Where does magic come from?
That is a question that not many truly ask as the believe that magic has always simply existed in their families was but a known fact in the world. The simple knowledge that some were gifted with magic and some were not was all that they ever seemed to care to know.
But you see, I know the answer to that question.
Long ago, in the ancient lands of Greece, a child was born beneath a sky heavy with stars. Her name was Hecate. Even as an infant, strange signs followed her: animals gathered at her cradle, fires burned without consuming, and the air seemed to hum softly when she drew breath. The villagers whispered of omens, of curses—but Hecate did not wither beneath fear. She grew strong within it.
As she came of age, she discovered she could see magic—not as something hidden, but as threads woven into all things: the flame's restless spirit, the river's patient strength, the pulse of life in root and branch. She was curious, fearless, and endlessly experimental. Where others saw danger, she saw possibility. She carved symbols into stone, birthing the first runes. She spoke words into the wind, and they returned as the first spells. She crushed herbs under moonlight, and the world answered with the first potions.
By her twelfth year, dreams whispered lessons to her, voices older than the mountains. By her fifteenth, she could command the tides and summon storms. By her twentieth, she had woven so much of the world's essence into herself that she ceased to be only mortal. The same villagers who once muttered of curses now knelt in reverence. They called her goddess, and though she had not asked for the name, she came to wear it with pride: Hecate, the Goddess of Witchcraft.
But even divinity longs for companionship.
Hecate loved deeply, and once she bound herself to a mortal man. Their union brought forth children unlike any the world had seen. They bore sparks of her power but lacked her vastness, and so they learned to shape tools to channel it. The first wands were born—bridges between fragile flesh and unfathomable might. These children, and their children after them, became the first witches and wizards.
For many years, they mingled freely with mortals, giving rise to Half-bloods—bridges between two worlds. In time, some chose to bind their magic to others like themselves. From those unions, the first Pure-blood lines emerged, families steeped wholly in the gift, who would one day shape the destiny of magical kind.
Yet immortality has its own burdens. Hecate outlived her husband, and then her children, and their children after them. Her grief was endless, yet so was her heart. In an age long after her first family, she found love again—not in a mortal this time, but in a wizard of formidable power. From their union sprang a new line, one destined to echo through centuries. That family would be known as the House of Evans, carrying within it the goddess's spark, her legacy of magic, and her enduring love for the world she had helped shape.
Centuries unfurled like parchment. Civilizations rose, kingdoms crumbled, and still the children of Hecate endured. Families grew vast, their bloodlines weaving like rivers that split and rejoined. Some crafted banners and sigils, naming themselves Houses, binding together kin and cousins under common cause. And among these Houses, three orders emerged, each setting itself apart: the Noble, who traced lineage through centuries of power; the Royal, who claimed not just blood but rule over men; and the rarest of all, the Imperial, for there could be only one such line.
The Imperial House was no ordinary family.
Their name was whispered with both reverence and fear, for they claimed descent not merely from Hecate's children but from Hecate herself, through a line unbroken and unyielding. Their banner was silver and black, their crest a star cradled in a serpent's coils, and their words were simple: Dominari per Arcanum—to master through magic.
They were the House of Evans.
Unlike other families, the Evans did not rely upon the wands that were slowly becoming the tools of wizardkind. While others carved wood, strung core to timber, and bent spells through crafted channels, the Evans bent magic with will alone. Their blood carried command, their veins sang with sorcery. Where others spoke incantations, they whispered only thought. Where others waved their wands, Evans raised their hands empty, and fire, storm, and shadow obeyed.
Other Houses feared them. Respected them. Envied them. And quietly, some conspired against them. For such power, unmediated and absolute, unsettled even allies. Yet the Evans endured, imperial and unassailable, their influence stretching through centuries.
But empires seldom remain eternal.
Whispers grew over time. That the Evans were too powerful. That they meddled too deeply. That even Hecate's blood might one day thin and falter. There were mutterings of betrayal, of alliances turned sour. Records that once spoke proudly of the Imperial House began, curiously, to vanish. Entire archives contained gaps where their names should have been written. Scholars who sought proof found only fragments, broken seals, scattered rumors.
And then, one night—so the story went—the House of Evans was gone.
No battle recorded. No massacre chronicled. No graves to mourn, no survivors to account. The Imperial line, which had stood for centuries as the pillar of magical blood, vanished as though erased. Not merely their bodies, but their existence. Villages that once bore their crest stood empty, their stones crumbled without memory of who had laid them. Wizards who had once sworn fealty woke with strange hollowness, unable to recall faces they should have known. It was as if the world itself had been rewritten, the House of Evans plucked from its fabric like a thread, leaving only the faintest trace that they had ever been at all.
Only whispers remained. That perhaps they had grown too close to the origin of magic. That they had dared a power even they could not hold. That Hecate herself had reclaimed her blood, folding it back into shadow. Or, darker still, that they had not vanished but hidden, waiting for a time when their bloodline would again claim dominion.
And so it was that the question remained, passed from tongue to tongue, generation to generation, unanswerable and yet unavoidable.
Where does magic come from?
The tale of Hecate was a beginning. The rise of the Houses was a continuation. But the truth, as ever, was hidden in silence, waiting for the day it would break through once more.
Centuries rolled forward like a tide, each leaving behind broken shells of memory, each grinding the world into a shape neither Hecate nor her first children could have imagined. Muggles multiplied, building villages that became towns, towns that became sprawling kingdoms. Their fires burned brighter with each discovery—iron and steel, glass and ink, compasses to lead them, maps to claim what had never been theirs. With knowledge came ambition, and with ambition came fear. For where the powerless gather in great numbers, they will always look with suspicion upon the few who can shape the world with little more than a gesture.
It began quietly, with whispers and sidelong glances, with gossip in muddy taverns of healers who mended wounds too swiftly, or midwives who whispered charms over stillborn babes and coaxed their lungs to cry. But whispers became warnings, and warnings became shouts. Pitchforks were lifted, torches lit, and soon the children of Hecate learned the hard lesson: their gifts made them gods in secret, but devils in the eyes of men.
The great houses disagreed on how to respond. Some, like the Noble and Royal families, saw little reason to hide. Were they not born of magic? Was it not their right to rule? But the Imperial House, wise beyond arrogance, knew the tide could not be stopped by pride alone. The Muggles were too many, and magic—though mighty—could not shield witches and wizards from the hate festering in every unlit corner. Even an empire of sorcery could be drowned beneath a flood of mortal suspicion.
It was in these troubled years that four figures rose from obscurity to shape the destiny of their kind.
Godric Gryffindor, warrior bold and lion-hearted, carried fire in his blood and steel at his side. Helga Hufflepuff, gentle in hand yet indomitable in spirit, gathered the outcasts and taught them loyalty as others taught letters. Rowena Ravenclaw, wise and far-seeing, walked dreams as easily as hallways, and it was in one such dream—a vision of a warty hog leading her to a cliff above a deep and secret loch—that she found the resting place of what would become their greatest legacy. Last of the four was Salazar Slytherin, cunning and proud, who believed that purity of blood was purity of purpose, and whose ambition cut sharper than any blade.
Together, they raised walls of stone higher than cathedrals, stronger than fortresses, imbued with enchantments so deep they hummed in the marrow of the land. Thus was born Hogwarts: a sanctuary, a bastion, a citadel of learning where the young could grow without fear of the flames outside their doors. And though the castle's halls rang with laughter and the clash of wands, shadows lingered, for even among the four, distrust bred seeds of division that would one day split the school itself.
Yet for all its wonder, Hogwarts was but a single stronghold. Beyond its wards, the world darkened.
The Salem Witch Trials swept across the New World like wildfire, a frenzy of fear and faith twisted into cruelty. Mothers burned at the stake, daughters drowned beneath stones, fathers hung from gallows, their only crime the suspicion of magic whispered by a jealous neighbor. Though few true witches perished—most too cunning to be caught—the bloodlust of Muggles shook the wizarding world to its core.
It was then the Imperial House of Evans called a summit the likes of which had not been seen since Hecate herself walked the earth. From every continent they came—shamans of Africa, alchemists of Arabia, storm-callers of the East, druids of the northern isles, enchanters of the icy wastes. They gathered in a hall carved of white marble and bound with spells that stilled the wind, the sea, even the turning of the stars overhead. There, under the unyielding gaze of the Evans patriarch, the first International Confederation of Wizards was formed.
Arguments raged like storms. Should they reveal themselves openly and demand their place above mortals? Should they retreat deeper into secrecy, abandon the world they had once guided? Should they strike back in vengeance for every witch slain, every wizard hunted? Voices thundered in a dozen tongues, each cloaked in the weight of pride and fear.
At last, it was the Imperial House who silenced the chamber. The Evans heir—tall, clad in robes stitched with golden thread that shimmered without torchlight—spoke but a single truth: "To rule a world that hates us is to rule ashes. To burn them is to burn ourselves. We must become unseen, or we will become extinct."
So was born the Statute of Secrecy, a covenant that bound the magical world apart from the Muggle one. Spells of concealment wrapped cities and castles; memory charms swept across villages like fog; great beasts were hidden, their roars silenced, their wings cloaked. An entire world folded itself into the cracks of another, vanishing behind a veil invisible to mortal eyes.
And for a time, there was peace.
Yet scarcely a decade passed before calamity struck.
The Imperial House of Evans—so long the pillar of magical authority, their bloodline stretching unbroken to Hecate herself—vanished. Not slain, not overthrown, not exiled. Vanished.
One winter's night, their great estate upon the cliffs of Dover still burned with lantern light, its towers crowned in frost, its banners snapping in the sea wind. By dawn, it was gone. Not just the estate. Not just the family. But everything.
Records that had filled libraries were blank. Portraits faded from their frames. Coins once minted with their sigil tarnished to base metal. Even memories blurred like ink in rain. Wizards who had sworn fealty could no longer recall their oaths. Witches who had studied under Evans tutors found themselves grasping at empty recollections, unable to remember the names of the very mentors who had shaped their craft.
It was as though the House of Evans had been drawn behind a curtain and locked away from time itself.
The wizarding world reeled. Some whispered it was divine punishment, that the Evans had flown too close to Hecate's throne and been struck down. Others swore dark magic was to blame, that jealous rivals had woven a curse to erase the greatest dynasty of all. Still others claimed the House had never truly existed, that they had been nothing but a dream, a story to frighten Pure-blood children into obedience.
But the world knew better. They had existed. They had ruled. And now they were gone.
From the ashes of that vanished empire, a new order rose. Without the Imperial line to guide them, the Confederation faltered, splintered, and dwindled into little more than ritual and ceremony. In its place the Ministry of Magic grew, practical and bureaucratic, more concerned with parchment than prophecy. Ministers replaced emperors; laws replaced bloodlines. The age of dynasties ended, the age of governance began.
But magic does not forget.
It lingers in the blood, hidden in branches of family trees thought broken, concealed in hearts where destiny waits patiently for its hour. And though the world believed the Imperial House of Evans lost forever, their fire had not been snuffed out. It lived on, silent and unseen, in a single child born of unlikely union.
Now, this is not a tale of the history of the Wizarding World, nor of the signing of the Statute, nor even of the vanished Evans whose shadows stretch long across centuries.
This is the story of a Wizard that goes by the name of Tom Marvolo Riddle, but not the story that you will know.
No, this is the story of how magic itself intervened in the world and caused the birth of one of the greatest and most powerful wizards in human history. And pray tell how did this powerful wizard come to be? And how is the infamous Tom Riddle a part of it all?
Well then let me tell you the story of Harry Potter, son of James Potter, heir of the Royal House of Potter, and Lily Evans—the last hidden descendant of the Imperial line.
And how he became known as Hadrian Marvolo Potter, the Lord of Darkness. The Serpent King. The God of Magic.
I welcome you.... to my Wizarding World.