"Magic is not about tricks or spells—it's the quiet certainty that wonder still lives beneath the ordinary."- High Sage Gautama
Professor McGonagall led the procession, her posture rigid, her emerald robes sweeping the stone. Behind her, the forty first-years walked in a silence that was thick with awe.
Vega stepped across the threshold, and the sensation of the castle shifted again.
If the Entrance Hall was the skin of the beast—tough, granite, defensive—the Great Hall was its lungs.
The space was impossibly vast. Four long tables stretched away into the distance, crowded with students, lit by thousands of candles floating in mid-air. They burned with a steady, unnatural stillness, casting a warm, golden glow over the sea of black robes.
But Vega didn't look at the students. He looked up.
There was no ceiling.
Logically, he knew there was. He knew it was a complex enchantment, a localized atmospheric projection anchored to the roof beams. Hogwarts: A History called it a "mirror of the heavens."
But looking at it with his blood-sight, Vega saw the terrifying truth.
It wasn't a projection. It was a bypass.
The arch-wizards who built this place hadn't just painted a picture of the sky; they had folded space. Above the candles, the stone roof simply ceased to exist, replaced by the raw, freezing vacuum of the upper atmosphere. He could see the Milky Way, a river of diamond dust spilled across the velvet dark. He could feel the thinness of the air up there, the absolute cold of the void.
It's a window, Vega realized, his Metamorphmagus senses tingling as the Quetzalcoatl feather in his sleeve tried to pull toward the open sky. They built a dining hall without a roof, and just told the weather not to come inside.
"It's bewitched," a girl whispered behind him. "I read about it in—"
"Quiet," McGonagall instructed without turning around.
They marched down the center aisle. Vega felt the weight of hundreds of eyes on him. The air was thick with judgment, curiosity, and the hormonal static of teenagers.
He scanned the tables.
To his far right, the table of scarlet and gold, Gryffindor. They were loud, chaotic even in silence. The magical signature of the table felt like a hearth fire: warm, crackling, unpredictable.
To the left, Ravenclaw. Cool, blue, cerebral. The air above their table shimmered with a static charge of intellect.
Hufflepuff was yellow and black, radiating a smell of earth and baking bread—a solid, comforting grounding wire for the castle's excess energy.
And then, on the far left. Slytherin.
The Snake Pit.
The magic there was green and heavy. It felt like deep water.
Vega's eyes found them instantly. The Black Sisters sat together near the center of the table, a triumvirate of power that the other snakes gave a wide berth.
Narcissa was watching him with a critical eye, checking his posture. Andromeda offered a small, encouraging nod.
But it was Bellatrix who held his gaze.
She was leaning back, twisting a lock of heavy black hair around her finger. Her eyes were dark pits of amusement. When their eyes met, she didn't wave. She grinned—a slow, vicious baring of teeth that promised violence to anyone who touched him, and a challenge for him to survive her.
Welcome to the jungle, little Prince, her expression said.
Vega didn't smile back. He inclined his head—a micro-movement, barely a millimeter—acknowledging the Queen of the board.
They reached the front of the Hall. McGonagall placed a three-legged stool in front of the High Table. On top of it sat a tattered, patched, incredibly dirty wizard's hat.
The Sorting Hat.
But Vega's attention drifted past the hat. Past the teachers, the tiny Charms master, the rotund Potions master with the walrus moustache.
His gaze landed on the center chair. A golden throne.
And the world stopped.
T h e S i n g u l a r i t y
Arcturus had told him stories. He had used words like "Titan" and "Leviathan." He had warned Vega that Albus Dumbledore was not merely a headmaster.
But words were just wind. They could not describe the gravity.
Albus Dumbledore sat perfectly still, his fingers steepled together. He wore robes of a deep, midnight blue embroidered with silver moons. His hair and beard were silver rivers that spilled over the table.
To the normal eye, he was an old man. A very old, very eccentric man with half-moon spectacles and a kindly smile.
But Vega was still raw. The castle had stripped his filters, and the Ring hadn't fully clamped them back down.
Vega looked at Dumbledore, and he didn't see a man. He saw a sun.
The magical pressure radiating from the Headmaster was absolute. It wasn't aggressive; it was simply... there. It was a density of existence so profound that the space around him seemed to curve. The air shimmered with heatless light.
The other teachers felt like candles. McGonagall felt like a bonfire.
Dumbledore felt like a supernova contained in a bottle.
This isn't a wizard, Vega thought, a primal fear clutching his heart. This is... Olorin. This is a Maiar spirit wearing a human skin suit.
He remembered reading The Lord of the Rings—a muggle book Sirius had stolen—and thinking Gandalf was cool. But this? This was what Gandalf must have felt like when he took off the grey cloak and revealed the white fire of the Undying Lands.
It was blinding. It was terrifying. It was the kind of power that could rewrite reality on a whim.
And then, the Titan moved.
Dumbledore shifted slightly in his throne. Behind the half-moon spectacles, blue eyes—bright, piercing, and terrifyingly young—locked onto Vega.
He feels me looking, Vega realized with a jolt of panic. He knows.
For a fraction of a second, the connection held. Vega felt stripped bare. He felt the immense, crushing weight of that blue gaze weighing his soul, his ring, his wand, his very intent.
Then, Dumbledore smiled.
It wasn't the predatory grin of Bellatrix. It wasn't the polite mask of Narcissa. It was a small, twinkling, mischievous smile. He winked.
And just like that—snap—the sun went out.
In a microsecond, the blinding aura vanished. The terrifying pressure evaporated. The distortion of space smoothed out.
Dumbledore pulled his magic inside himself with a casual, terrifying efficiency. One moment, he radiated a nexus of magic; the next, he was just a kindly old grandfather waiting for his dinner.
The control required to do that, to suppress a magical core of that magnitude into absolute nothingness—was more frightening than the power itself.
He isn't just powerful, Vega thought, his hands trembling slightly as he tore his gaze away. He is a monster.
Vega let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He touched the Ring, grounding himself in the cool platinum.
Small fish, Arcturus had said. You are a small fish in his pond.
Vega looked at the Sorting Hat as a rip appeared near the brim, opening like a mouth.
No, Vega corrected, staring at the floor. I'm not a fish. I'm plankton.
And then the Hat on the stool twitched. A rip near the brim opened wide. And the Hat began to sing.
"Before the ink, before the quill,
Before the stone upon the hill,
Four Titans stood upon this ground,
And bound the magic to the mound.
They did not build a school of stone,
To sit and watch the seasons turn,
They built a forge of blood and bone,
Where souls are placed to freeze and burn.
For Godric was the sudden flame,
The sword that guards the dawn,
He sought the brave, the wild, the game,
The kings who remain when hope is gone.
If fire beats within your chest,
And steel is in your spine,
Then Gryffindor will put to test,
The gold within the mine.
But Helga loved the iron root,
The earth that drinks the rain,
She sought the seed that bears the fruit,
Through patience and through pain.
If you are loyal, true, and deep,
And hold the mountain fast,
Then Hufflepuff your soul will keep,
Long after storms have passed.
Rowena watched the starlight cold,
And walked the void above,
She sought the mind that breaks the mold,
And places truth above all love.
If you would climb the jagged peak,
Where eagles fear to tread,
Then Ravenclaw is what you seek,
To feed the hunger within your head.
And Salazar, he knew the deep,
The water and the snake,
He sought the promises we keep,
And the power that we take.
If you possess the cunning eye,
To see the world as clay,
Then Slytherin will let you fly,
And help you seize the day.
I see the mind, I see the heart,
I see the secrets that you hide,
The time has come to play your part,
So step forward, and decide.
The walls are strong, the magic wakes,
The Catalyst begins to spin,
Whatever form your spirit takes,
I know exactly where you've been."
The last note hung in the air, vibrating against the enchanted ceiling like a gong.
Vega let out a breath, his fingers tightening around the platinum band of his ring.
It's not a nursery rhyme, he thought, his mind racing as he dissected the lyrics. It's a warning. 'A forge of blood and bone.' 'The Catalyst begins to spin.' The Hat knows what this place is.
He glanced at the High Table. Dumbledore was clapping politely, his face serene, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the rows of students as if checking the pressure gauges on an engine.
At the Slytherin table, Bellatrix wasn't clapping. She was smiling at the Hat, a look of profound, arrogant satisfaction, as if the verse about Salazar had been written personally for her.
"Abbott, Janice!" Professor McGonagall called, unrolling a scroll of parchment.
A terrified girl with pigtails stumbled forward. She sat on the stool. The Hat dropped over her eyes.
"HUFFLEPUFF!" the Hat roared instantly.
The table on the right erupted in cheers. The tension in the room broke, replaced by the mundane ritual of school life.
But Vega remained still, watching the process.
"It's scanning them," he murmured to himself, watching the Hat sit on a boy named 'Avery, James'. "It's not just reading their personality. It's checking their magical resonance. It's tuning them to the House that shares their frequency."
"SLYTHERIN!"
The table on the far left banged their goblets. Lucius Malfoy clapped with languid grace.
"Black, Vega."
The name cut through the noise.
The hall went quiet. Not the respectful silence of earlier, but the hungry silence of a crowd watching a celebrity—or a target.
Vega adjusted his cuffs. He felt the Hum in his blood spike, reacting to the attention. He pushed it down. He didn't let his face shift. He kept it pale, composed, the mask of the Heir perfectly in place.
He walked up the steps. He felt the eyes of the High Table. Dumbledore's amusement. McGonagall's sharp assessment. And the tiny, dark eyes of the Potions Master, Horace Slughorn, who looked like he was appraising a particularly rare diamond.
Vega sat on the stool.
He looked out at the sea of faces one last time. He saw Sirius's empty seat in the future. He saw the empty space where Regulus would be.
I am the scout, he reminded himself. I clear the path.
McGonagall dropped the Hat onto his head.
Darkness.
And then, a voice in his ear. Not the booming voice of the song, but a dry, dusty whisper that sounded like opening a tomb.
"Oh... hello again."
Vega stiffened. Again?
"I remember the blood," the Hat whispered, sliding through his mental shields as if they were made of wet tissue paper. "The Black madness. The Black brilliance. I sorted your father. I sorted your grandfather. I sorted Phineas Nigellus, who argued with me for ten minutes about the definition of 'purity'."
The Hat shifted on his head.
"But you... you are not like them. You are... quieter. And yet, louder."
The Hat dove deeper. It brushed against the Metamorphmagus core—the fluid, shifting ocean of his biology. It brushed against the Heir Ring—the cold, iron fortress of his duty. And finally, it touched the wand in his sleeve.
The Hat recoiled slightly.
"Wind and Oak," the Hat murmured, sounding impressed. "And the Feathered Serpent. You have walked the old paths, haven't you? You have seen the Feathered God and the Deep Magic."
I have, Vega projected his thought clearly. I am here to learn how to wield it.
"Ambition," the Hat noted. "Plenty of that. You want to know everything. You want to open the Library of Alexandria. You want to wake the giants. That's very Ravenclaw of you."
Knowledge is a tool, Vega countered. I don't just want to know. I want to build.
"Yes... I see the loyalty, too. To the brothers. To the House. You want to save them from themselves. That is a Hufflepuff's burden, carried with a Gryffindor's nerve."
The Hat chuckled, a dry, dusty sound in his mind.
"But let us be honest, Vega Black. You don't want to save them by following the rules. You want to save them by rewriting the game. You want power. Not to rule, but to ensure that no one can rule you."
Survival, Vega thought. By any means necessary.
"Precisely," the Hat whispered. "You are a creature of water, but you have chosen to be a shark. You will need the deep water to swim, little Black. You will need the ambition that matches your own."
The Hat took a breath—or the magical equivalent.
"Better be..."
"SLYTHERIN!"
The Hat shouted the last word to the Hall.
Vega felt a rush of relief, followed instantly by the icy realization that the game had officially begun.
He took off the Hat.
The Slytherin table was cheering. Lucius Malfoy was nodding, looking vindicated. Bellatrix was grinning, hammering her goblet on the table.
Vega stood up. He walked toward the green and silver banners. He didn't rush. He moved with the fluid grace of the wind he commanded.
He sat down next to Narcissa.
"Acceptable," she noted, though she looked relieved.
"Inevitability usually is," Vega replied, pouring himself a glass of water.
He looked up at the High Table. Dumbledore raised his goblet slightly in Vega's direction. The twinkle was back in his eye.
One shark in the tank, the twinkle seemed to say. Let's see if you can swim.
The Great Hall, The Slytherin Table
The feast did not begin with a bell or a speech.
One moment, the golden platters were empty, gleaming under the enchanted starlight. The next, the air above the tables shimmered, a mass teleportation of protein and carbohydrates that hit the wood with a heavy, satisfying thud. Roast beef, Yorkshire puddings the size of quaffles, tureens of soup that smelled of sherry and thyme.
Vega didn't reach for the food immediately. He watched.
At the Gryffindor table, the noise level had already hit a dull roar. Frank Longbottom, the sturdy boy who had joked about the stone-skin, was being slapped on the back by a Prefect. He looked flushed, happy, and entirely safe in the lions' den.
Predictable, Vega analyzed, pouring himself a glass of pumpkin juice. Longbottom has a spine of iron, but he wears his heart on his sleeve. Gryffindor will either make him a hero or get him killed.
"Acceptable outcome for Longbottom," Cyrus Greengrass noted, following Vega's gaze. He was cutting his roast beef with surgical precision. "His family has always favored the dramatic charges. We, however, have better real estate."
Vega turned to his peer. Cyrus was pale, blonde, and possessed the sort of nose that was genetically engineered to look down on people.
"We have the dungeon, Greengrass," Vega corrected dryly. "I wouldn't call it 'better real estate' until I see the humidity levels."
"It's not a dungeon," a nervous voice piped up from Vega's other side.
It was the twitchy boy from the boat. Barty Crouch Jr. He looked like he was vibrating. His robes were brand new, but he wore them like they were slightly too tight.
"My father says the Slytherin common room is the oldest part of the castle," Barty said, his eyes darting around the table as if expecting an attack. "Salazar built it into the bedrock. It's a bunker."
"Crouch," Vega acknowledged, nodding to the boy. "Your father is the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, yes?"
Barty stiffened. "Yes."
"Then he knows a thing or two about bunkers," Vega said, offering the boy a basket of rolls. It was a small gesture—a peace offering wrapped in carbohydrates. "Eat, Barty. You look like you're about to faint, and fainting in front of Malfoy would be a tactical error."
Barty took a roll, looking at Vega with a mixture of surprise and gratitude.
Vega took a sip of his juice, his eyes scanning the High Table again. Dumbledore was eating sherbet lemons. McGonagall was watching the Gryffindors like a hawk watches a field of mice.
The hierarchy at the Slytherin table was already solidifying. The older students were ignoring the first years—a deliberate exclusion to test their resilience. Bellatrix was holding court at the far end, her laughter sharp and jagged.
Vega cut a piece of beef. The Hum in his blood had settled into a low, contented purr. The castle's magic was still heavy, pressing against his shields, but the Ring was filtering it now.
"So," Cyrus said, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. "The Black Heir. The rumors said you were being tutored abroad. The Khanate?"
"Here and there," Vega replied vaguely. "The world is large, Cyrus. It seemed a shame to stay in London."
"And now you're here," Cyrus pressed, his eyes calculating. "With a Ring that usually sits in a vault."
"It got dusty," Vega said, finishing his meal. "I thought it needed some air."
He looked at Cyrus, then at Barty, then at the other two first-year girls—a Parkinson and a Bulstrode—who were listening intently.
"We are the intake of '69," Vega said softly, his voice cutting under the noise of the hall. "The world outside is getting... complicated. My grandfather says the board is being reset. We should probably make sure we're playing the same game."
Cyrus held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. It was a small concession. A recognition of gravity.
The Descent
"First years! With me!"
Lucius Malfoy's voice was smooth, cutting through the post-feast lethargy. He stood at the end of the table, looking every inch the Prefect, his badge gleaming.
Vega stood, checking his cuffs. He fell into step beside Cyrus, with Barty trailing them like a nervous shadow.
They didn't go up the marble staircase. They went down.
They passed through a door to the right of the Entrance Hall, leading to a narrow stone staircase that spiraled into the earth.
The air changed instantly. The warm, food-scented atmosphere of the Great Hall vanished, replaced by a cool, damp stillness. The stone here was older—rough-hewn blocks that seemed to sweat ancient magic.
Torches in wrought-iron brackets flared to life as they passed, casting long, dancing shadows.
"The Dungeons are not a punishment," Lucius announced over his shoulder, leading them deeper. "They are a foundation. The other houses live in towers, heads in the clouds, blown about by every wind. We live in the stone. We are the anchor."
Good speech, Vega thought. Rehearsed. But accurate.
They descended for what felt like miles. Vega's internal compass told him they were now significantly below the waterline of the lake.
The magic down here was different. It was heavy, slow, and pressurized.
They stopped before a stretch of bare, damp stone wall. There was no portrait. No handle. Just a blank face of granite that looked utterly ordinary.
Lucius turned to the group of first years.
"Our sanctum is hidden. We do not invite guests. We do not tolerate intruders."
He turned back to the wall.
"Password?" Lucius asked the stone.
Then, he answered his own question.
"Cunning."
The word wasn't just spoken; it was a key.
The stone wall didn't swing open. It dissolved. The granite bricks folded backward and sideways, rearranging themselves with a grinding rumble into a magnificent, arched serpent gate.
Lucius stepped through. Vega followed.
It was a long, low underground room with rough stone walls and ceiling, but it didn't feel claustrophobic. It felt expensive.
Round, green lamps hung on silver chains from the ceiling. A fire was crackling under an elaborately carved mantelpiece—though Vega noted the flames were green-tinged and offered light more than heat.
But the centerpiece was the windows.
The entire left wall of the room was glass. Thick, enchanted crystal that looked directly out into the Black Lake.
The light in the room was filtered through the water, casting everything in a shifting, eerie emerald glow. Outside, weeds swayed in the current. A school of silver fish darted past. Far in the distance, a large, dark shadow, the Giant Squid, moved lazily through the gloom.
It was an underwater cathedral.
"Welcome to the Slytherin Common Room," Lucius said, spreading his arms.
The room was furnished with low-backed black leather sofas and dark wood tables. Skulls, old tapestries of famous dark wizards, and silver instruments lined the shelves.
It smelled of old books, sea salt, and cold ambition.
"It's... dark," Barty whispered.
"It's private," Vega corrected, walking over to the glass wall.
He placed his hand against the cold crystal. On the other side, the water pressed against the glass. Tons of pressure, held back by magic and glass.
He felt the Hum in his blood react to the water. The metamorphmagus element was fluid; it liked this. It felt safe here. Protected by the weight of the lake.
He turned back to the room. The other Slytherins were settling in, claiming chairs, eyeing the older students who were already entrenched in the corners.
Vega saw Bellatrix sitting by the fire, reading a book that looked like it was bound in human skin. She glanced up, saw him, and winked.
Vega looked at Cyrus Greengrass, who was admiring a silver chess set.
"Well," Vega said, unbuttoning his collar slightly as the Ring finally allowed him to relax his shields. "The humidity is acceptable, Greengrass."
He looked out at the murky green water, watching the seaweed dance.
"I think," Vega murmured to the fish swimming past his face, "I'm going to like it here."
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Pheww, difficult chapter to write. Hopefully I managed to write something half decent! :D