so-called genius.

The faintest whisper of prodigious talent—never mind how flimsy or circumstantial the evidence—was all the fuel her ego needed. To her, I was the living, breathing proof of the Black family’s unassailable superiority.

My father, by contrast, kept his reactions on a low simmer—a quiet nod here, a subtle smile there—though if you paid attention, it was obvious how pleased he was.

As for everyone else, they were the peanut gallery: they applauded, they cooed, they told me how brilliant I was, but they weren’t the ones with direct control over my future circumstances.

My real audience—my star billing—were my parents. They were my personal project, my extended investment plan.

After all, if they already believed I was some pint-sized prodigy, imagine how much freedom I’d earn when I was old enough to form complete sentences without having to fake drooling. Oh, Antares wants to stay up after bedtime to read in the library? Alone? Obviously! He’s a genius, after all.

Make them applaud now, reap the benefits later.

Not that I planned on demanding anything too wild—at least not right away. I’d start small: a book here, a bit of personal space there, maybe even an uninterrupted afternoon once in a while. Every sliver of autonomy, carved out from the stifling existence of childhood—especially to someone who’d tasted adult freedom—was worth more to me than a thousand Galleons. Why shoot for the moon when you could get a comfortable window seat first?

As far as strategies went, it was practically foolproof.

And in this family, foolproof was the only proof you wanted.

Of course, for every act of meticulously choreographed baby brilliance, there were a few… inventive missteps. And by inventive missteps, I meant moments of unmitigated lunacy, generally fuelled by boredom, ego, or some unholy combination of both. One such gem occurred around month nine, when I decided—rather magnanimously, I thought—to give Kreacher a much-needed aesthetic upgrade.

Yes, I know how that sounds. But I swear I had noble intentions. Truly. It occurred to me that if I was going to be the next cunning infant mastermind, I might as well do something beneficial for the poor creature who resembled a cross between a malnourished goblin and a hungover bat. Let’s face it: Kreacher was never going to feature on any “Wizarding World’s Most Eligible” lists.

Now, I wasn’t aiming for the next Galadriel. But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t daydreamed a little about Kreacher emerging from my magical experiment looking like the spawn of Legolas and Sylvanas Windrunner (minus the bows and undead minions, obviously). Picture a regal Elf Butler, all elegant cheekbones and impeccable posture, gliding through the house in bespoke waistcoats and serving tea with an air of lofty disdain.

That was the fantasy: Kreacher 2.0.

You might be thinking: “Surely you didn’t expect it to work, right?”

Excellent question. And you’d be absolutely correct. I didn’t really expect much of anything. The endeavour was more of a… whimsical test, a means to explore the boundaries of the System and my own circumstances, while also attempting to make our ancient house-elf marginally less tragic to behold. If young Professor McGonagall could, in her infancy, conjure wondrous accidental magic, why couldn’t I? After all, you miss every shot you don’t take—or so the optimistic proverb goes.

Could I have tried something simpler? Undoubtedly. But where was the fun in that?

As you’ve likely guessed by now, precisely nothing happened. So little happened, in fact, that even crickets would have been ashamed of the conspicuous silence.

Still, I gave it a sporting effort.

One morning, when Kreacher appeared in my nursery on the fourth floor to perform his usual cleaning routine, I seized the moment with all the steadfast delusion my mind could muster. I visualised a grand wave of transformation magic—ha-ha, behold!—and directed it straight at his wrinkly head.

The result was… well, if we’re being kind, we could call it a faint twitch of his left ear. Realistically, I’m fairly certain it was just wishful thinking on my part. Everything about him stayed stubbornly, disappointingly Kreacher-like: a stunted little figure, bulbous snout of a nose, and bat-like ears—about as far from ‘regal elf’ as you could possibly get without actually transforming into a bog-gremlin.

Undeterred by the dismal lack of impact, I continued that little experiment for a couple of weeks, each failure prompting me to concentrate even harder—pushing my willpower against the fabric of reality in the manner I imagined Tom Riddle had in his youth. He’d bent the world to his whims without a drop of formal instruction—so why not me?

Naturally, I got nowhere. My efforts amounted to little more than me, red-faced and defiant, shaking metaphorical fists at the heavens while absolutely nothing changed.

It didn’t work. At all.

I suppose I would have been mortified—cheeks burning and all—if anyone had known I was doing it. Fortunately, my foray into unsolicited house-elf reconstruction remained undiscovered.

Well, there’s you now, but I trust you’ll be discreet about that little incident, yes?

In the end, the rather daft experiment was still worth a try, if only as a stark reminder of my current limitations. The Player Forum backed up that reality, too. The System, for all its promised power, came with strict rules: if I didn’t have the relevant Skills—or in this case, a suitable Spell—attempts to bend the world to my will would fall flat. My Character Sheet and Status Screens effectively policed what I could or couldn’t do.

So, no “freeform” magic for me and my half-baked magical ambitions. Unless, of course, I found a Skill dedicated to that very thing.

It was a sobering reminder that, for all the power at my fingertips, I was still subject to laws I couldn’t simply waltz around. Kind of like being an all-powerful deity, except you’re actually on a strict budget and required to use office stationery for everything.

You’ll be pleased to know, however, that the rest of my time was spent productively. Or at least, as productively as one could expect from someone who was still being applauded for not falling over too often. Whenever the opportunity presented itself—and sometimes when it didn’t—I trained my Skills. I was diligent. I was committed. I was... resourceful.

And considering my rather… limited avenues for self-improvement, I thought my efforts were nothing short of admirable. Heroic, even.

With my avenues for gaining Level Experience being rather sparse—limited, at this stage, to Skill Rank Ups—it wasn’t as if I had much of a choice. No convenient questlines, no monsters lurking in the nursery to slay, and certainly no epic adventures beyond the confines of 12 Grimmauld Place. Just me, my so-called baby charms, and an unwavering commitment to playing with the System wherever I could.

Twelve months in, progress wasn’t exactly meteoric. No overnight transformations into a miniature Merlin. But considering my current physical limitations—tiny hands, an inconvenient tendency to wobble, and the general lack of dignity that came with my age—I’d say I was doing remarkably well.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

Was it the most accelerated advancement? No. But was it better than average? Absolutely.

And really, isn’t that what matters most?

──────

— BASIC INFORMATION —

▼

Name: Antares Orion Black

Sex: Male

Age: 1 year old

Race: Human (Variant: Magus)

▼

Level: 3

Experience: 828/9,000

Skill Points: 1

Perk Points: 0

HP: 100%

FP: 100%

Stamina: 100%

■

— ATTRIBUTE SCORES —

Strength (STR): 10

Dexterity (DEX): 10

Constitution (CON): 10

Intelligence (INT): 15

Wisdom (WIS): 13

Charisma (CHA): 10

Free Attribute Points: 0

■

— PERKS —

▼

▸ HUMAN ADAPTABILITY (VARIANT: MAGUS)

▸ REBORN SOUL

▸ FAST LEARNER

■

— SKILLS —

▼

▸ MAGIC MASTERY • Rank 1

▸ OCCLUMENCY • Rank 9

▸ ACTING MASTERY • Rank 23

▾ ARS MAGICA I • Rank 2

Type: Knowledge

Requires:

• 10 INT
• Magic Mastery: Rank 1

A foundational Skill in the study of Arcane Magic—the precise and intricate art of manipulating the Arcane Weave through calculations, formulas, and deep theoretical understanding. This Skill provides beginner-level knowledge of all eight classical schools of Arcane Magic, offering insight into their core principles, interrelations, and practical applications. It serves as the primary guide for establishing a stable connection to the Arcane Weave, teaching you how to efficiently harness its boundless potential. Through structured study and disciplined practice, you will learn to act as a conduit, guiding the Weave to shape reality with precision and intent.

Effects:

• Grants fundamental knowledge of Arcane Magic, with each Rank unlocking additional details and deeper understanding.
• Each Rank enhances your proficiency and practical aptitude in the application of Arcane Magic.
• Grants the ability to learn and cast Arcane Spells.
• Allows you to choose one Tier 0 Arcane Spell from a curated list. An additional spell can be chosen at every 10th Rank of this Skill.

■

— SPELL LIST: ARCANE MAGIC —

▼

▾ SHAPE WATER

School: Transmutation

Tier: 0 (Arcane)

Components: S

FP Cost: Varies

Duration: Instantaneous or 1 hour

Range: 10 metres

Requirements:

• Magic Mastery: Rank 1
• Ars Magica I: Rank 1

Description:

You choose an area of water that you can see within range and that fits within a 1.5-metre cube. You manipulate it in one of the following ways:

• You instantaneously move or otherwise change the flow of the water as you direct, up to 1.5 metres in any direction. This movement doesn’t have enough force to cause damage.
• You cause the water to form into shapes and animate at your direction. This change lasts for 1 hour.
• You change the water’s colour or opacity. The water must be changed in the same way throughout. This change lasts for 1 hour.
• You freeze the water, provided that there are no creatures in it. The water unfreezes in 1 hour.

If you cast this Spell multiple times, you can have no more than two of its non-instantaneous effects active at a time.

──────

What I focused on most throughout the year boiled down to two Skills: «Acting Mastery» and «Occlumency». One—the fine art of pretending to be something I wasn’t. The other—the equally fine art of ensuring no one ever figured out that I was pretending to be something I wasn’t. A beautiful little pairing of deception that, if I played it right, would carry me throughout my second life without ever revealing things best left unrevealed.

I knew it wouldn’t always be enough—that eventually, I’d need more—but for now, it was a solid foundation. A respectable start. Like learning how to properly bluff in poker before going all-in with a terrible hand.

And let me tell you, training those Skills? Fun. Though trying at times.

There’s something immensely satisfying about watching Experience drops and those little progress bars inch forward—like a tiny, phantom pat on the back for a job well done. That quiet thrill of seeing the numbers tick up, knowing that despite my current predicament of forced infancy and excessive cooing, I was getting somewhere.

You already know how I trained «Acting Mastery»—every well-timed gurgle, every artfully clumsy reach for a toy, every perfectly vacant, wide-eyed stare designed to project innocence while subtly monitoring my surroundings. Each performance, when executed just right, was rewarded with another precious sliver of experience.

It was, quite simply, a relentless effort. A never-ending commitment to the craft of babyhood. And if I do say so myself, I had mastered the art of looking adorably infantile.

«Occlumency», on the other hand, was a different beast entirely. It was like trying to herd an unruly flock of thoughts into neat little rows—except the thoughts weren’t interested in being herded and would occasionally launch surprise attacks in the form of inconvenient past life regrets. Push one intrusive memory aside, and another would pop up, usually carrying a helpful mental slideshow of every embarrassing decision I’d ever made. But I persevered, sticking to the most basic Occlumency method in the book: emptying my mind of all thoughts and emotions.

It was about as thrilling as watching paint dry, but hey—progress is progress. And as the wise and ancient saying goes, consistency is key. Or, in this case, the only key available to someone whose most exciting life events currently involved spoon-fed meals and enthusiastic cooing from relatives.

Of course, the System, in its infinite wisdom, had decided that both Skills should fall under the category of “Very Slow” Experience gain. Because of course they were. Why let a guy enjoy himself when you could turn the whole thing into a prolonged exercise in patience? Watching those progress bars crawl forward at the speed of a particularly unmotivated Flobberworm only made the slow crawl feel slower.

But hey, who’s counting?

(Answer: Me. I was counting. Constantly.)

And then—oh, then—came that glorious moment when I hit Level 2, right around the middle of the year.

The best way I can describe the feeling? You know that moment when you find money in an old coat pocket—the kind of glorious, unexpected windfall that makes you feel like the universe isn’t entirely out to get you after all? That fleeting, delirious rush of triumph, as if fate itself had finally decided to cut you a break? Yeah, it was like that—except that time, I actually worked for it, and instead of some crumpled cash, I got something far more useful.

Something with potential.

Future world domination potential.

Alright, maybe not quite domination. Yet. But the possibilities were there, lurking in the fine print, waiting to be exploited. And in the grand scheme of things, what’s a little power without the sweet, sweet illusion of having earned it?

(Not that I was planning on world domination, of course. That sounds exhausting. Who even has the time?)

After brief deliberation—meaning about thirty seconds of feverish internal debate—I knew exactly where it needed to go.

«Ars Magica I».

A fancy name for what basically amounted to an entry-level introduction to Arcane Magic. But here’s the kicker: it came with the ability to choose my very first Spell.

Shape Water.

Not exactly the stuff of legend, but it checked all the right boxes. No verbal incantations, which meant I didn’t have to explain why a baby was suddenly enunciating like an overenthusiastic Charms professor. Just somatic components—simple hand movements, subtle gestures, things that could be camouflaged as baby flailing. And best of all? Water was everywhere. Bath time, meal time, in glasses, in bowls—liquid opportunities abounded.

It was, in short, the most practical choice. Low effort, high reward, and plenty of opportunities to practice.

And, naturally, I had the perfect stage for my grand magical debut: bath time.

It was the perfect setting—low stakes, no one watching too closely, and plenty of water conveniently sloshing around. All I had to do was wait for the right moment. The tension. The drama. The impending sense of destiny.

Which, in this case, came approximately a minute or so after my mother plopped me into a tub one fine evening.

I focused, held out a pudgy little hand, and with all the subtlety of a seasoned actor—and, crucially, the right amount of babyish enthusiasm—began to flail. But not just any flail. Oh no. This was strategic flailing. A masterclass in deception disguised as chaotic exuberance.

To my mother, it was probably nothing more than the erratic, overexcited splashing of a particularly energetic infant. In reality? It was a carefully executed sequence of fluid, deliberate movements—small, circular swipes, exaggerated wrist flicks, and the occasional erratic jab—all designed to manipulate the water without anyone suspecting a thing.

And it worked.

The bathwater obeyed my carefully concealed commands, rippling with purpose, swirling in gentle spirals before stretching upwards in a graceful arc. With a final, seemingly accidental flick of my chubby fingers—disguised as an overenthusiastic splash—the water twisted, curled, and resolved itself into a rough miniature of my mother’s face, floating serenely above the surface. The high cheekbones, the imperious tilt of her chin, the faint pursing of her lips—it was all there, captured in a somewhat accurate liquid detail.

For dramatic effect, I froze it a second or so later.

My mother stared.

I stared.

The water stared.

I could feel the tension thick in the air, the split-second pause where suspicion teetered dangerously on the edge of awe. But then—blessedly—her expression softened into something dangerously close to delight.

“Oh my,” she whispered, breathless.

I responded the only way a sensible, secretive, reborn adult could—by letting my jaw go slack, blinking in wide-eyed wonder, and delivering an utterly convincing gurgle of confusion. I even added a clumsy grab at the water sculpture, ensuring it collapsed into an anticlimactic splash, effectively sealing the illusion of sheer, adorable randomness.

The key was always in the details. Controlled accidents. A little genius disguised as a lot of dumb luck.

And just like that, I’d successfully passed it off as the holy grail of childhood wizardry—accidental magic. The kind every young magical child was expected to display sooner or later, the kind that reassured parents, soothed anxieties, and—most importantly—confirmed that their offspring was, in fact, not a Squib.

It was, in short, the perfect cover. A harmless, inevitable milestone that my parents could tuck away into their mental ledgers under Promising Magical Potential, right next to The Glory of the Black Family and Definitely Not a Squib. More importantly, it provided a convenient precedent—something to fall back on should any future slips occur. After all, accidental magic was unpredictable by nature, prone to the whims of a child’s emotions. No one would question the occasional strange ripple in their teacup or a floating bath toy, not when I’d already “proven” myself so early.

Perfect.

But if there was one thing I had learned in my past life, it was this: success is a slippery thing. It lulls you into a false sense of security, makes you complacent, and then—before you know it—you’ve done something extraordinary enough to attract the wrong kind of attention.

So, I made a mental note to pace myself. No need to rush. No need to show off too much. Just the occasional, well-timed burst of brilliance to keep the expectations high and the suspicions low.

And thus, my grand plan continued.

Step one: Survive babyhood.

Step two: Build a skillset that ensured I didn’t end up as an unfortunate footnote in the annals of magical history.

Step three?

Well, let’s just say I had plans.

Big ones.

But all grand schemes start with the smallest of steps.

One step at a time.