Rigel moved without hesitation, casting Tracem Estinquerem over his wand just seconds before the bathroom door burst open.
Professor McGonagall entered first, sharp-eyed and furious, her emerald robes billowing behind her. Snape followed close at her heels, his expression dark and unreadable. Quirrell stumbled in last, took one look at the troll's mangled corpse, let out a thin whimper, and promptly collapsed onto a toilet seat, clutching his chest.
Snape ignored him.
He crouched beside the troll's body, his black eyes narrowing as he examined the wounds. Precision. Intent. Not panicked magic. A flicker of recognition stirred dark spellwork, advanced spellcraft, far beyond what should have been possible and well hidden.
His gaze lifted.
Rigel stood a few paces away, wand still in hand. Blood ran freely from a cut on his forehead, smaller wounds marking his arms and robes. He looked exhausted, chest rising and falling unevenly but upright. Alert and controlled.
Too controlled.
For a brief, sour moment, Snape felt a flicker of old frustration.
Serpico blood.
Born Occlumens, not trained, not disciplined into it, but sealed from the start. Minds that did not open unless they chose to, and never to him.
He knew better than to try Legilimency. He had learned that lesson years ago, watching Rigel's mother turn even deliberate probes into empty silence.
Whatever the boy was hiding, if he was hiding anything at all Snape would have to uncover it the hard way.
Snape was just about to demand an explanation when a sharp voice cut through the room.
"What on earth were you thinking?" Professor McGonagall said, her tone edged with cold fury.
She was facing Harry and Ron, so focused on the two Gryffindors that she failed to notice Rigel standing off to the side.
Harry had never seen her look so angry. Her lips were drawn into a thin, white line.
"You are extraordinarily lucky you weren't killed," she continued. "Why aren't you in your dormitory?"
Snape cast Harry a swift, piercing glance. For the briefest instant, a small, sharp smile flickered across his face gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual cold composure.
Then a voice spoke from the shadows.
"Please, Professor McGonagall," Hermione said quietly. "They were looking for me."
McGonagall spun around.
"Miss Granger!" Professor McGonagall repeated, her voice sharp with disbelief."What is the meaning of this?"
Hermione opened her mouth.
"Professor."
Rigel stepped forward from the edge of the room, wand lowered, posture straight despite the blood drying along his temple.
McGonagall turned, startled. "Mr. Black?"
"Hermione didn't attend the banquet because I asked her to meet with me" Rigel said evenly. "We argued earlier. I thought it best to speak privately."
Hermione shot him a look that was half confusion, half protest but he continued before she could interrupt.
"The troll entered the bathroom, and shortly after Potter and Weasley came looking for her after realizing she was missing."
McGonagall's eyes sharpened. "And the troll?"
Rigel hesitated just long enough to look like reluctance, not calculation.
"It slipped," he said simply. "I froze the floor with a basic spell, then I struck its head with its own club."
Silence followed.
Snape's gaze never left Rigel.
McGonagall drew in a slow, measured breath.
"Mr. Black," she said at last, her voice cold and precise, "you are fortunate to be standing at all. If that 'basic spell' had failed, or if the troll had regained its footing even a moment sooner, this bathroom would be hosting more than broken stone. It is not bravery. It is recklessness of the highest order."
Rigel kept his back straight, jaw set, ready to accept whatever punishment followed. He did not speak. He did not flinch.
McGonagall's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, sharp and assessing.
"However," she continued, "very few first-year students possess the presence of mind to manipulate their surroundings under pressure." Her lips thinned. "Five points to Slytherin. For sheer, blind luck… and a steady hand."
Rigel blinked once, then inclined his head in a brief, respectful acknowledgment. Nothing more.
"Now " McGonagall said briskly, turning away "Professor Snape, escort Mr. Black to the hospital wing immediately."
Her attention snapped to the others.
"Miss Granger, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, you will come with me. I believe we are overdue for a discussion concerning wandering corridors and looking for people during emergencies."
"Black. Follow me."
Snape did not wait for an answer. He turned on his heel and swept out of the bathroom, robes snapping behind him.
Rigel lingered only a heartbeat. He dipped his head once toward Hermione, a brief, silent farewell, then toward Potter and Weasley, already forgotten. Then he moved, falling into step behind his Head of House.
The walk to the infirmary passed in silence.
Their footsteps echoed through the empty corridors, sharp and hollow against the stone. No lectures, no accusations, only the unspoken weight of everything that had not yet been said.
When they finally reached the infirmary, Madam Pomfrey wasted no time. She cleaned Rigel's cuts, administered a healing potion for the blood, and scolded him relentlessly for getting into trouble in his first year. Once she was satisfied he would survive the night, she shooed them out, muttering about the state of young witches and wizards today.
Outside, Rigel exchanged a brief glance with Snape before following silently as the head of house led him down the empty corridors back toward the Slytherin common room.
At the door, Snape paused, dark eyes meeting his for a heartbeat. "Good work on that troll."
And then he was gone, disappearing down the hall without another word.
Rigel blinked, caught off guard; he hadn't expected acknowledgment this soon. Fatigue pressed against him.
The common room greeted him with a silence that was anything but neutral. The moment eyes met his, judgments struck like a storm. Every whisper, every prejudice, every faltering nerve, even Quirrell, faintly visible in the great hall, collapsing under his own panic passed through his mind. Disgust, delusion, irritation toward his housemates surged, and he let it wash over him, leaving nothing to linger.
Ignoring the curious, the judgmental, and the foolish, Rigel moved past them. His room awaited, a quiet refuge where the chaos of the day could finally be left at the door. He needed rest, and nothing, no one, would stop him from taking it.
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A soft light filtered through the windows, weaving between the rows of bookshelves, and fell on the table where Rigel sat, reading. His expression was calm, almost ethereal, as he waited for Hermione's arrival.
Minutes passed. The gentle rustle of pages, quiet breaths, and the soft echo of footsteps filled the space. Then Hermione arrived, charmingly late, breaking the stillness with her presence.
"Sorry, Rigel. I lost track of time talking with Harry and Ron" Hermione said, still sighing as she hurried to reach him.
"It's alright, Hermione," he replied, a small smile tugging at his lips. "In the end… you were right. I was stupid to think you wouldn't make some friends if they knew about our friendship. Anyway, I owe you some explanation."
"Of course you owe me an explanation. And not just that... I also expect answers."
"Okay" he began, taking a small breath "First of all, I'm a pureblood, descendant of two rather obscure families, as you may have read by now." He paused, then continued "As for my detachment… I didn't do it on purpose. It was more a gesture to avoid being targeted by other purebloods who might want to send a message."
He added in a barely audible voice "Not that they'd survive trying." Then, raising his tone just enough to remain appropriate for a library, he said "Now… what did you want to know, Mione?"
"The Serpico family… I've barely found anything. Are they… important? Dangerous?" Hermione asked, hesitating, unsure if she was overstepping.
Rigel paused, as if weighing how much to reveal. "Important? Extremely. We've been around since the Roman monarchy and were active in the economy since the Republic era. Dangerous? Only to my enemies. I'm the last of my line, and for now… that's all I can tell you without getting into bloodline or history."
A shiver ran down Hermione's spine at the implication of what she'd just heard. She stayed silent for a moment, letting all the information settle. Then, taking a steadying breath, she knew it was time for her second question.
"The spell… in the bathroom, when the troll fell… what exactly did you do? I mean, it wasn't ordinary, was it? And have you had private lessons, or do you practice a lot on your own?"
Rigel's lips curved into a small smile. "As for the spell… let's just say it's one of my own inventions, and leave it at that for now. And yes, I've had some training, and I've been studying magical tomes since I was three. I suppose that gave me a bit of a head start."
She froze in place, the reality hitting her like a cold splash. She whispered to herself, almost incredulously, "From the age of three? And I only started when the letter arrived… I feel so behind."
Rigel, having caught that last part, interjected calmly, "No, you're not. Most pure-bloods start studying magic at Hogwarts; before that, it's mostly about family history and etiquette. Now… what's your next question?"
Then Hermione, a little scared, asked the part that interested her the most at the moment.
"Were you scared at all?" she asked. Then more quietly "I mean.... while fighting the troll. You were laughing"
Rigel's smile became more feral "A little but more for you than anything, for my part I found it exciting and entertaining."
Hermione let out an exasperated sigh, shaking her head from side to side. "Only you, Rig… Only you could find fun in a deadly situation. Stupid of me to think you'd react like a normal person." Her tone carried both disbelief and a reluctant admiration.
She paused, catching her breath, then leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp. "Now… why did you stop going to school with me before? In the Muggle world… what happened?"
Rigel paused, measuring his words. "As I told you before, my grandfather took me home. What you didn't know is… he's not my grandfather in the usual sense, he's my father's grandfather. He started training me as the heir to the family. You've probably read about him… Arcturus Black. As such I didn't have enough time in the week to follow his teachings in all the subjects required and attend a Muggle school."
Hermione blinked, eyes widening. Her mind raced to piece together what he'd just said. "Wait… so all that time… you weren't just skipping lessons? You were… being trained? As an heir?" Her voice was half incredulous, half awed. She sat back slightly, trying to absorb the weight of it, her brow furrowed. "I… I had no idea…"
A shiver of respect and a touch of envy ran through her. The Rigel she thought she knew suddenly seemed even more… formidable, shaped by a world she could barely imagine.
"Is there… more you're not telling me?" Hermione asked quietly.
"Yes" Rigel replied without hesitation. "But for now, I'll keep a few secrets. They're part of my charm." A faint smile crossed his lips. "Anyway, it's almost supper time. Shall we go, my lady?"
He rose from his chair and stepped beside her, offering his hand with an exaggerated, courtly bow.
Hermione let out a low chuckle at his antics. "The same as always, eh?" she said, accepting his hand. "My pleasure, sir."
Rigel helped her to her feet, gathered his book, and arm in arm escorted her out of the library toward the Great Hall. Their quiet laughter followed them down the corridor, light and unguarded, echoing between the stone walls.
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A cold November breeze swept through the stadium stands as the first match of the Quidditch championship approached.
Rigel sat in the Slytherin box beside Nott and Zabini, exchanging sparse remarks while the teams took their positions.
Once the match began, silence settled between them, broken only by the roar of the crowd and the brutal collisions on the pitch.It took less than five minutes for irritation to curdle into contempt.
Slytherin played like animals. No discipline. No structure. No respect for the game or for the name stitched onto their robes. They clawed and slammed and fouled openly, as if brute force could substitute for lineage and intent.
Rigel's fingers curled against his robe.
"They disgrace us," he said quietly. "Slytherin was built on cunning, control, and honor. Not this." His gaze followed a particularly blatant foul. "This is how you tarnish a family name. By confusing savagery with strength."
He paused, eyes narrowing as he tracked the players. "At least the Seeker understands his role. And one of the Chasers hasn't forgotten himself either." A thin breath escaped him. "I would play beside those who remember what it means to represent something greater than themselves."
He turned to Nott and Zabini. "Names."
Nott answered immediately. "The Seeker is Terence Higgs. Third year." After a beat, "The Chaser is Adrian Pucey. Also a third year."
As the match progressed, Rigel found himself studying the Gryffindor formation. Their coordination was disciplined, their movements deliberate. Not elegant, but effective. They had a captain who understood preparation and positioning, not just brute force.
"The Gryffindor captain is a competent strategist," Rigel said quietly. "He trains his team to win before the match even begins. If Slytherin had someone like that, we wouldn't need fouls or bone-breaking theatrics to secure victory."
It was as he finished speaking that Potter's broomstick jerked violently and began to buck beneath him.
"Blaise. Binoculars."
Rigel's tone was sharp, leaving no room for delay. Zabini handed them over at once, startled by the sudden edge in his voice.
Rigel swept the stands methodically until he reached the teachers' box.
Snape sat rigid, eyes locked on Potter, lips moving in a steady, controlled rhythm. To the untrained eye it might have looked like a hex. To Rigel, it was unmistakably a counter-curse. Sustained. Focused. Precise. Then he noticed Quirrell.
A little behind Snape, stiff as a board, his gaze fixed just as intensely on the boy's broom. Too fixed. Too intent.
Rigel's eyes narrowed.
Suddenly, chaos rippled through the stands. Quirrell was jolted forward, his line of sight broken as someone collided with him, at the same time, a burst of flame leapt up around Snape's robes.
Rigel sucked in a sharp breath. Through the shifting crowd, he spotted a familiar mass of brown curls ducking low, eyes wide with panic and determination.
Hermione.
He hissed softly under his breath, lowering the binoculars.
A few minutes later, the match ended in a 170–60 victory for Gryffindor, after Potter caught the Snitch in his mouth.
Rigel returned the binoculars to their rightful owner and left the stands.
With the crowds behind him, a faint smile on his face, and a quiet mystery unfolding before him, he walked on. Whether he would choose to unravel it or let it rot untouched remained.
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