A/N: Just so you know, now that we're officially in the Hogwarts arc, THE KIDS ARE GOING TO BE KIDS; there won't be any over-formality or airs and graces while they're among their peers; some may posture, but I believe that's expected anywhere.
Act II, Chapter 5
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He had forgotten how loud the Sorting Hat was.
The moment it was placed atop his head, the ancient magic stirred, brushing against his consciousness—all curious and searching.
"Ah, another Black! But… how peculiar… you're a rather unusual one, aren't you? It's been a while since I've seen one from the Continent!"
Rigel kept his face neutral, hands gripping the edge of the stool beneath his robes.
"Yes, yes… intelligent and cunning, certainly. Ambition, fierce loyalty—well, that's expected. Better be—"
A flicker of panic shot through him.
'No!'
Harry shoved himself forward, wresting control, and suddenly, it wasn't Rigel sitting on the stool anymore—it was Harry.
The Hat stilled.
Then, its presence sharpened, laced with something like shock.
"Ah. Now this… this is very interesting."
Its probing touch faltered, then resumed, more insistent this time, peeling back the layers of his mind.
"This is not a student's mind. No, no, nothing so simple. You—what are you?"
Harry sighed inwardly. 'Can we just get on with it?'
The Hat huffed. "Impatient, as always. But this... this is extraordinary. A mind within a mind. Two consciousnesses, layered like a nesting doll. And yet—oh. Oh, dear. I see it now."
Then, to Harry's horror, the Hat laughed.
"Oh, this is fascinating. You're living two lives at once, aren't you? Out of time and space."
Harry's grip on the stool tightened.
'If you've figured that out, then just put me where I need to be.'
"Ah, but where is that, I wonder?" The Hat's tone was practically delighted. "Slytherin would suit you, you know. Clever. Resourceful. And, my, what a talent for deception—"
'No.'
"Oh, you are certain of that?"
'I need someone here to trust me. Being in Slytherin wouldn't help.'
A pause. Then, a thoughtful hum.
"You've changed since the last time we spoke. You wouldn't thrive in most Houses—not with the burden you carry. But you have a mission, don't you?"
Harry exhaled slowly, feeling triumphant 'Yes.'
"Then Ravenclaw, I think. It puts you close to the right people, far from the wrong ones, and grants you the freedom to move without drawing too many eyes."
Harry's breath caught.
"Ah. Didn't think I'd notice that, did you?" the Hat mused. "Very well, then... best of luck, Harry."
And then, aloud—
"RAVENCLAW!"
Harry slid off the stool as Rigel slotted firmly into place.
Moving toward the Ravenclaw table, he met the proud faces of his cousins, their applause enthusiastic and genuine. He smiled back, genuinely happy, he had really started to care for them during his stay.
The Great Hall stretched around him, golden candlelight flickering against the enchanted ceiling. He let his gaze drift over the sea of unfamiliar faces, offering a small, polite smile as he took his seat.
His eyes met Tom's across the room, and one of Harry's memories rushed in—meals in the schoolhouse, laughter by the Thames... Rigel almost reacted. Almost.
Instead, he smothered the instinct, forcing his gaze to pass over Tom as if he were just another face in the crowd. Focus on the mission.
The night passed in a blur. The Welcoming Feast, the Ravenclaw House introductions—it all faded into static, his mind running on autopilot. He kept his expression smooth, pleasant but unreadable, nodding at the right moments, offering the appropriate responses. But he wasn't there. Not really.
The strange dissonance followed him up the spiraling steps to the Ravenclaw dormitories, through a hot shower, and even as he pulled on his sleepwear. The room was familiar and unfamiliar all at once—the same four-poster beds, the same kind of hangings, but it all felt strange, Rigel had never seen anything like this, but he supposed Harry had, once.
He laid down, staring at the canopy above, his fingers curling slightly against the duvet.
For the first time since arriving, the weight of it all settled in.
He was here. At Hogwarts. And so was Tom.
And nothing about that was simple.
..
..
A Flat, Somewhere,
New York
.
Draco opened his eyes blearily at the sound of sharp, insistent knocks against the door.
His limbs felt heavy, his mind sluggish, as if he were still trapped somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Groaning, he realised he had fallen asleep at his desk, lifting his head up from his open notebook he sighed.
The desk was cluttered with his usual array of paper and books, though now it lacked the cracked glass and lingering static from the explosion. After the Diale had shattered spectacularly, he had spent hours poring over texts and calculations, trying to make sense of it all.
So far, his suspicions had been confirmed—the anomaly he'd identified earlier was the cause. It hadn't reached its tipping point yet, but it was damn close. Last night had been a warning.
And yet, the world still spun. The sky hadn't torn itself open. Time hadn't unraveled.
That should've been a relief. It wasn't.
Draco exhaled through his nose and swiped a hand over his face, fingers digging momentarily into his temples before raking through his hair. Later. He'd sort it out later.
The knocking resumed—impatient now.
A quick swish of his wand put everything back in stacked themselves neatly, the desk righted itself, his notes disappeared into the hidden compartment beneath the floorboards.
Still in yesterday's robes he pushed himself off the chair and headed towards the door, wand gripped carefully out of sight but ready to fire if needed.
He swung it open to reveal Elias Whitaker.
The man looked different out of his dress robes—less polished, still jittery. His dark complexion had lost the waxy pallor from their last meeting, though he still carried himself with that same wary, tightly wound energy. His gaze flickered over Draco, assessing, but he wasn't the only one taking stock.
Draco tilted his head slightly, watching how Elias' fingers twitched at his sides, how his shoulders seemed just a bit too tense. A man on the edge of something.
Interesting.
Draco held the door wider and ushered him in. "Apologies for my state—I wasn't expecting guests at this hour." His voice was rough with sleep, but he still had the presence of mind to affect a French accent.
Elias flushed and shook his head "No need… I should've owled before coming"
Elias hesitated only a moment before stepping through, his posture rigid. Cassian shut the door behind him and gestured to the couch.
"Make yourself comfortable," he said lightly. "I'll be with you in a moment."
He didn't wait for a response before slipping into his bedroom. The moment the door shut, the smile faded. He rolled his shoulders and mentally prepared himself, willing away all thoughts of the other night.
Casting a few freshening charms on himself and his clothes he closed his eyes, willing Cassian to the front and stepped back out again.
"Would you like a drink?" Cassian asked smooth and polite, already pouring himself one. Just a little something to get him through this.
"Er… no. Thank you"
Cassian nodded and sat down on the adjacent couch "Then to what do I owe the pleasure?"
Elias hesitated, then shifted to the edge of his chair, his knee bouncing slightly. His fingers tapped a restless rhythm against his leg as he looked up at Cassian.
"There are people... I've met people," he said, voice hushed but eyes bright.
Cassian arched a brow and leaned back, feigning ease as he crossed his legs. "Do elaborate."
"I can't say too much, but… they've been helping me." His eyes flickered with something dangerously close to excitement. "Helping me… remedy Arthur's situation."
Cassian's expression didn't shift. "Have they?"
"Yes—yes." Elias exhaled sharply, almost giddy. "I took what I was owed. A life for a life, you know? Tracked down the bastards who did it."
Cassian tilted his head, watching the man unravel, piece by piece. "You killed them?"
"What? No—no." Elias let out a nervous laugh, breathless and quick. "I'd never… I couldn't."
Cassian merely hummed. "Then how?"
Elias sat up straighter, shoulders squaring, and for the first time since stepping into the flat, he looked proud. "I just… showed the right people where to look. It was all legal, see? No traces back to me."
Cassian tapped a finger idly against the armrest, his expression cool. "And why are you telling me this?"
Elias' eyes flickered with something manic, something dangerously fragile. "Because you get it," he whispered. "I know you do." He leaned forward, his breath uneven. "You want to do the right thing. I can see it—you get me."
Cassian didn't react immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch, measuring the weight of Elias' words, the way his hands trembled slightly despite the excitement in his voice.
This was not the nervous, bitter man he met at the gala. This was a man who had spent too long drowning in uncertainty. And now, after finally tipping the scales, he was looking for someone to reassure him he wasn't already sinking.
Cassian smiled, slow and knowing. "And who are these people?" he asked, voice light. "The ones that helped you remedy the situation?"
Elias' excitement dimmed just slightly. He licked his lips. "I can't tell you that."
Cassian nodded, as if he expected as much. "Fine. Then tell me this—what did you give in return?"
Elias blinked. "What?"
Cassian's smile sharpened, ever so slightly. "Nothing comes for free."
For the first time, Elias looked away. "Oh… nothing I wasn't prepared to, anyway. Nothing I haven't done before"
"That's not saying much."
Elias gave another breathless, nervous laugh, running a hand over his face. "You'll see," he murmured, and for a second, his grin was a little too wide. "I did good."
Cassian watched him, a calculating gleam in his eyes.
Oh, Elias.
You've done something.
A slow smile slid over Cassian's face "How about that drink? I insist, to celebrate"
"Yes- yes. You're a good man Devereaux, I knew you'd get it, I knew I could trust you"
Already pouring him a glass, Cassian smiled.
.
.
Ravenclaw Tower,
Hogwarts
.
The door clicked softly behind him as Rigel stepped into the corridor, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. The common room was mostly empty, save for a few early risers tucked into armchairs with books or quietly reviewing notes by the fireplace. He hadn't expected to be stopped the moment he exited his dormitory, but there, standing just outside with her arms crossed and a hesitant look on her face, was a girl.
She looked about his age—seventeen, maybe eighteen—with soft brown hair pulled into a neat bun and intelligent, keen eyes that sharpened the moment they landed on him. A Head Girl badge gleamed against her uniform robes.
"Oh! You're finally up," she said, sounding relieved, though an edge of awkwardness crept into her voice.
"I was about to leave, actually, since, well—waiting outside the boys' dorm door isn't exactly the best look." She laughed a little, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
Rigel blinked at her, caught slightly off guard. "…Can I help you?"
She straightened, all traces of hesitation vanishing in favor of a friendly but confident demeanor. "Actually, I'm here to help you. I'm Genevieve Fairfax, Head Girl, and I thought I'd come introduce myself and show you around."
She tilted her head. "You're Rigel Black, right? The transfer."
He gave a small smile, inclining his head. "Yes."
Her smile brightened. "Wonderful! I figured you might appreciate a bit of guidance since you're, well, new." She handed him a folded sheet of parchment.
"This is your class schedule. Most of your subjects overlap with mine, so I thought I'd walk you down and explain things as we go. It's all pretty straightforward, but it's easy to get lost your first week."
Rigel accepted the parchment, glancing over it briefly before tucking it into his pocket. "That's… very kind of you."
"Think nothing of it." She waved him off with a cheerful air, already turning to head toward the staircase. "Come on, we'll start with breakfast—most important meal of the day and all that."
Rigel fell into step beside her, still a little awkward but not unappreciative of her easy, open manner.
"So," Genevieve continued, peering at him curiously as they descended the spiral staircase. "How are you settling in? Ravenclaw Tower isn't too different from Beauxbatons—am I saying that right? Beauxbatons…? I hear the ceilings there are enchanted to reflect the sky. I'm assuming you transferred from there?"
Rigel hummed, his smile growing at her enthusiasm. "I can't blame you for the pronunciation, my English speaking is not too good either. Yes, I did go there, and yes, the ceilings are enchanted."
She grinned. "Your English is just fine, I understand you perfectly. Also—I knew it! I read about it once in Enchanting Institutions of Europe—brilliant piece. But I guess you'd know better than me."
He tilted his head, considering her. "You read about foreign schools?"
Genevieve gave an exaggerated sigh. "Oh, you have no idea. The amount of time I've spent digging through the archives for obscure information on magical institutions—obscene." She shot him a knowing look. "You do realize you've been sorted into the 'read-for-fun' House, yes?"
Something about her good-natured teasing made Rigel's lips twitch, a reluctant smile threatening to form.
"I had an idea."
"Good." She nodded approvingly. "Means you'll fit right in."
By the time they reached the Great Hall, Rigel found himself more at ease than he'd expected. Genevieve's presence was comforting, though talking with her felt a bit painful in a nostalgic way, though he couldn't pinpoint why. It was like the room again.
She reminded him of someone—someone eager to learn and just as eager to share. But at the same time, she was purely herself: undemanding yet relentless, quick-witted yet warm. She didn't pry too deeply, nor did she expect him to fill the silence unnecessarily. She simply was, and she let him be, too.
She reminded him of someone—someone eager to learn and just as eager to share. But at the same time, she was purely herself: undemanding yet relentless, quick-witted yet warm. She didn't pry too deeply, nor did she expect him to fill the silence unnecessarily. She simply was, and she let him be, too.
Like… Hermione?
Who—?
His thoughts stuttered to a halt. Rigel didn't know a Hermione.
A headache crept in, dull and familiar—the same kind that struck whenever he thought too hard about things that didn't quite fit. He let it go, chalking it up to the oddities of what had happened at the beginning of summer.
As they entered, Genevieve led him to the Ravenclaw table, where clusters of students were already deep in discussion over their morning meals.
"Alright," she said, steering him toward a small group. Two students were already mid-argument, voices rising with impassioned fervor. "You can sit with my friends and me."
Rigel smiled gratefully. "Thank you."
She waved off his thanks as she slid into her seat. "You'll see soon enough— I have a feeling you'll love it here"
Before Rigel could respond, one of the students—a dark-haired boy with sharp eyes and an almost theatrical air—turned toward Genevieve with exaggerated exasperation.
"Gen, please tell this one that workin' for the Department of Mysteries is an absolute betrayal of knowledge."
"Betrayal?" Rigel echoed, blinking.
"Aye! A betrayal!" the boy continued passionately, gesturing with his spoon as if he were delivering a courtroom defense. "A complete sellout! They hoard discoveries, silence research, and lock up information where no one can access it—all for what? A Ministry paycheck?"
The girl across from him rolled her eyes, her neat braids swaying as she leaned forward. "Oh, spare me, Ó Connor. You know very well that working in the Department of Mysteries gives you unparalleled clearance to study anything—legally. You can research the most obscure, forbidden topics without having the Aurors knocking down your door."
"Sure, but what's the point," the boy shot back, his accent thickening as he got more riled up "if you can't share that knowledge? The entire purpose of the Department is censorship and secrecy. They're hoardin' discoveries that could benefit everyone." He scoffed. "Merlin, could you imagine if Hogwarts ran like that? 'Oh no, you can't learn this spell, it's classified.' Load of bollocks."
The girl smirked. "Sounds like you just hate the idea of keeping secrets, Luke. That a guilty conscience?"
Ó Connor placed a dramatic hand over his heart, looking wounded. "How dare you. I am an academic purist, thank ye very much."
Rigel couldn't help it—he smiled. The way they bickered reminded him of the conversations his mother and father frequently had over meals. It was refreshing, a small piece of home.
He really needed to write to his parents. He hadn't since arriving in Britain, but… why? His brows furrowed slightly. It had been weeks, hadn't it? What had he been doing all this time? Why hadn't he thought about it before?
A sharp sting of pain flared behind his eyes.
Right.
"What do you think, Black?" The girl across from him turned toward him expectantly, her neat braids shifting as she tilted her head.
He blinked, re-centering himself in the conversation. He took a moment to translate his thoughts before speaking carefully.
"I think knowledge should be shared," he said slowly. "But there's danger in that, too. If anyone can access anything, some people will use it for the wrong reasons. At the same time, keeping knowledge locked away—hiding it—can be just as dangerous. It's… control, either way."
The girl hummed, considering him. "I get that, though I wish you'd pick a clearer stance," she said, though there was no real bite to it. "And you drifted a little—wouldn't go well in a formal debate."
"Aye, lost at least twenty points there," Ó Connor added, nodding sagely.
Rigel raised his eyebrows, a bit bewildered, as they continued critiquing him like this was a classroom exercise.
They were about to continue when Genevieve shot them a look.
"Heh… sorry," the girl said after a beat, rubbing the back of her neck. "We got carried away. Bad manners—we forgot you wouldn't be used to it."
"Yeah, and we didn't even introduce ourselves first." Ó Connor grinned. "I'm Luke Ó Connor, and this one here is Eleanora Pritchett."
Rigel nodded, still vaguely amused. "It's… okay. I could tell you meant no harm."
"Do you mind if we call you Rigel?" Eleanora asked. "There are so many Blacks—you're what, number seven?"
"Ooh… that's a magically charged number," Luke added, his eyes gleaming. "That means you're lucky."
"Oh, come off it, Ó Connor." Eleanora rolled her eyes. "You know that means nothing. Divination isn't a science—you can't just state things like that as fact."
"There's evidence that supports—"
"It's all circumstantial at best! Theory, nothing with concrete application."
"You sound like a Muggle." Luke scoffed. "It's magic."
"Magic has rules. Laws."
"No, those are just constraints we put on it," Luke argued, getting more animated. "We dumb it down so we can understand it! Magic isn't science, it transcends what humans can perceive, time, space—"
Genevieve leaned in conspiratorially toward Rigel, whispering, "That's Luke and 'Nora for you. Once he starts getting metaphysical, we might as well just leave them to it."
Rigel smiled, amused.
He could get used to this.
.
oOo
.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur. Rigel quickly settled into the rhythm of lessons, and as expected of a NEWT year, the professors wasted no time diving straight into the curriculum. Despite it being the first full day of school, there were no gentle introductions—just immediate coursework. Rigel welcomed the challenge; it was a welcome distraction from the strange, nagging sense of nostalgia that lingered at the edges of his mind.
His first class was Ancient Runes—one of the few subjects Genevieve didn't share with him—so he ended up seated beside Luke and Eleanora once again.
"You should join the Ancient Runes Club," Luke said as they packed up at the end of the lesson. "I think you'd like it—you've got a solid grasp on the theory. Better than me, that's for sure."
Rigel hesitated, caught off guard. A club? He was certain he had joined a few back at Beauxbatons, yet when he tried to recall which ones, the memories slipped through his fingers like smoke.
"I—" He frowned slightly, puzzled. The only thing that surfaced was the Duelling Club—something he was fairly certain he had never attended—and… the DA? What was that?
A sharp sting of pain pulsed behind his eyes, making him wince.
Eleanora raised an eyebrow. "What? You don't like clubs?"
"…I feel they would be a distraction," he said finally, adjusting the strap of his bag.
Luke looked scandalized. "What do you mean, 'a distraction'? Clubs are the only reason some people tolerate school at all!"
"And they look good on job applications," Eleanora added matter-of-factly.
"Exactly! You'll regret it if you leave Hogwarts without at least trying one."
Rigel gave them a bemused look. Why did this all feel so familiar? As if he had already had this exact conversation before—but with different people?
Before he could dwell on it further, Genevieve—who had been waiting just outside the classroom—cut in smoothly. "Give him time, you two. He's still settling in."
Luke sighed dramatically. "Fine. But mark my words, Black—before the term is out, you'll be in at least one club."
Eleanora, however, wasn't quite finished. "Alright, what about Quidditch, then? Are you any good on a broom?"
No. The answer came easily—except it didn't.
Inexplicably, a memory surfaced—a snitch glinting in the air, the roar of a crowd, burgundy robes billowing around him as he reached out—
Rigel inhaled sharply, his fingers twitching as another sharp pain sliced through his skull. His vision blurred at the edges for just a second before it passed.
"…Yes?" he said weakly.
Eleanora's eyes narrowed slightly, and she exhaled through her nose. "You don't sound sure."
Her lips pressed into a thin line, clearly holding back irritation rather than doubt. "If you're bad at it, just say so. If you're good at it, say that instead. No need to be vague about it."
Rigel blinked, surprised. "Ah… well, I'm not particularly skilled."
"There. That wasn't so hard, was it?" she said, the tension in her shoulders easing now that he'd given her a direct answer.
Luke snickered. "That's Eleanora for you—absolutely no patience for fence-sitters."
The girl in question merely shrugged. "I don't see the point in beating around the bush. Just say what you mean and mean what you say."
"Sure, but what if you're playin' devil's advocate?" Luke challenged, raising an eyebrow.
Genevieve and Rigel exchanged amused glances before breaking into quiet giggles as the two launched into yet another debate—something Rigel was quickly growing accustomed to. Genevieve threw in an exaggerated eye-roll for good measure.
Rigel beamed at her.
.
oOo
.
The rest of the day passed in a comfortable rhythm.
Transfiguration and Charms followed—classes all four of them shared—before lunch and a brief House meeting. The meeting covered the usual: expectations for the year, upcoming Ravenclaw events, and general announcements. Rigel nodded along, though his thoughts were already elsewhere.
By the time the meeting ended, he slipped away from his friends, his mind preoccupied with the letter he needed to write. He tried not to think too much about how his feet seemed to know exactly where to go.
The crisp evening air nipped at his skin as he stepped into the Owlery, the scent of old stone and feathers filling his nose. He carefully balanced his stationery in his hands as he made his way to an empty ledge. The distant hoot of owls echoed softly through the open arches.
He had only written two lines when a voice drawled from behind him.
"Writing home already? Didn't take you for the sentimental type."
Rigel turned to find Alphard, leaning lazily against the entrance with his arms crossed, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.
"Cousin Alphard," Rigel greeted pleasantly, placing his inkpot onto his parchment so it wouldn't blow away. "I didn't realize you'd be up here."
"I was looking for you." Alphard strolled closer, his sharp grey eyes flicking to the parchment before returning to Rigel. "Settling in well, then?"
"Yes, I am," Rigel replied, dipping his quill back into the inkpot.
"Mm. Well enough to make friends, at least."
There was something unreadable in Alphard's voice. Rigel glanced up, but his cousin's face remained a picture of casual amusement.
Rigel hesitated, unsure what answer Alphard was fishing for.
"All I'm saying is—" Alphard continued smoothly, "we would've liked to show you around, help you settle in. I know you're not in the same House as the rest of us, but you're still family."
"Oh… I didn't realize…" Rigel murmured.
"No, it's a good thing you're making friends on your own," Alphard assured him. "It's just—Walburga was a bit put out. You share a Charms class, you know? She was whinging about how you didn't acknowledge her."
Rigel opened his mouth to apologize, but Alphard waved him off with a playful grin.
"Don't take it too seriously—she complains about everything." He clapped Rigel on the shoulder. "But still, why don't you come and meet the rest of us? You've only met Cygnus, 'Cretia, and me. There are three more of us. I'm sure the letter can wait."
Rigel hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "I'd love to meet them. I don't think I've ever met Walburga properly—she's Cousin Pollux's daughter, yes?"
"No, that's Cassiopeia," Alphard corrected. "But you'll meet her too."
Rigel stood, gathering his things. "Where are we going?"
"The dungeons," Alphard said, leading him toward the exit. "To the Slytherin common room. The rest are waiting."
..
A/N: This chapter was more dialogue heavy and I think it went well enough, but it could only be because that's the style that fits these particular scenes? I might keep it, or alternate between the two. We'll see how it goes.
Also I'll do my best to post on Friday because I'm kind messing up my own posting schedule and I don't like it.