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✦ no part of this fiction may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher/author.
✦ this is my first official wattpad original fic. i’m only releasing the first five chapters on tumblr, but the link for the fic (ongoing!wip) can be found here.
✦ w/c: 2,8k
The castle stretched endlessly around me, shifting in ways that made my stomach turn. Hallways bent where they should not have bent. Staircases descended into darkness I did not remember existing. Portraits watched too closely as I passed, their painted eyes lingering long after I moved beyond them.
An erratic buzzing pulsed beneath my skin. The deeper I wandered, the stronger it became.
Until finally—
I turned sharply down a narrow corridor and stopped cold.
The Mirror of Erised stood before me.
Dust clung to its enormous golden frame, though the glass itself remained untouched, gleaming unnaturally beneath dim torchlight. Something about it felt wrong immediately. Heavier somehow. Like the air surrounding it carried its own gravity.
My feet moved before I consciously decided to approach. Then I saw them.
Two figures stood within the reflection.
One masculine.
One feminine.
Dark silhouettes stretched long beneath silver candlelight, their features obscured as though the mirror itself refused to fully reveal them. They stood facing one another in complete silence, motionless except for the slow rise and fall of breathing.
My breath caught.
Their hands lifted simultaneously. Identical movements. Identical pale-grey skin. When their fingers finally touched, something fractured. The reflection warped violently.
Not the mirror. The figures within it.
The feminine figure collapsed first.
Her body struck the floor with a sickening force as violent convulsions tore through her limbs. Her spine arched unnaturally against the stone beneath her while soundless screams ripped across her face. The air around her distorted, trembling as though reality itself struggled to contain whatever was happening.
I tried to move.
Couldn't.
The masculine figure remained standing above her.
Still.
Watching.
Then slowly, he extended a hand. A pale light emerged from the woman's body instantly.
It wasn't light.
It was something deeper.
It unraveled from her chest in thin silver strands, twisting upward toward his outstretched hand like thread being wound onto invisible fingers.
My stomach twisted violently.
The woman's convulsions weakened, the figure standing above her never moved. It never reacted. As though this ending had always been inevitable.
Then the mirror began to darken.
The figures faded slowly into shadow while a foreign voice echoed somewhere beyond the glass, low enough to vibrate through bone itself.
"Infernum est lux, caeli sunt umbrae."
𓂃𓂃𓂃
The words followed me into consciousness.
I jolted upright against the leather couch, breath catching painfully in my throat. Sweat dampened the back of my neck despite the cold.
For several disorienting seconds, I remained frozen beneath the darkness of the drawing room, pulse hammering violently against my ribs while remnants of the dream clung stubbornly to my skin like cobwebs.
These seizures and visions.. They're becoming worse.
More frequent. More vivid.
And each time they left behind the same unbearable feeling—that I was forgetting something important before I even had the chance to understand it.
I dragged both hands through my hair, forcing myself to breathe steadily.
What does any of this mean?
The question haunted me endlessly now.
I pushed myself upright with a quiet curse, slipping my feet into house slippers before reaching for my wand resting along the arm of the couch.
"Lumos." Soft golden light bloomed instantly against the darkness.
The Black manor remained silent around me, though it was never truly asleep. Old houses like this breathed differently at night. Pipes groaned within the walls. Floorboards shifted without warning. Portraits whispered behind closed doors beneath layers of velvet shadow.
Tonight the manor felt especially restless.
Or perhaps I did.
Either way, remaining in my room had become impossible.
I wandered without purpose through the manor's winding corridors, following whichever hallway caught my attention next. The house was quiet at this hour. Too quiet. The sort of silence that seemed to settle over the estate whenever rain battered against the windows and cloud swallowed the moon.
Eventually I found myself in the kitchen.
A cup of tea sounded appealing.
Unfortunately, the familiar sound of approaching footsteps ruined that prospect almost immediately.
I glanced toward the doorway when Orion appeared.
"Orion," I said flatly, "why are you down here? Your presence is disturbing me."
"Oh.." He states flatly, "Well I was actually soon to be disturbing your best friend, my apologies."
I'm quick to throw a scoff and a disgusted look his way, "You're such a whore, Ori."
"You're the prude." he snickers.
I roll my eyes and continue to the cabinets, putting a pot of tea on and grabbing two teacups. He settles somewhere behind me before asking, "Kaida?"
"Hmm?" I hum, adding only half a cube of sugar into each teacup.
"Are you excited to go back to Hogwarts at all? You've barely spoken a word of it to Mum or Father.." he trails off, "Though not even Father is speaking much these days."
I ponder for a moment before settling to respond, "I suppose. Though I doubt there will be many pleasantries in store this year." I pour the brewed herbs into our cups, scents of cinnamon and red apple gracing my nose.
War has been ravaging the wizarding world for three decades now. With Grindelwald's ideologies rooted in every continent, mass pureblood immunization policies have been implemented, our trade routes have been obstructed, and laws are pushing towards restrictions on marriage.
"Well we have nothing to worry about, we're apart of the Noble House of Black," he jesters, with a toothy grin, taking the hot cup as I pass it to him.
"We have to ration sugar just like anyone else," I suggest with a blank face, "So I believe, our 'Noble House' is useless at the moment."
Neither of us have time to add when a voice emerges from the dimly lit hallway, "Do you really believe that to be of the House of Black, Kaidana?"
My brother and I instantly recognize our Father's resonating voice, the pair of us adjusting to sit up in his hardened presence. He enters from the opposite hallway that Orion did, eyebrows raised in disbelief.
I place my teacup onto the counter before me, unable to swallow the words I just spoke. "Father? I presumed you to be asleep." I countered quietly.
"You presumed wrong, and you misdirected your answer. Want to continue?" His voice was low enough to be heard, yet carried volumes. His arms crossed as he approached me, giving a quick glance to Orion but not addressing him. The bags under his eyes conveyed the lack of sleep we had in common, ascertaining that he'd been disturbed by something as well.
I swallowed thickly, "Father I meant nothing against the Black name but we are rationing just as anyone else." The words felt wrong as soon as they left my mouth.
The silver of the chandelier above gleamed in the moonlight, candles flickering softly. Somewhere beyond the tall glass windows, rain battered against the manor as if trying to force its way inside. Even the house elves were quiet.
I hesitated.
"So how are we different than-"
"We," Father interrupted smoothly, "are different."
His voice was not loud. It never needed to be.
Arcturus Black stood near the hearth with one hand clasped behind his back, the fire outlining the sharp edges of his face in amber light. His gaze settled on me with practiced patience, the kind reserved for correcting a child who had spoken out of turn.
Then he lifted his hand.
One pale finger pointed toward my forearm resting against the counter.
"The blood flowing through your veins," he said carefully, "has been bred pure for over one hundred and fifty years. There is power to that." The room seemed to constrict around me.
Not because I had never heard those words before-I had heard them all my life-but because of how easily he said them. As though purity were not an ideology and a law of nature. Like gravity.
Like death.
Across from me Orion shifted. For one hopeful second, I thought he might disagree. Might laugh about it. Might say Father was being dramatic. Might do anything other than sit in silence.
But Orion only glanced between us, his expression unreadable in the dim light. His eyes flickered briefly to the untouched sugar bowl at the center of the ebony counter, before returning his attention to Father. Quiet compliance. Much worse.
Father continued as if lecturing before the Wizengamot instead of speaking to his own children. "The world beyond this house is collapsing because people have forgotten the importance of distinction. There is chaos in Europe because standards have weakened. Blood matters. Legacy matters. Especially now."
Especially now.
Everyone had begun saying those words, as though war had became permission for cruelty.
"The muggles are at war," I said before I could stop myself, "And wizardkind would be wise not to follow them into ruin."
His eyes settled on me fully then. Assessing. Cold.
"You are entering your seventh year," he said. "It is time you understood that sentimentality is dangerous in times of instability."
There it was again. The language that everyone had been using. Words like instability, protection, preservation. These were nothing more than words polished until they no longer sounded cruel.
Orion finally spoke, though too softly to alter anything. "Father's been occupied with ministry discussions all week." I looked toward him.
Father answered instead, "Because unlike others within the Wizengamot, I understand what is required to secure the future of pure, elder bloodlines."
As he spoke a knot formed slowly in my stomach. There was something underneath his words tonight. Not just politics, but preparation. As though conversations were already taking place behind closed Ministry doors while the rest of us sat waiting to discover what has been decided for us.
The rain battered harder against the windows now.
Father reached for a copy of the prophet placed beside Orion's elbow, glancing briefly at the shifting headlines, before tucking it under his arm.
More disappearances, more unrest, more fear.
In times like these," Father said calmly, "the world reveals what people truly are." His gaze settled back on me. "And history remembers those strong enough to preserve it."
Silence followed. Heavy, familiar.
The chandelier's flames cracked softly in the hearth of the kitchen while somewhere upstairs an old pipe groaned. Orion remained still from across me, his tea long untouched, though whether from discomfort or agreement I could no longer tell.
Father smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from the sleeve of his robes before turning toward the hallway.
"I expect both of you packed before the weekend," he said without looking back. "The train leaves early Monday morning.
Then he disappeared from the doorway. The sound of his footsteps gradually faded into the house until only the rain remained.
Neither Orion nor I spoke for several moments.
My gaze drifted back toward the sugar bowl sitting at the center of the counter. Four cubes rested inside like precious stones in candlelight.
Ridiculous, really.
The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black measuring sugar by the cube while Father spoke of superiority like war itself had crowned pure-bloods kings above suffering.
Orion exhaled through his nose, "You do enjoy provoking him."
"I wasn't provoking him asshole." I state with a rather quick sigh of annoyance.
"No," he muttered. "You were questioning him. Which is somehow worse."
I looked toward the darkened doorway Father had vanished through. "There is something happening at the ministry." I spoke quietly.
"There's always something happening at the ministry." He contrasted.
"This feels different."
He did not answer immediately, which was answer enough.
"People are frightened." He finally said, voice lowering slightly. A strand of dark brown curls fell above his brow bone, to which he quickly swatted at.
"Frightened people make dangerous decisions." I said.
"You should be careful saying things like that." He replied in a chiding tone.
A bitter laugh nearly escaped me.
Inside the Black manor, caution was its own form of currency. Conversations lowered at the approach of doors. Newspapers vanished when certain names appeared in print. Even the portraits seemed to listen more attentively these days.
I sighed quietly. "I'm tired."
Orion nodded once, though he look as though he wished to say something more.
Instead he only reached for a different copy of The Prophet, unfolding it while the moving photograph on the page flickered beneath candlelight. I left him there with the headlines.
The following days before my return to Hogwarts passed with a strange heaviness. The manor seemed quieter than usual, though perhaps I only noticed the silence more now. House elves inventoried pantry shelves with nervous precision, while Ministry owls arrived at increasingly late hours carrying sealed letter stamped in dark wax.
Father spent most evenings behind closed study doors entertaining grim-faced officials whose conversations dissolved into murmurs whenever I passed. Certain words surfaced repeatedly nonetheless.
At night, Oxfordshire disappeared behind blackout curtains thick enough to suffocate moonlight entirely.
The house changed after dark. During the day, life continued with the careful precision expected of old wizarding families. Breakfast appeared at the same hour. Hogwarts letters arrived. Visitors exchanged polite conversation over tea as though the world beyond the estate walls wasn't steadily unraveling.
But evenings were different.
Once the sun disappeared, the performance became harder to maintain.
The Wireless rarely stopped speaking. Its low crackling voice drifted through drawing rooms and corridors alike, carrying reports from both the Muggle war and the growing unrest spreading across magical Europe. Every night, I lingered on the staircase landing outside the sitting room, hidden just beyond the doorway where no one thought to look.
The elder adults always sounded different after dark.
Less certain. More honest.
Disappearances in Prague. Attacks near the French and Belgian Ministries. Rumors that Grindelwald sympathizers had begun operating within Britain itself. Every conversation seemed to end the same way—not with disagreement or reassurance, but with silence.
The sort of silence that followed when everyone in a room understood something unpleasant and chose not to say it aloud.
It wasn't war that unsettled me most. It was everything spoken beneath it.
The quieter conversations exchanged over crystal glasses and lowered voices during dinners and private gatherings. Conversations that had little to do with battlefields and everything to do with preservation.
Marriage contracts. Family alliances. Ancient obligations. The necessity of maintaining strong magical bloodlines during uncertain times.
I heard the same arguments often enough that I could practically recite them myself. The world was changing. Old families needed to remain united. Traditions needed protecting. The future required careful planning.
Always spoken with the same calm certainty.
As though people could arrange the future neatly enough to survive it. As though war respected planning. As though destiny could be negotiated over dessert.
The older I became, the more those conversations seemed to follow me. At first, I'd assumed it was coincidence. Then I'd begun noticing the looks. Lingering glances from elder witches. Subtle evaluations hidden behind polite smiles. Questions disguised as harmless curiosity.
How old am I now?
Had I enjoyed my studies?
Was Hogwarts treating me well?
Each inquiry seemed innocent enough on its own. Together, they felt like measurements being taken.
I started recognizing the way their eyes moved. Assessing. Calculating. Not unkind. Which somehow made it worse.
Like pieces being considered on a chessboard before a move was made.
I understood that returning to Hogwarts wasn't simply a return. It was a transition. The adults around me all seemed aware of it, even if they believed I wasn't.
The rest of my week, up until my attendance for my seventh year, went rather quickly.
By Sunday evening, my trunk stood packed beside my bedroom door. The house felt strangely quiet. Not peaceful.. but expectant?
As though everyone was waiting for something to begin.
Before bed, I stood at the window and stared into the darkness beyond the glass. The countryside had vanished beneath the blackout. No stars. No moon. Nothing but my own reflection staring back at me.
For reasons I couldn't explain, my thoughts drifted once more to the "vision."
Gray eyes.
A raised hand.
The strange uncertainty that had lingered since my body paralyzed me that evening.
It wasn't memory. It wasn't prophecy. At least, I didn't think so.
It felt more like a thread I couldn't see, pulling somewhere beyond my understanding. I told myself it was nerves.
The explanation sounded reasonable enough that I almost believed it.
Almost.
When Monday morning arrived, King's Cross Station buzzed with familiar noise and movement. Students laughed. Owls screeched from their cages. Parents exchanged final instructions before departure. Everything appeared exactly as it always had.
When I stood on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, I felt the same unease settle between my ribs. The sensation that something had shifted while no one was looking. That events already in motion were gathering momentum beyond my sight.
By the time the Hogwarts Express pulled away from the station, Hogwarts no longer felt like a return to normalcy.
I was moving toward something.
And though I couldn't yet name it, the certainty followed me all the same. Something waited ahead.
✦ no part of this fiction may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher/author.
✦ this is my first Wattpad Original! i’m updating every 2–3 days (or at least trying to 🖤). only the first five chapters will be posted here on Tumblr—the rest will be exclusive to Wattpad. you can find the latest chapters, the official playlist, moodboards, and everything else in my Serpent Directory.
enjoy, my little serpents. 🐍
Hidden away in a compartment in the third train car of the Hogwarts Express, I sat with my nose buried deep in a book. I had spent most of the summer hunting for this particular copy—Elemental Earth Transfiguration by Miranda Goshawk—and it had proven itself endlessly fascinating.
Provoking, even.
With the war, things had become harder to come by. Floo powder, potions, herbs, books—really, anything once considered ordinary before the world split open.
I'd already read the text three times. It hadn't taken long for me to understand the premise: granted enough concentration, an intentional spell or enchantment could transfigure the elements around a witch or wizard without the use of a wand, using the mind alone as its conduit.
Difficult magic.
Dangerous, too.
But I'd never been one to avoid skills simply because they weren't meant to be touched.
Orion had dissapeared into the train hours ago, swallowed by his sixth-year companions with little more than a smile thrown over his shoulder. He never let me keep solitude for long though.
So I wasn't surprised when the compartment door slid open.
I glanced up briefly before returning to the page.
We'd always been close for siblings, especially with only eleven months between us, but age brought separate expectations to the both of us.
Several quiet minutes passed before I finally closed the book with a sigh.
"Are your friends not entertaining enough for you?" I asked, arching a brow.
"Well, I suppose they are," Orion said, leaning lazily against the doorframe. "I think I just wanted to be in your presence before Hogwarts steals you entirely."
"Distracts, you mean?" I corrected with an amused smile.
His grin widened.
"This is your last year."
"And yours is next."
He hesitated. A beat passed between us. "If we even make it to next year."
I rolled my eyes at the dramatics. "We will." Then, softer, "It's not as though you'll never see me again."
He nodded, warm spirit alive as ever. Suddenly his face brightened.
"Oh! I almost forgot—"
He reached into his satchel and pulled out a cloth-wrapped package carrying the unmistakable scent of fresh sweets. The smell hit me first.
My eyes widened immediately.
"Are those—"
"Sugar cakes!" he announced proudly. "Before rationing steals the last joys of civilization."
"Ori..." I breathed, a laugh escaping me. "How did you get those? I thought the train wasn't offering treats this year."
He only shrugged. "They're your favorite, aren't they?"
He handed one to me, and I couldn't help the rush of gratitude that followed. I took a bite, the warm sugary cake practically melting in my mouth like heaven itself.
"Thank you," I groaned dramatically through another bite, being sure to savor every second of it.
Orion only smiled before wrapping the remaining cakes and placing them beside me.
"I think we're almost there," he said after glancing out the window. "I should probably get back before Alphard starts gambling away our luggage."
"You say that as though he hasn't already," I humored him. And for a moment, he looked as though he wanted to say something more. Something I'd grown used to with him.
"A fair point." he spoke quietly.
"Be safe, Orion." I hummed.
"You sound like Mum." He replied, glancing at me sideways. His hand paused briefly against the compartment door, "Just... avoid trouble this year."
I nearly laughed at that.
At Hogwarts, trouble rarely needed an invitation.
I glanced out the window toward the approaching platform. Orion Black slipped from the compartment, disappearing into the crowded train corridor.
It was strange watching him grow up, though I supposed I had done it first.
The Blacks were not people who said I love you. We expressed it differently—through reminders, through careful glances that quietly dissected one another's wellbeing, through small tokens that proved someone had paid attention to the things you loved.
I tucked the sugar cakes carefully into my bag before moving to slide my book beside them neatly. As the train squealed against the tracks, everything changed.
The book slipped from my hands, and a violent force overtook my body.
Not pain. Recognition.
Pressure slammed through my senses, heavy and cold, as if my magic had collided with something it did not understand.
The compartment seemed to tilt, and something tight gathered behind my ribs. Like invisible hands had suddenly wrapped around my lungs and squeezed.
I sucked in a breath, but the air felt wrong somehow—
My fingers gripped the edge of the seat hard enough to ache. Beneath it all there was this awareness. Not of the compartment. Not of the train.
Close.
The thought was not mine.
It moved through me like an ancient instinct.
The train slowed harder.
The sensation sharpened like thread drawn between two unseen points.
Something was near—someone existed with terrifying clarity.
I stood so abruptly the compartment lurched beneath me. Cold air rushed in as I slid the door open, carrying with it the scent of rain and coal smoke from the corridor beyond the Hogwarts Express.
A group of students passed outside the doorway in blurred motion, laughing loudly over one another as trunks scraped against the walls of the train.
Normal.
Everything looked painfully normal.
I forced myself to breathe. Whatever had just happened, I refused to let myself believe it meant anything beyond exhaustion. Nothing more.
The summer had been suffocating enough without my body deciding to betray me now.
The train fully stopped.
Hogsmeade.
Outside the window, fog curled low across the platform while rain lashed violently against black stone. Students had already begun flooding the corridors in frantic waves, gathering trunks and owls beneath bursts of hurried conversation.
I reached for my things quickly.
The moment I stepped outside the compartment, the feeling returned. It was a more focused awareness now. Like being watched before you could prove it.
The noise around me dimmed strangely—not silence exactly, but distance, as though the world itself had shifted half a step away.
Then I saw him.
Several feet down the corridor stood Tom Riddle.
He faced partially away from me, speaking to Abraxas Malfoy in low conversation while students unconsciously moved around them like water around stone. Even among pure-blood aristocracy, Tom carried himself differently. Not wealth. Not status.
Control.
Perfect and terrifying control.
Abraxas spoke animatedly, though I heard none of it.
Tom went still. Subtly.
The kind of stillness predators possessed moments before noticing movement in the dark.
Then his head turned. Our eyes met instantly.
The world seemed to have sharpened, and something inside of me recoiled immediately.
I froze.
Not visibly. Every instinct I possessed seemed to pull tight at once. It felt primitive.
The feeling was familiar in a way I couldn't place. Like my body had recognized danger before my mind could shape it. The kind of danger that existed long before logic.
I looked away first, my pulse quickening. When I looked back, he was still watching.
And for one impossible moment, confusion crossed his face.
As if he'd felt it too.
It then vanished, beneath practiced composure so quickly, I almost convinced myself I had imagined it. Like standing too close to shattered glass.
His expression tightened almost imperceptibly. There and gone.
Abraxas continued speaking, breaking whatever invisible tension had settled between us.
My grip tightened around the handle of my trunk as I forced myself down the corridor with the rest of the students, pulse thundering loudly enough to make me nauseous.
Rain greeted us violently.
What in Merlin's name is wrong with me?
Torches flickered against the storm as students crowded beneath the narrow awnings, black robes billowing through heavy wind. Somewhere nearby, prefects shouted instructions no one truly listened to while first-years stumbled anxiously toward the boats.
Hogwarts loomed beyond all of it.
Usually the sight filled me with relief.
Tonight the castle looked almost severe beneath the storm clouds, every tower disappearing into sheets of rain and darkness.
The war had reached Hogwarts long before any of us arrived.
It lived in the reinforced wards. The quieter halls. The strained expressions worn by professors attempting to disguise fear as discipline.
A group of seventh-year boys brushed past me discussing Grindelwald openly without lowering their voices.
"My father says Britain's next if they don't strengthen restrictions—"
"Well they should've done that years ago."
I looked away before they noticed me listening.
By the time I reached the Slytherin dormitories beneath the lake, exhaustion had settled heavily into my bones.
The common room glowed green beneath the shifting light of the water outside. Shadows drifted across the stone walls in strange patterns as students reclaimed familiar corners and velvet chairs with tired relief.
Nothing about Slytherin House ever truly felt warm.
Elegant, yes.
Powerful, certainly.
But warmth implied comfort, and Slytherins rarely allowed themselves luxuries that made them vulnerable.
"Kaida!"
A familiar voice broke through my thoughts.
Cassiopeia Burke crossed the room toward me gracefully, ginger curls pinned neatly back despite the weather outside. Behind her, two girls I vaguely recognized from sixth year were already unpacking books beside the fire.
Conversations remained quieter than usual, fractured by lingering unease. A group of girls near the staircase whispered intensely over copies of the Prophet while several older boys discussed Ministry affairs with far too much confidence for seventeen-year-olds.
"...they're reconsidering old family contracts—"
"My mother said the Wizengamot's discussing preservation measures—"
"Well they have to. Magical society can't survive like this forever."
Preservation.
The word had seemingly become a plague.
Cassiopeia lowered her voice slightly. "Have you heard the rumors?"
"Which ones?" I frowned slightly.
"That Hogwarts may begin implementing Ministry oversight this year."
A cold feeling settled low in my stomach.
"That's absurd."
"Is it?" She glanced toward the common room entrance. "Half the school's families are already involved politically. The Ministry's terrified Grindelwald sympathizers have infiltrated Britain."
Before I could answer, my magic shifted. It was like the air itself bent wrong.
I looked instinctively toward the staircase leading deeper into the dormitories. The torches lining the common room walls flickered.
My fingers sparked.
The distortion was sharp enough this time to steal the breath from my lungs entirely.
"Kaida?"
Cassiopeia's voice sounded far away.
I blinked.
The sensation vanished as abruptly as it had arrived, leaving only the faint sting of magic beneath my skin.
"You alright?"
"Fine," I lied automatically.
Her eyes lingered on me for a moment, unconvinced.
Then, thankfully, she sighed.
"Well, have your crisis after Transfiguration." Before I could respond, she excused herself. "I'll see you in the morning."
I watched her disappear toward the girls' dormitories, the sound of her footsteps fading into the stone.
Only when she was gone did I let myself look back toward the staircase.
And there he was.
Tom Riddle had just entered the common room.
Conversation did not stop when he appeared. It shifted.
The room seemed to bend around him without meaning to. Heads turned. Voices lowered. Even laughter sounded different—as though people were suddenly aware of themselves.
There was something wrong with him this year. Not wrong in any obvious sense.
If anything, he looked exactly as he always did. Immaculate. Composed. Handsome in that infuriating way that made people forgive him things before he'd even spoken.
But something was different, like a crack running beneath ice.
I couldn't tell if anyone else noticed it. Something fractured lingered beneath the surface of him. Not weakness. Not instability.
Division.
It felt like a part of him stood in front of me in the common room while another part watched from somewhere impossibly in the distance.
My eyes followed him despite myself.
In all the years I'd shared corridors, classrooms, and common rooms with Tom Riddle, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was looking at a stranger wearing his face.
His dark robes were damp from rain, sleeves rolled neatly toward his forearms as though even storms failed to truly touch him. Several students acknowledged him immediately while others straightened unconsciously in his presence.
His gaze lifted. Directly towards me.
My magic resisted as if I'd touched a wand that didn't belong to me.
I grew up understanding, without being told, that attention was currency—and very few people were worth spending it on.
So I didn't reach.
I decided to observe instead.
Him now especially.
I watched him the way I might watch something that didn't yet know it had been noticed. A story existed in the way he carried himself. Not one I belonged to. Not one I wanted to belong to.
Every logical part of me dismissed the physical reaction as nonsense. A momentary discomfort.
A trick of unfamiliarity.
Later that evening, staring into the dark canopy above my bed, I realized I could not remember half of the faces I'd seen that day. That irritated me more than it should have.
My magic had noticed something worth fearing.
That explanation should've been enough.
But over the following weeks, I found myself tracking him. Across corridors, at meals, in classrooms. Small details.
Like where he stood, who he spoke to, when he arrived, when he left.
I told myself it was because he'd unsettled me. Because there had been something strange about the encounter.
But every time I thought back to him, I felt that same strange recoil deep within my magic. Like a warning delivered in a language I hadn't learned to speak.
And since returning to Hogwarts, I found myself wondering whether my magic was trying to tell me something I would not survive understanding.
