Morning in the Slytherin dormitory arrived with the eerie green light of the lake filtering through the windows, casting rippling patterns across stone walls. I woke before my dormmates, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings until memory settled in place—Hogwarts, Slytherin, 1972.
The weight of The Serpent's Fang beneath my pillow grounded me to this reality. I slipped the wand into its holster, marveling again at how natural it felt against my skin despite its deadly legacy.
"You're up early," Regulus murmured from the next bed, his voice sleep-rough but his eyes alert. Always the proper Black heir, even at eleven.
"New environment," I replied. "Thought I'd get my bearings before breakfast."
He nodded approvingly. "Father says the early hours are best for clear thinking. I'll join you."
We dressed in silence, careful not to wake the others. The Slytherin uniform—black robes with green and silver accents—fit perfectly, enchanted to adjust to our measurements. As I knotted my tie, I caught sight of myself in the dormitory mirror: dark hair, gray eyes, aristocratic features unmistakably marking me as a Black. In this form, this life, I looked like I belonged to this world of ancient magic and blood prejudice.
The common room was nearly empty at this hour, occupied only by a few older students reviewing materials before classes. A sixth-year prefect nodded respectfully as we passed—the Black name still commanded automatic deference.
"Do you think Sirius will try to speak with you?" Regulus asked suddenly as we navigated the dungeon corridors toward the Great Hall. The question carried layers of meaning—concern, hope, wariness.
"Perhaps," I said carefully. "Would that bother you?"
Regulus's expression tightened. "He made his choice. He chose Potter over family." The hurt beneath his indignation was palpable.
"Blood remains blood," I said, thinking of how Regulus would eventually make choices that aligned more with Sirius's values than their parents'. "Regardless of house."
"Mother says he's not our blood anymore." His tone attempted conviction but achieved only uncertainty.
I stopped, turning to face my cousin directly. "Regulus, you'll learn at Hogwarts that not everything our parents teach us is absolute truth. Some things you must decide for yourself."
His eyes widened slightly. "That sounds like something Sirius would say."
"Maybe he's not wrong about everything," I suggested mildly, resuming our walk. "Just... consider forming your own opinions based on observation, not just inheritance."
We entered the Great Hall to find it sparsely populated, with just a scattering of early risers at each house table. I deliberately led Regulus to seats facing the Gryffindor table. If Sirius appeared, I wanted to gauge his reaction to us.
Professor Slughorn, rotund and already jovial despite the hour, bustled down the Slytherin table distributing schedules.
"Ah, the young Blacks!" he exclaimed upon reaching us, his walrus mustache twitching with delight. "I was just telling Minerva—Professor McGonagall, that is—how pleased I am to have you both in my house. Your sister Narcissa is one of our finest, of course. And I knew your grandfather Pollux—brilliant with experimental charms, simply brilliant!"
I accepted my schedule with appropriate gratitude, noting Slughorn's assessing gaze. He was already categorizing us, determining our potential value to his "collection" of notable students.
"I understand you've inherited a rather special wand, Mr. Black," he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Your father mentioned it in his last letter. Perhaps you might show me after our first Potions lesson? I have a particular interest in rare magical artifacts."
News traveled fast in pure-blood circles. "I'd be honored, Professor," I replied, making a mental note to prepare for this inspection. Slughorn might recognize more about The Serpent's Fang than I wanted revealed.
As Slughorn moved on, Regulus examined his schedule. "Double Potions first thing with the Ravenclaws, then Charms with Hufflepuff after lunch," he read. "Not bad for our first day."
I nodded, scanning the schedule while buttering a piece of toast. Potions would be interesting—with my foreknowledge of the subject combined with my father's notes on how The Serpent's Fang influenced brewing, I expected to excel immediately. Charms, too, should come easily, though I'd need to be careful not to display too much advanced knowledge.
The hall gradually filled as breakfast progressed. I spotted Narcissa entering with a group of fifth-year girls, her blonde hair immaculate, her posture perfect. She caught my eye and offered a slight nod—acknowledgment without the appearance of favoritism.
Then the Marauders arrived.
They entered as a unit, laughing together at some private joke. James Potter—so like the images I'd seen of Harry, yet utterly different in his confident bearing and mischievous expression. Remus Lupin, already carrying the weight of his condition in the slight shadows beneath his eyes, yet smiling at his friends' antics. Peter Pettigrew, eager and admiring, showing no hint of the betrayal he would one day commit. And Sirius, handsome and careless in his movements, the rebel of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
Regulus stiffened beside me, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth. I watched as Sirius inevitably looked toward the Slytherin table, perhaps drawn by the same blood connection that made Regulus so sensitive to his presence. His eyes found us immediately.
For a heartbeat, something like longing crossed his features as he looked at Regulus. Then his gaze shifted to me, and his expression turned speculative, assessing. Without breaking eye contact, he murmured something to James, who glanced our way with undisguised curiosity.
"He's talking about us," Regulus whispered, his tone a mixture of indignation and longing.
"Of course he is," I replied. "We're family, and I'm new. He's probably telling Potter I'm not the typical Black."
Regulus frowned. "How would he know that?"
"Just speculation," I said, but in truth, I wondered if Sirius had somehow sensed what the Sorting Hat had seen—that I didn't entirely belong in this world, that my values might align more with his rebellious stance than with our family's traditions.
The moment was interrupted by the arrival of our dormmates, who filled the seats around us with typical eleven-year-old exuberance despite their decorous pure-blood upbringings.
"Did you see the Gryffindor ghost?" Evan Rosier asked, helping himself to eggs. "Walked straight through Mulciber at the staircase. Said he didn't even feel cold, just empty."
"Nearly Headless Nick," I said automatically, then caught myself. "At least, that's what my sister told me he's called."
"Because his head's nearly off but not quite," Barty added eagerly. "My father told me the full story. He was executed by a dull axe—took forty-five chops!"
The breakfast conversation continued in this vein—exchanges of information gleaned from older siblings and parents, establishing a hierarchy of knowledge. I participated minimally, more interested in observing the dynamics forming in our year. Already, Rosier was positioning himself as a leader, with Rookwood as his lieutenant. Barty oscillated between eager participation and nervous withdrawal, clearly uncertain of his standing given his father's reputation. Regulus maintained the dignified reserve expected of a Black, but his eyes frequently strayed to the Gryffindor table.
As we prepared to leave for Potions, I noticed a subtle shift in the hall's atmosphere. Following the direction of suddenly hushed conversations, I saw Dumbledore conversing gravely with Professor McGonagall near the staff table, a copy of the Daily Prophet between them.
"Something's happened," I murmured to Regulus.
Lucius Malfoy appeared behind us, his prefect badge gleaming. "Ministry raid on Knockturn Alley," he said quietly, his eyes glittering with suppressed anger. "Three arrests—all from prominent families."
Death Eater arrests, then. The war was escalating.
"Which families?" Regulus asked, concern evident.
"Yaxley. Travers. Gibbon." Lucius's mouth twisted. "Charged with using Unforgivables. As if the Ministry hasn't authorized Aurors to do the same."
I remained silent, processing the implications. In the original timeline, these events had occurred in the background while Harry's story unfolded. Now I was witnessing the gradual polarization of wizarding society firsthand.
"We should get to Potions," I said finally, uncomfortable with the gleam in Lucius's eyes. "Wouldn't want to make a poor impression on Slughorn our first day."
Lucius nodded, his expression smoothing to its usual aristocratic mask. "Indeed. House points matter from day one." He glanced toward the Gryffindor table, where the Marauders were now huddled over their own copy of the Prophet. "Especially when certain elements seem determined to lose as many as possible."
With that parting shot at Sirius and his friends, he strode away, his robes billowing in a manner that reminded me uncomfortably of a future Potions Master.
The Potions classroom in the dungeons was much as described in the books—shadowy, slightly damp, with ingredients preserved in glass jars lining the walls. Professor Slughorn stood before a large cauldron emitting spirals of shimmering steam, his expansive waistcoat stretched across his considerable girth.
"Gather round, gather round!" he called jovially as first-years filed in. "No need for assigned seating yet—find a bench and we'll get acquainted with the subtle science and exact art of potion-making!"
I strategically chose a middle bench, not wanting to appear too eager by taking the front row nor too reluctant by hiding in the back. Regulus joined me, with Barty hovering nearby until I nodded that he could take our third seat.
"Thank you," he whispered, relief evident. The subtle politics of seating arrangements were already establishing the year's social hierarchy.
"Now then," Slughorn began once everyone was settled, "potions is unlike your other magical subjects. Here, there'll be little foolish wand-waving—though a properly applied Stirring Charm can make all the difference in the more advanced brews!" He chuckled at his own joke before continuing his introduction.
The speech was familiar from the books, yet hearing it in person carried a different weight. This wasn't fiction anymore but my education—an education that might one day save lives if I applied it correctly.
"Today, we'll start with something simple but practical—a cure for boils," Slughorn announced. "Ingredients in the supply cabinet, instructions on the board. Work in pairs or trios. Best potion earns twenty points for their house!"
As Regulus went to collect our ingredients, Barty leaned toward me anxiously.
"I'm dreadful at precision work," he confessed. "My hands shake when I'm nervous."
I recalled that the future Barty Crouch Jr. would be skilled enough at potions to brew the complex Polyjuice for an entire year. Perhaps his current insecurity was something he would overcome—or something my influence might help address.
"Focus on preparation," I suggested. "Crushing, measuring, organizing. I'll handle the actual brewing."
He nodded gratefully as Regulus returned with our supplies. We divided tasks efficiently—Regulus measuring with meticulous accuracy, Barty grinding dried nettles with unexpected competence once given clear direction, and me overseeing the actual brewing process.
The Serpent's Fang remained in its holster, but I felt its presence as I worked, a warmth against my forearm. My father's journal had mentioned the wand's affinity for potions requiring precision timing and transformation properties—exactly what this simple boil cure needed.
Almost unconsciously, I found myself deviating slightly from Slughorn's instructions, adding a quarter counter-clockwise stir after every seventh clockwise rotation, timing the addition of porcupine quills to the second after removing the cauldron from heat.
"That's not in the instructions," Regulus observed, though he made no move to stop me.
"Trust me," I murmured. "It'll stabilize the interaction between the nettles and the quills."
My adjustments worked perfectly. Our potion turned exactly the shade of pink described in the textbook, but with a pearlescent sheen that the others lacked. When Slughorn made his rounds, he stopped at our cauldron with an expression of delighted surprise.
"Well, well! What have we here?" He leaned over, wafting the steam toward his substantial nose. "Perfect consistency, ideal coloration, and—is that a hint of pearl in the sheen? Most unusual in a first attempt!"
He straightened, regarding me with new interest. "Those little adjustments to the stirring pattern—your own innovation, Mr. Black?"
"Something my father mentioned," I hedged, not wanting to claim too much expertise. "About the magical properties of certain ingredients responding to stirring patterns that mirror natural rhythms."
"Fascinating!" Slughorn beamed. "Your grandfather was similarly intuitive about magical reactions. Twenty points to Slytherin for an exceptional first effort, and I do believe we have our winner for today!"
Barty's face lit up at being included in the praise, while Regulus maintained a dignified satisfaction appropriate to a Black. Around us, reactions varied—admiration from some Slytherins, resentment from others, and clear disappointment from the Ravenclaws who had expected to dominate academically.
As we bottled a sample for grading, Slughorn approached our bench again, his voice lowered. "Mr. Black, a moment after class, if you please. About that special item we discussed at breakfast."
I nodded, catching Regulus's curious glance. The Serpent's Fang seemed to warm in response, as if aware it would soon be examined.
When class ended, I instructed Regulus to go ahead to lunch without me. "Save me a seat," I told him. "This shouldn't take long."
As the classroom emptied, Slughorn busied himself arranging bottled samples on his desk, humming tunelessly. Once we were alone, he gestured for me to approach.
"Now then, my boy, might I see this notable heirloom I've heard so much about? Your father was rather mysterious in his letter—mentioned something about basilisk venom and Gregorovitch's last commissioned piece before retirement?"
I drew The Serpent's Fang from its holster, presenting it handle-first across my palm as my father had taught me—a gesture of sharing without surrendering ownership.
Slughorn's eyes widened, his jovial manner giving way to scholarly intensity. "Extraordinary," he breathed, making no move to touch the wand. "May I?"
At my nod, he carefully lifted it, holding it in both hands like a priceless artifact. "Elder wood," he murmured. "Thirteen and two-thirds inches, yes? And this chamber—"
He held the wand up to the light, examining the crystalline chamber near the hilt where basilisk venom swirled, seeming to move with purpose rather than just following gravity.
"Active venom," he observed with awe. "Not just preserved but somehow maintained in its potent state. And these runes along the handle—protective wards against the venom affecting the wielder. Gregorovitch's work, without question. His signature integration of crystalline matrices with organic materials." He ran a finger reverently over the blood-red pommel stone. "Is this what I think it is?"
"A garnet infused with dragon's blood, according to family records," I said, repeating what my father had told me.
"Not just any dragon's blood," Slughorn corrected, his expert eye narrowing. "Hungarian Horntail, if I'm not mistaken. Exceptionally powerful for offensive magic. Combined with basilisk venom..." He shook his head in wonder. "This wand wasn't made for classroom charms, Mr. Black. It was designed for battle."
He carefully returned the wand to me, his expression thoughtful. "May I ask why your father chose to entrust such a powerful heirloom to you before you've even completed your first year?"
"It chose me, Professor," I said honestly. "When I touched it, the protective case vanished, and it... responded."
Understanding dawned in Slughorn's eyes. "Ah! The old ways of wandlore—recognition magic. The wand chooses the wizard, as Ollivander is fond of saying. But for an heirloom wand to choose a wizard so young..." He studied me with new intensity. "It suggests you possess attributes the wand finds compatible with its nature. Power, certainly. Ambition. Perhaps a certain... disregard for conventional limitations."
The assessment was uncomfortably accurate. "My father believes it recognized our shared bloodline."
"Perhaps," Slughorn said, though he seemed unconvinced. "But wands of this caliber often see beyond blood to the character and potential of the wielder." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "I would advise discretion, Mr. Black. These are... complicated times. A wand with such obvious affinity for certain branches of magic might attract unwanted attention."
"I understand, Professor," I said, returning The Serpent's Fang to its holster. "I appreciate your insights."
"Any time, my boy, any time! And do consider joining the little supper parties I host for promising students. Your sister Narcissa is a regular attendee." He winked conspiratorially. "Networking is as important as knowledge in the wizarding world."
As I left the Potions classroom, I pondered Slughorn's reaction. He had recognized The Serpent's Fang for what it was—a weapon disguised as a wand, created for combat and dark magic. Yet rather than expressing concern about an eleven-year-old possessing such a tool, he had offered advice on discretion and invited me to his Slug Club.
The ambiguity of adults in this world continued to unsettle me. Even those labeled "good" in the books had complicated relationships with power and darkness.
The Great Hall buzzed with lunchtime conversation when I arrived, much of it centered on the Daily Prophet's news about the Ministry raids. I found Regulus saving a seat as promised, flanked by our dormmates.
"What did Slughorn want?" he asked as I sat beside him.
"Just curious about my wand," I replied, keeping my voice low. "Apparently he knew my grandfather well."
"Slughorn knows everyone well," commented an older Slytherin across the table—a girl with sharp features and intelligent eyes. "Or claims to, at least. I'm Emmeline Greengrass, by the way. Third year."
I nodded in acknowledgment. "Corvus Black."
"I know," she said with a slight smile. "Everyone knows the Black cousins. Especially now that you've won twenty points your first morning." She glanced at Barty, who was attempting to disappear into his shepherd's pie. "And you, Crouch. Bit surprising, you associating with traditional families, given your father's... position."
Barty flushed, his fork freezing halfway to his mouth. "I'm not my father," he mumbled for the second time since we'd met.
"Indeed not," I interjected smoothly. "Barty has already demonstrated considerable talent. Ability matters more than political affiliations."
Emmeline raised an eyebrow, assessing me with new interest. "Interesting perspective for a Black. Your cousin Sirius expresses similar sentiments, I believe."
The comparison was deliberate, testing my reaction. I maintained a neutral expression. "Intelligence can be found in any family, pure-blood or otherwise. Recognizing useful allies isn't the same as embracing blood traitors."
She nodded, seeming satisfied with my diplomatic threading of the needle. "Well said. You'll do well in Slytherin with that attitude."
As lunch continued, I noticed Sirius watching from the Gryffindor table, clearly burning with curiosity about my conversation with the older Slytherins. When our eyes briefly met, he gave an almost imperceptible nod toward the entrance hall—an invitation to speak.
I hesitated. Direct communication with Sirius would draw attention from my housemates and potentially create complications. Yet alienating him eliminated a potential ally who shared my distaste for our family's dark leanings.
Decision made, I finished my lunch and rose. "I need to retrieve something from the dormitory before Charms," I told Regulus. "Meet you in the classroom?"
He nodded, too engaged in conversation with Rookwood to question my departure. I exited the Great Hall, sensing rather than seeing Sirius follow a minute later.
In a secluded alcove near the marble staircase, I waited. Sirius appeared moments later, glancing around to ensure we weren't observed.
"Didn't waste any time making friends with Slughorn," he said without preamble, his tone light but his eyes watchful. "Heard you brewed a perfect potion first try."
"If you're attempting advanced information gathering, you might try subtlety," I replied, amused despite myself. "Yes, our potion won the day. Nothing remarkable about following instructions correctly."
Sirius snorted. "Please. Slughorn was practically bouncing when he told Flitwick at the staff table. Said you showed 'intuitive understanding beyond your years'—direct quote." He leaned against the wall, affecting casualness. "So, cousin. Slytherin treating you well?"
"Well enough," I said carefully. "Though I'm curious why you care, given your... departure from family expectations."
"Departure?" He laughed, a bark-like sound that reminded me of his future Animagus form. "That's a polite way of putting it. Mother blasted me off the tapestry the minute the sorting letter arrived home."
"Yet you're not disowned officially," I noted. "Otherwise you wouldn't still bear the Black name."
His expression sobered. "Father's reluctant to make it official while I'm still a minor. Says there's still hope I'll 'see reason'." He made air quotes around the phrase. "But we both know that's never happening."
I studied him—this boy who would become Harry Potter's godfather, who would escape Azkaban and die trying to protect his friends. Currently just twelve years old but already carrying the weight of family rejection.
"You seem to have found a better family in Gryffindor," I observed.
His face brightened. "James, Remus, and Peter? Yeah, they're brilliant. More brothers to me than Regulus ever was." He must have seen something in my expression, because he quickly added, "No offense to you. I barely know you."
"No offense taken," I assured him. "But I think you underestimate Regulus. He's more complex than he appears."
Sirius's expression turned skeptical. "He's already parroting Mother's pure-blood mania."
"He's eleven and eager to please the people raising him," I countered. "Give him time."
"Time to become a proper Black?" Sirius sneered.
"Time to discover who he truly is," I corrected. "Not everyone has your immediate certainty, Sirius."
He studied me with renewed interest. "You talk like someone twice your age, you know that? And definitely not like any Black I've ever met." He straightened, decision apparently made. "Listen, if you ever need... I don't know, another perspective on things, I'm around. Despite appearances, I don't actually hate everyone in our family."
The offer of alliance was tentative but genuine. "I appreciate that," I said. "And likewise—if you ever need insights from the serpent's den, I observe more than I speak."
A grin split his face. "Merlin, you really don't talk like a normal kid." He glanced toward the Great Hall. "Better get back before James organizes a search party. He thinks all Slytherins travel in packs, hunting stray Gryffindors."
"Not entirely inaccurate," I admitted with a small smile. "Though I prefer solo reconnaissance."
Sirius laughed again, more genuinely this time. "Definitely not a typical Black." He offered his hand. "Good talk, cousin."
I shook it, feeling the weight of future knowledge heavy between us. This boy would suffer so much—falsely accused, imprisoned, forced into hiding, ultimately killed. Could I change any of it? Should I?
As we parted ways, I sensed someone watching. Glancing up, I caught sight of Narcissa at the top of the marble staircase, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp with calculation. She had witnessed our exchange, though likely couldn't hear the conversation from that distance.
Decisions would have to be made about what face to present to which audience. The game of masks had begun.
Charms with the Hufflepuffs proved less eventful than Potions. Professor Flitwick, as tiny and enthusiastic as described in the books, spent the first half of class discussing magical theory before allowing us to attempt our first spell: the Levitation Charm.
"Wingardium Leviosa!" he squeaked, demonstrating the proper wand movement. "Swish and flick, remember, swish and flick!"
I deliberately held back, watching others struggle before making my own attempt. When I finally cast the spell, I ensured my success was good but not suspiciously perfect—the feather rose smoothly to hover at eye level, whereas some students had managed only a slight flutter or brief elevation.
"Well done, Mr. Black!" Flitwick praised. "Five points to Slytherin for excellent wand control!"
The Serpent's Fang had responded differently than I expected to this simple charm. Rather than the gentle warmth I'd anticipated, it had pulsed with what felt like restrained power, as if the levitation spell was far beneath its capabilities and it longed for more challenging magic.
Barty, sitting beside me, observed this with surprising perception. "Your wand doesn't like simple spells, does it?" he whispered. "I saw you holding back."
His observation skills were sharper than I'd credited. "It can be... temperamental," I admitted. "Prefers more complex work."
"My father says wands with unusual cores often have strong preferences." He frowned in concentration at his own feather, which had thus far refused to budge. "What's yours? Dragon heartstring?"
Before I could formulate a suitably vague response, a commotion at the classroom door interrupted our conversation. A prefect entered, whispering urgently to Professor Flitwick, whose cheerful expression faltered.
"Class," he announced, his voice higher than usual with tension, "please continue practicing. I must step out for a moment. Prefect Davis will supervise."
As Flitwick hurried from the room, whispers erupted among the students.
"What do you think happened?" Regulus asked from my other side.
"Nothing good," I replied, a sense of foreboding settling over me. The timeline I remembered from the books included increasing attacks on Muggle-borns and blood traitors during Voldemort's first rise to power, but without specific dates or details.
The prefect left in charge—a Hufflepuff seventh-year with a serious expression—refused to satisfy our curiosity. "Professor Flitwick will return shortly," she repeated to each inquiry. "Continue practicing."
When Flitwick returned fifteen minutes later, his face was grave, though he attempted to resume class with his usual enthusiasm. As we filed out afterward, I overheard him speaking quietly to the Hufflepuff prefect.
"...terrible business. Poor Meadowes family... both parents... Dark Mark over the house..."
I froze, the name triggering recognition. Dorcas Meadowes—a future member of the Order of the Phoenix who would be killed personally by Voldemort. These must be her parents, targeted either for opposing Voldemort or simply for being prominent half-bloods.
"Did you hear that?" I murmured to Regulus as we walked toward the Slytherin common room.
He nodded, his face pale but composed. "The Meadowes family. They have a daughter in Ravenclaw—fifth or sixth year, I think. Mother mentioned them once as examples of blood traitors."
The casual way he categorized a family who had just been murdered chilled me, though I recognized it as the result of his upbringing rather than personal malice.
"Blood status doesn't justify murder," I said quietly.
Regulus glanced around nervously. "Be careful saying things like that. Some would consider it sympathy for blood traitors."
"I'm stating a fact, not expressing sympathy," I replied, keeping my voice neutral. "Indiscriminate killing creates powerful enemies. It's strategically unsound."
This framing—presenting moral objections as tactical considerations—seemed to ease Regulus's discomfort. "That's... logical," he conceded. "Father says similar things about maintaining appearances in public while handling private matters discretely."
We had reached the blank stone wall concealing the Slytherin common room entrance. "Pureblood," Regulus spoke the current password, and the wall slid open to admit us.
Inside, the atmosphere was subdued yet charged with undercurrents of excitement. Older students huddled in corners, voices lowered, some with copies of the Evening Prophet that must have just arrived. Lucius Malfoy sat in a high-backed chair by the fire, holding court among a group of sixth and seventh years.
Narcissa spotted us entering and motioned us over to where she sat with several fifth-year girls.
"You've heard?" she asked without preamble.
"About the Meadowes family?" I nodded. "We overheard Professor Flitwick."
She glanced around before leaning closer. "Dorcas Meadowes has been pulled from classes. Her parents were found with the Dark Mark floating above their home." Her voice carried neither sorrow nor celebration, merely factual reporting. "The daughter was at school, thankfully."
"Thankfully?" echoed one of her companions with surprise. "They were blood traitors, Narcissa."
"They were still wizards, Priscilla," Narcissa replied coolly. "And their daughter is a student here, regardless of her family's politics." Her eyes met mine briefly, and I detected something unexpected—genuine concern beneath her composed exterior.
Before the conversation could continue, Lucius's voice rose from the fireside group. "This is merely the beginning," he was saying, his aristocratic drawl carrying just enough to reach nearby ears without projecting to the entire room. "Those who oppose the natural order will learn that actions have consequences."
Several of the older students nodded in agreement, while others looked uncomfortable but remained silent. I noted who fell into which category, filing away the information for future reference.
"Come," Narcissa said, rising gracefully. "This isn't a conversation for first-years." She guided Regulus and me to a quieter corner of the common room. "Focus on your studies and establishing yourselves in Slytherin. These... political matters... are beyond your immediate concern."
Her warning was clear: stay out of the growing conflict, at least publicly. But the slight pressure of her hand on my shoulder conveyed something more—personal concern, perhaps, or a private message to be cautious.
"I saw you speaking with Sirius earlier," she said, her voice barely audible. "Be discrete, Corvus. Regulus. The House of Black must present a united front, whatever our private thoughts may be."
With that cryptic advice, she returned to her friends, leaving us to contemplate the rapidly darkening world we inhabited. First arrests of suspected Death Eaters, now retaliatory murders carried out openly enough to leave the Dark Mark as a signature.
The war wasn't coming. It was already here. And I—with my knowledge of how it would unfold, of who would live and die—stood at a crossroads of terrible potential. Every action I took might preserve the timeline leading to Voldemort's eventual defeat or shatter it beyond recognition.
As students around us speculated about the Meadowes murders, The Serpent's Fang seemed to pulse against my forearm, resonating with the dark energies awakening in the wizarding world. I recalled the basilisk from my dream: "The question isn't whether you are dark, young speaker, but whether you will use the darkness within you with purpose."
Purpose. I needed a clearer purpose than mere survival or observation. With my knowledge and position, I could potentially save lives—perhaps even prevent the rise of Voldemort entirely.
But as I watched my housemates react to the day's events with everything from gleeful approval to silent horror, I realized that any action I took would ripple outward in ways I couldn't fully predict. I would need allies, information, and power before making significant moves.
For now, I would watch and learn, building my understanding of this living world rather than relying solely on fictional knowledge. And I would begin investigating a crucial question: How far could the timeline be altered before the future became unrecognizable—before my foreknowledge became useless?
As Regulus and I settled at a table to begin our homework, the weight of The Serpent's Fang against my arm reminded me that I had chosen a dangerous path. The wand had been created for battle, and battles were certainly coming.
The only question was which side I would truly serve when blood began to flow.