September 10th, 1977 — Early Morning, London
The world was still dark, wrapped in the thin blue hush that comes just before dawn, when a sharp pop cracked through the quiet street in front of St. Mary's Home for Children. The sound echoed unnaturally—too crisp, too clean, too sudden to belong to any car engine or distant door slam.
In the dimness, a pale flash tore through the shadowed air, distorting the streetlamp's halo for the briefest heartbeat.
A woman stumbled out of nothingness.
Her boots scraped the stone steps as she pitched forward, catching herself only long enough to gasp for breath. Her travelling cloak—once fine, deep emerald—was torn in long, violent slashes. The edges were singed, blackened by fire. A faint smell of smoke and burnt ozone clung to her, drifting through the cold morning air.
Her left hand clutched her swollen stomach, the taut curve of late pregnancy. Her right hand trembled violently as she grabbed at the wooden door for support.
"Please…" she breathed, though no one heard the whisper.
She lifted her fist and knocked once.
A weak, broken sound.
Then she collapsed, crumpling to the stone like a rag doll, her hair spilling over her pale, sweat-sheened face.
For several seconds, the world was silent again as fog crept low over the pavement, curling around her still form.
Inside the orphanage
The night matron—Mrs. Porter, a stout woman with grey streaks and permanently tired eyes—had been dozing lightly in her armchair when the strange thud shook the door. She sat bolt upright, heart hammering.
"Who in the world—at this hour?" she muttered, reaching for her slippers.
Before she even opened the door, two other staff members poked their heads out of their rooms.
"Did you hear that?"
"I think someone fell—"
"Sounded like gunshot."
Mrs. Porter swung the door open.
And gasped.
"My God—she's in labour!"
The young woman lay sprawled across the stone steps, her breaths shallow, her face contorted with pain. Sweat plastered her dark curls to her forehead; her fingers spasmed as if reaching for something just beyond her grasp.
"Quickly! Get her inside!"
The staff moved on instinct. They lifted the woman as carefully as possible—she weighed almost nothing, fragile as paper—and rushed her into the orphanage's small infirmary room. The heated air touched her chilled skin, but she didn't stir.
Time blurred into a chaotic haze of shouted instructions and hurried movement.
"Boil water—now!"
"Get blankets!"
"Her pulse is dropping—keep her awake!"
But the woman drifted in and out, consciousness slipping like sand through her fingers. She didn't respond to voices. Not really. Only the pain seemed to anchor her to the world, sharp and merciless.
Sweat clung to her brow in gleaming beads. Her breaths came in shallow gasps, and fear—raw, aching fear—etched itself across her features.
A contraction ripped through her, and her back arched off the bed in a silent scream.
The matron squeezed her hand.
"You're doing fine, dear. Stay with us. Just a little longer."
But the woman's eyes rolled back.
For a moment, it seemed she was gone.
Then the cry came.
Thin. Sharp. Piercing.
A newborn's cry.
The staff exhaled collectively, shoulders sagging in relief. A healthy baby boy—tiny, red-faced, fists clenched in outrage at the cold air—came into the world.
The mother didn't wake.
Not yet.
Hours passed in quiet urgency. The infant was washed, wrapped in a soft white blanket, and placed beside her. The world outside brightened, the sky shifting from indigo to pale grey to soft gold as dawn crept in.
The woman lay still, breaths shallow but steady.
Then—finally—she stirred.
Her eyelids fluttered, struggling against the heaviness of exhaustion, but eventually she forced them open. Glassy, unfocused eyes scanned the small room, confusion clouding her gaze.
Her body trembled as she tried to shift.
She turned her head, exhaling in relief when she saw the baby sleeping beside her—tiny chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm.
Her lips curved into a weak, fragile smile.
Then she noticed something across the room—a robe hanging over the back of a chair. A movement of recognition flickered in her eyes.
She raised her trembling hand.
The air quivered.
A soft glow shimmered around her fingertips as invisible magic stirred—sluggish, exhausted, but still responding to her call.
From inside the robe's inner pocket, a silver locket drifted out as though held by unseen hands.
It floated toward her slowly, swaying gently as though reluctant to disturb the air.
When it reached her palm, the locket pulsed with faint, ancient magic.
She turned her head, gazing at her newborn son.
A single tear spilled down her cheek.
Then another.
But they weren't clear.
They were silver-white, shimmering softly like drops of liquid moonlight.
Her voice cracked when she spoke—barely audible.
"I'm so sorry, baby… Mum and Dad didn't want to abandon you in this cruel world…"
Her tears fell onto her trembling hand. She cupped them delicately, guiding them—one by one—into a narrow groove on the locket's inner rim.
The metal absorbed the glowing liquid with a faint hum, as though drinking in her grief, her love, her final message.
She snapped the locket shut.
She sealed it with what little magic she had left.
Her hands shook as she placed it gently around the baby's tiny neck.
"Be strong, my boy… and don't hate Mum and Dad…"
A violent cough tore through her chest. Her body convulsed, and she doubled over, gasping for air. The sound echoed through the room, bringing one of the orphanage workers rushing in.
"Miss? Miss, please lie down—you need to rest—"
But the woman grabbed the girl's wrist with sudden, surprising strength.
Her grip was icy. Desperate.
She pulled the young woman down until her ear hovered just above the dying mother's lips.
Her breath was warm, trembling, fading.
Her final whisper was a command.
A blessing.
A plea.
"His name… is Alastair Caelum… S–P…"
Her grip loosened.
Her hand slipped away.
Her head fell back onto the pillow.
The light in her eyes dimmed—gently, quietly—like a candle being blown out by a soft breeze.
She was gone.
The orphanage worker pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes stinging.
Mrs. Porter crossed herself and whispered a prayer.
Only the baby, warm and safe beside her, breathed on—unaware of the destiny that had just been set in motion.
At the same moment—far away, in Scotland
Deep within Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, behind wards older than the castle's oldest stones, lay a forgotten chamber lit by floating candles that never melted.
At the center stood a great, ancient tome, bound in cracked dragonhide.
The Book of Admittance.
Beside it rested a quill made of a single phoenix feather—black as shadow, shimmering gold in the candlelight.
The Quill of Acceptance.
Both had remained perfectly still through the night.
For a heartbeat—one quiet, magical heartbeat—the quill twitched.
Ink stirred.
Then the quill dipped itself and began to write in crisp, elegant strokes:
Alastair Caelum S-P
Born: 10 September 1977
The ink shimmered faintly—almost respectfully, as if recognizing the magnitude of the name it had just recorded.
The page glowed.
Then the magic stilled.
A child of ancient bloodlines had entered the world.
Hidden.
Forgotten.
Unseen by wizarding eyes.
But magic had taken notice.
And it would not forget him.
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