The castle was quiet again.
Not the sleepy quiet of an evening after curfew or the hushed stillness of the library, but the deep, resonant stillness that fell over Hogwarts during the holidays—when most students had gone home, when the halls echoed only with the footfalls of portraits and ghosts.
Snow blanketed the grounds in drifts. The Ravenclaw Tower, perched high above the rest of the castle, was wreathed in white and silent as a tomb. From my dorm window, I could see nothing but the endless spread of snow and the distant twinkle of Hogsmeade's lights.
I had the tower to myself.
It was the first morning of the Christmas break. My friends—Henry, Elizabeth, Edgar, and Eleanor—had all returned to their families to celebrate the Yule. I, by choice, had remained. Hogwarts was quieter, the Chamber more accessible, and I had work to do.
Draconian still consumed most of my study. Each day, I returned to the chamber, to the sealed study within its vault, where I wrestled with the ancient glyphs and fragments of Merlin's legacy. But today, I came upon something new.
The firelight in the Chamber flickered blue and green against the carved serpents as I stood before Salazar's portrait. I had just finished reading a passage from a blackened tome bound in hide I could not name. Its title had long since been burned away.
It did not speak of dragons, or magic words, or resonance.
It spoke of sight.
And it terrified me.
"Heir," Salazar's portrait said softly, noticing my fixed expression, "what have you found?"
I turned the book so he could see the diagram: two circles etched within the shape of a human eye, with twisting lines weaving through them in spiral arcs.
"A technique," I said. "To awaken an ocular power."
The text was ancient—more fragmented than whole—but the instructions were clear enough. A wizard could force the magic within them to focus into their eyes, sculpting their very perception, if they could maintain a specific magical flow for seven months without interruption. It required shutting off one's sight entirely—closing the eyes and never opening them, allowing all other senses to become primary.
To fail halfway would leave the magic fractured in the mind. Permanent damage. Blindness, madness… or worse.
Salazar was quiet for a long moment. Then he hissed in Parseltongue, "Only a few ever attempted it. Fewer succeeded. The last was centuries ago."
"I want to try," I said. "My body, my will, my mind—they're strong. You've said so. Dumbledore's said so. If I start now… I can complete the seven months before the summer ends."
"And if you fail?" he asked, voice calm but coiled like a serpent about to strike.
"Then I'll fail blind," I said. "But I won't."
A long silence passed. The torches flared, casting shifting shadows over Salazar's painted face.
"Then begin, Marcus Starborn," he said at last. "But know this: the path of true power lies not only in ambition… but in sacrifice."
Back in my dormitory, I drew every curtain closed and extinguished the fire. I gathered my wand, my rune notes, and my copies of Merlin's scrolls in braille enchantment—a spell I had crafted to transmute ink into raised magical texture I could feel.
I stood before the mirror and looked into my own eyes for what might be the last time in months.
"Seven months," I whispered.
Then I closed my eyes… and did not open them again.
Navigating blind was not easy. At first, I relied on my wand—simple tactile spells like Homenum Revelio, Tactus Lumen, and an adapted form of Point Me to map my surroundings using tiny magical pulses like echolocation. I used touch, sound, even smell—sorting the castle's scents, counting steps, memorizing the echo of each hallway.
I moved only when necessary. I spent hours in my room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, meditating. I could feel the flow of magic in my body—like liquid light moving through my limbs. I directed it upward, forcing it toward my temples, my brow, and then into the spheres of my eyes.
It burned.
The first few days, the pain was nearly unbearable—like hot needles behind my eyelids. I wept bitterly, silently. But I did not stop.
Each night, I descended into the Chamber of Secrets. I needed the wards, the protections, the proximity to ancient power. There, I meditated again—hours at a time—tuning the stream of magic through my nerves like threading a storm through a needle.
And all the while, I studied Draconian. By touch, by sound, by memory.
I whispered the syllables aloud in the dark, letting them roll over my tongue, listening for the resonance they left in the air. The words were not just sounds—they were events, pulses that altered the space around me.
Even Salazar, silent in his frame, watched with a stillness that hinted at caution, or perhaps awe.
Days passed. Then weeks.
I no longer needed to trace the castle's stones with my hand. I knew the steps of every hallway by their count, the smell of every corridor by its chill and damp.
On the seventh night of the holiday, I sat once more in the Chamber, my eyes still shut, my wand across my knees. My breath was steady. My heart was calm.
The magic inside me now spiraled in stable motion, a slow orbit centered in my eyes. The pain had receded. In its place was pressure, quiet and constant—like the weight of a sleeping dragon in my skull.
I was on the path now. No going back.
I returned to Ravenclaw Tower long after midnight, the enchanted staircases rotating beneath my careful steps. No one stirred. No one questioned. I locked my dormitory and slipped beneath the covers of my bed, my vision still cloaked in black.
Before sleep claimed me, I reached out with my magic, touching every point of the tower I could feel. I could sense the windows, the edge of the tower, even the heartbeat of the owl roost above.
Power came not from seeing, but from knowing.
And I was beginning to know.
It began in the dark.
Not the dark of blindness—but the deeper, wordless dark that lies behind the eyelids when magic itself becomes the light.
I felt it first in the Chamber. Seated alone, cross-legged beneath the gaze of Salazar Slytherin's painted eyes, I'd been meditating for what felt like hours. My breath slowed to a whisper, my heartbeat a steady drumbeat in my ears.
And then… something changed.
It was as if the space around me had shape—not just in sound or air pressure or magical echo, but in pure sensation. I could *feel* the outlines of the stone arch before me, the ripple of a protective ward hanging like silk above the library alcove, the faint shimmer of a dormant curse woven into the edge of a bookcase.
It wasn't sight. It wasn't touch. It was *magic*, felt directly through my core.
"Salazar," I said softly, not opening my eyes, "I think I'm sensing the world through the leylines."
The portrait was silent for a long moment. Then came his slow reply.
"*No,*" he hissed, "*you are sensing it through yourself. Your blood knows magic. The legacy of the Starborn line is old, older than this school. Magic itself flows through your blood like rivers through the land.*"
I smiled faintly. I had discovered something rare.
Something mine.
I spent the next several days refining it.
The new sense was fragile at first—slippery as fog—but it grew sharper with practice. I could feel charms woven into furniture. I could detect the pull of enchanted objects even through stone. When I stepped into a corridor, I didn't need my wand or my ears—I felt the people around me through the pressure of their magic brushing faintly against my own.
I called it **magic sense**—not the most elegant name, but one that suited its function. It didn't replace my other senses; it *augmented* them. Made them unnecessary when I didn't want them. I had become a tuning fork for magic.
And so I could walk.
But walking through Hogwarts with my eyes closed soon drew attention.
The first confrontation came in the form of Professor Fairburn, our stern Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. She found me walking toward the library, robes swirling, my eyes shut but my path straight.
"Starborn," she barked. "Why are your eyes closed?"
I stopped. Bowed politely. "A family technique, Professor."
She frowned. "Explain. Clearly."
I'd prepared for this.
"I'm awakening a hereditary sight—a latent magical sense in the Starborn line. The ritual requires constant redirection of magical flow through the eyes. Any disruption resets the process."
"You're deliberately blinding yourself?"
"Temporarily," I said. "Until it completes, I must keep my eyes shut. I'm also refining my perception of magic without sight—something once practiced in my family before wand use was widespread."
She looked me over, arms folded. "Dangerous. Foolish."
"Perhaps," I said. "But not unwise. I can already detect enchantments, wards, and the magical presence of others."
After a moment, she huffed. "I'll bring this to the Headmaster. Don't wander off cliffs in the meantime."
Professor Dumbledore, when I was summoned two days later, reacted much as I expected.
With curiosity—and caution.
We met in his office, the scent of lemon drops in the air, his owl watching me with curious golden eyes.
"You are attempting to awaken a sight long considered mythical," Dumbledore said, voice gentle. "You realize the risk?"
"Yes," I replied. "But it's not reckless. I've already adjusted to life without vision. I use a mix of detection spells, sensory charms, and now—what I call 'magic sense.'"
"And you believe this… magic sense… is ancestral?" he asked, peering at me over his half-moon spectacles.
"I do. A portrait of my ancestor I found believes it's tied to my bloodline. I can navigate by the pulse of nearby enchantments. The technique to awaken it requires a strict seven-month regimen—any lapse, and it fails."
"Fascinating," he murmured. "And you wish permission to continue your studies in this state?"
"Yes. I'll maintain my grades. I can demonstrate what I've learned."
Dumbledore leaned back. "Then show me, Mr. Starborn."
He conjured a maze of illusory obstacles in the room—warded statues, shielded illusions, hexing glyphs buried in the floor—and bade me cross the room.
Eyes closed, wand unused, I stepped forward.
And I danced.
I *felt* the magic hanging in the air—veils of static, thorns of fire, shields humming like tuning forks. I dodged left, right, ducked low, vaulted a conjured wall, and stepped between two buzzing enchantments that would have frozen me solid.
On the other side, I turned to him. "Sufficient?"
Dumbledore's expression was unreadable for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"I believe you are… unique, Marcus. Do what you must. But if your condition worsens—if your senses weaken or your health deteriorates—you will stop."
"I understand."
"And when you succeed," he said with a small smile, "I expect you to teach me."
I met with each of my core subject professors over the week. All were cautious. Beery thought I was mad. Slughorn was alarmed until I demonstrated that I could still brew potions accurately using smell, texture, and magical reading. Wrenwick only nodded once and said, "So long as your Herbology marks don't drop."
They agreed.
So long as I kept pace with the rest of the class, I was permitted to remain as I was: eyes closed, mind open, magic blazing in silent spirals through my skull.
By the last day of the holiday, I no longer stumbled through halls. I moved as if I saw more than anyone else—as if the world whispered its shape into my skin.
I was blind.
But I had never seen more clearly.
January 1935 came and with it my second term of fourth year in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry started.
The train whistle had long faded into memory, replaced now by the cold, stone calm of Hogwarts Castle. Winter still clung to the Highlands, crisp frost painting the windows and the distant peaks a pale white. Inside my private dormitory in Ravenclaw Tower, I sat on the edge of my bed, eyes closed — as they had been for weeks now.
I had learned to walk the castle corridors without vision. Learned the echo of every step, the breath of walls, the taste of distant charms still humming faintly along stairwells. It was not enough. But something more subtle stirred — my magic had begun to guide me. A tug here. A tension there. It was not yet honed, not yet conscious. But it was growing.
The door creaked open — Elizabeth's voice rang out, laced with worry.
"Marcus? Are you… alright?"
"I am," I replied calmly, smiling toward her presence. "It's part of a magical ritual from my family. Something old. I'm… developing a form of ocular magic."
Henry scoffed softly behind her. "Is that why you've been walking around like a bat? You could've told us!"
"I didn't want to lie. But I wasn't ready to explain either," I said. "I've begun a technique — Starborn magic — that requires my eyes remain closed for seven months. It's… dangerous, if interrupted."
Edgar stepped forward. "Seven months? And you'll be blind all that time?"
"Only in the mundane sense," I said. "I'm developing something called *magic sense* in parallel. It allows me to perceive magic itself — not light or form, but intent, flow, power. Eventually, I'll see differently. Magically."
There was silence, broken only by the crackle of the common room hearth down the tower stairs.
"You're mad," Elizabeth muttered, but with a smile. "But then, you always were."
They didn't question further. That was friendship — hard-earned trust. But others would need convincing.
Later that day in Professor Beery's Office
"I see," Professor Beery said slowly, twirling a quill between his fingers. "You're saying this magical ritual… inhibits your physical sight but enables the emergence of a unique ocular power?"
"Yes, sir," I said, standing calmly before him. "The magic of the Starborn line was known for deeper perception. This is part of that heritage. I'm requesting formal permission to continue this state under Hogwarts's supervision."
He tapped the quill to his chin, then nodded.
"You've never been anything short of exceptional, Marcus. I'll alert the other professors. But if your safety is compromised, we will intervene. Understood?"
"Understood sir but no need to alert the other professors as I had already done that when i came to you in the yule holidays to inform you of this."
That evening in the underground duelling club.
The stone chamber under Hogwarts pulsed with latent enchantments and anticipation. A dozen students gathered around the edge, and I stood at the center, robes swaying gently. Whispers filled the room.
"He can't see."
"He's mad."
"This is a duel, not a joke."
I lifted a hand.
"My eyes are closed," I said. "But I am not blind. I see what matters."
Edgar stepped forward. "Don't underestimate him. You'll regret it."
My opponent was a sixth-year Hufflepuff. Cautious. Measured.
The duel began.
A stunner whipped through the air — I felt it a moment before it emerged, a twist in magical tension. I pivoted, stepped aside. My counter came in the form of a nonverbal Knockback Jinx that swept him off his feet.
I didn't need sight. I *sensed* it.
After the duel, a few of them approached, silent at first.
"You really couldn't see?"
"No," I said simply. "Not like you do."
"Then how—?"
"Magic has more senses than sight," I said. "You've just never needed them."
That night, in my dorm, I lay back against my pillow, the curtains drawn tight, the castle quiet beyond the windows. My mind was sharp, calm, and focused. I was navigating an old path — one few dared tread in this age. But I wasn't afraid. And with these thoughts I let Morpheus claim me.