Rigel woke at sunrise, as usual, ready for his workout. His room was a perfect blend of luxury and function. A king-size bed draped in green and silver velvet dominated one side, while a polished wooden desk on the opposite wall held stacks of parchment, quills, and several open books, ready for study or planning. A tall, carved wardrobe stored his robes and belongings, its doors engraved with serpentine patterns that caught the morning light coming from his enchanted ceiling.
In one corner, a cozy nook had been arranged for Tenebris and Etheline, with soft cushions and a shallow water basin, giving them space to coil and rest near him though Etheline still refused to sleep anywhere but beside him. The walls were adorned with paintings of snakes and the Slytherin crest, and his personal bathroom, complete with a grand bathtub, hinted at indulgence, matching the refinement of his surroundings. Every detail of the room reflected both his heritage and his calculated sense of control over the space he inhabited.
He got ready, slipping into a pair of sports shorts, a fitted black shirt with green accents, and black trainers. Stepping outside, he began his run around the castle grounds, the crisp morning air brushing past him. Tenebris slithered alongside effortlessly, while Etheline stayed coiled near his feet, her gaze following every movement. After finishing his run, he went through a series of push-ups and ab exercises, Tenebris resting atop his shoulder at times. Satisfied, he returned to his quarters, took a refreshing bath, and prepared for breakfast before heading off to his first class.
In this way, almost his entire first week passed in a flash, day by day. Wednesday night brought their first Astronomy lesson, and the next morning's Transfiguration class proved far from dull. Professor McGonagall wasted no time establishing her reputation, transforming her desk into a pig and back again before most students had even taken out their quills.
"Transfiguration," she announced crisply, "is among the most complex and dangerous branches of magic you will study at Hogwarts. Anyone caught treating it as a joke will be banned from my class."
The warning was unnecessary for Rigel. He had already been introduced to the subject by his great-grandfather and had read several advanced books on the matter. When McGonagall instructed the class to turn a matchstick into a needle, half the room produced smoking splinters.Rigel leaned forward slightly, flicked his wand once... and watched the matchstick shimmer into a perfect silver needle. Near its point, faint light glimmered over a tiny Serpico insignia, a serpent coiled around a rose, beauty and peril intertwined in eternal balance.
McGonagall's sharp eyes caught the detail. She gave a short, approving nod.
"Five points to Slytherin, Mr. Black," she said, her tone composed but her glance carrying rare acknowledgment.
Across the room, a few Gryffindors scowled.
Rigel offered no reaction no smirk, no boast only quiet satisfaction as he studied the fine gleam of the transformed object. A faint whisper of amusement touched his lips when he caught Hermione's quick glance and barely disguised smile from across the tables.
After Transfiguration came Defense Against the Dark Arts and it was a complete disappointment. Professor Quirrell stammered through his lesson, the smell of garlic clinging to him so strongly it might as well have been his chosen form of protection. He jumped at every sound and fumbled with his notes like they were cursed to bite him.
Rigel sat in silence, his expression calm but his eyes sharp with restrained contempt. To call this "defense" was generous; it felt more like a test of endurance or restraint.
He had spent years studying the Dark Arts under his grandfather's strict supervision, mastering counter-curses and protection charms far beyond the level expected of a first-year. That didn't even include the countless volumes he'd devoured from the Black family library and the tomes of the Serpico lineage knowledge so ancient and complex that he'd begun developing his own defensive and dark spells. Compared to that, Quirrell's trembling lecture about "n-n-nasty curses" was child's play.
By the end of the lesson, most students looked lost or bored, but Rigel remained impassive. If anything, he felt insulted by the sheer lack of challenge.
When the bell rang, he collected his books with unhurried precision and muttered under his breath,
From beneath his sleeve, Tenebris hissed with amusement.
Rigel's lips curved faintly as he left the room, already anticipating something more intellectually satisfying Potions.
That evening, after a long bath, he returned to his chambers, where Tenebris and Etheline awaited him. The snakes stirred the moment he entered, their movements fluid and deliberate. Tenebris flicked his tongue in greeting, while Etheline slithered toward him at once, curling around his wrist like a piece of living jewelry. Rigel allowed it with a faint smirk, lowering himself onto the edge of his bed to review his notes under the soft glow of enchanted candles.
Outside, the castle had settled into its nightly rhythm. The low hum of magic through the stone walls, the distant echoes of laughter from the common room, and the gentle crackle of the fireplace merged into a quiet, almost comforting harmony. It was strange, he thought, how quickly Hogwarts had begun to feel... natural. Almost like home.
And so Thursday ended.
That week, Rigel also received several letters from his grandfather inquiring how he was finding Hogwarts so far, urging him to make friends or allies, as he preferred to call them, and insisting that Rigel start thinking about a suitable future bride to preserve the family bloodline. Needless to say, the old man was ecstatic when Rigel happened to mention Susan while recounting his train ride.
Today was Friday, his first day of Potions class, and Rigel dressed in his uniform, styled in a way that set him apart from the other students. It bore the elegance of the 1800s yet remained modern, a deliberate blend of tradition and refinement. He wore tailored suit pants in a dark grey-and-black Scottish pattern, paired with polished leather shoes. His crisp white shirt was complemented by a black-and-green waistcoat, the Slytherin emblem embroidered on the left side. Around his neck, a silver-and-green tie was knotted in an intricate Eldredge knot, adding a subtle flourish of complexity. Over it, he draped his wizard's cloak, detailed in silver and green, with a matching Slytherin emblem near his heart. Every piece was crafted from the highest quality materials, each stitch and fold a statement of sophistication and heritage.
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Rigel was seated in Potions class, to the right of a boy named Zabini, waiting patiently for the lesson to begin and for Professor Snape's arrival.
A sudden clank announced the opening of the door, and Snape swept into the classroom. His robes billowed as if caught in a phantom wind, though the air remained perfectly still, giving him an almost otherworldly presence. Every movement was precise, controlled, and commanding the kind that made even seasoned students sit a little straighter in their seats.
Snape's black eyes swept across the room, lingering just long enough to make each student feel personally assessed. His voice, smooth yet venomous, cut through the quiet like a blade as he began his speech.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic."
A few students gasped; the sound died instantly, as if the dungeon itself had swallowed it. Eyes wide, uneasy. Rigel only leaned forward slightly, a spark of interest glinting behind his calm expression.
"I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes," Snape continued, his voice dark and measured, "the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses..."
Rigel could almost feel the rhythm of those words vibrating through the air. There was weight behind them knowledge, discipline, danger. He could appreciate that.
"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death," Snape finished, letting the words hang like poison in still air, "if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
The glare that followed was aimed at Harry Potter… who was busy taking notes.
A few students snickered quietly. Rigel didn't. He was too focused on Snape's tone the sharp edge beneath every syllable, the reverence hidden beneath the disdain.
For the first time since he'd arrived at Hogwarts, Rigel felt something close to respect.
"Then again," Snape hissed, "maybe some of you have come to Hogwarts in possession of abilities so formidable that you feel confident enough… to not… pay... attention!"
Then he stepped closer, annoyance flickering across his face.
"Mr. Potter. Our... new... celebrity," he drawled, his voice dripping with condescension. "Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry, utterly unprepared for the question, stammered, "Powdered root of what to an infusion of what?"
He glanced helplessly at Ron, who looked just as lost, while Hermione's hand shot into the air.
Snape took the silence as answer enough. "You don't know?" he hissed.
"Well, let's try again," Snape said softly, his tone sharpening. "Where, Mr. Potter, would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?"
Hermione's hand shot into the air so fast it was a miracle her shoulder didn't dislocate, but Harry hadn't the faintest idea what a bezoar was. He tried not to look at Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who were shaking with laughter. Shoulders slumped, he muttered, "I don't know, sir."
Snape's lip curled. "And what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Harry, seeing Hermione's hand twitch upward again, sighed. "I don't know, sir. But you can ask Granger she seems to know the answer."
Hermione, bursting with impatience, began, "Wolfsbane and monk.."
"One point from Gryffindor for your cheek, Potter," Snape cut in, voice silky and lethal. "And another from Miss Granger, who apparently hasn't learned to speak only when addressed." He gave a disdainful scoff before turning his black eyes elsewhere. "Mr. Black… perhaps you can enlighten your classmates?"
Rigel tilted his head slightly, a small, unnerving chuckle slipping past his lips. Asphodel and wormwood combine to create a sleeping potion so potent it borders on necromancy.... the Draught of Living Death. Its counter is the Wiggenweld Potion. A bezoar is a stone taken from a goat's stomach it neutralizes most poisons. Personally, I'd check your cabinet, my Gringotts vault, or the one I always carry."
He paused, smirk faintly twisting. "As for monkshood and wolfsbane they're the same plant, Professor. Also known as aconite."
Snape's eyes flicked back to Harry. "Pity. Clearly, fame isn't everything, is it, Mr. Potter?"
His gaze swept across the room like a blade.
"Well? Why aren't you all copying this down?"
He paused, voice lowering. "And one last thing.... five points to Slytherin for Mr. Black's display of knowledge and preparation in case of need."
For the briefest instant, Snape's expression softened, a flicker of pride crossing his face before it vanished behind the usual mask of severity so fleeting that anyone who noticed might have doubted it was ever there.
Quills scratched in sudden panic.
The room fell silent again, the weight of his presence pressing down on every student. Even those long accustomed to strict teachers felt a shiver at the steel in his tone.
Rigel, however, leaned back slightly, green-steel eyes calm and analytical, studying every nuance as if committing it to memory.
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Class finally came to an end. Neville Longbottom had somehow managed to botch his Cure for Boils so spectacularly that his cauldron melted into a smoking puddle, earning Gryffindor yet another deduction one point from Potter, of all people.
All in all, it had been an entertaining lesson. Gryffindor lost five points in total, while Rigel earned another five for flawlessly completing the potion alongside Zabini, bringing Slytherin's total to a net gain of ten points.
Rigel was just about to leave when Snape's voice sliced through the low chatter.
"Black, remain a moment. We have something to discuss."
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