| THE SERPENT; chapter one | directory
✦ no part of this fiction may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher/author.
✦ this is my first official wattpad original fic. i’m only releasing the first five chapters on tumblr, but the link for the fic (ongoing!wip) can be found here.
✦ w/c: 2,8k
The castle stretched endlessly around me, shifting in ways that made my stomach turn. Hallways bent where they should not have bent. Staircases descended into darkness I did not remember existing. Portraits watched too closely as I passed, their painted eyes lingering long after I moved beyond them.
An erratic buzzing pulsed beneath my skin. The deeper I wandered, the stronger it became.
Until finally—
I turned sharply down a narrow corridor and stopped cold.
The Mirror of Erised stood before me.
Dust clung to its enormous golden frame, though the glass itself remained untouched, gleaming unnaturally beneath dim torchlight. Something about it felt wrong immediately. Heavier somehow. Like the air surrounding it carried its own gravity.
My feet moved before I consciously decided to approach. Then I saw them.
Two figures stood within the reflection.
One masculine.
One feminine.
Dark silhouettes stretched long beneath silver candlelight, their features obscured as though the mirror itself refused to fully reveal them. They stood facing one another in complete silence, motionless except for the slow rise and fall of breathing.
My breath caught.
Their hands lifted simultaneously. Identical movements. Identical pale-grey skin. When their fingers finally touched, something fractured. The reflection warped violently.
Not the mirror. The figures within it.
The feminine figure collapsed first.
Her body struck the floor with a sickening force as violent convulsions tore through her limbs. Her spine arched unnaturally against the stone beneath her while soundless screams ripped across her face. The air around her distorted, trembling as though reality itself struggled to contain whatever was happening.
I tried to move.
Couldn't.
The masculine figure remained standing above her.
Still.
Watching.
Then slowly, he extended a hand. A pale light emerged from the woman's body instantly.
It wasn't light.
It was something deeper.
It unraveled from her chest in thin silver strands, twisting upward toward his outstretched hand like thread being wound onto invisible fingers.
My stomach twisted violently.
The woman's convulsions weakened, the figure standing above her never moved. It never reacted. As though this ending had always been inevitable.
Then the mirror began to darken.
The figures faded slowly into shadow while a foreign voice echoed somewhere beyond the glass, low enough to vibrate through bone itself.
"Infernum est lux, caeli sunt umbrae."
𓂃𓂃𓂃
The words followed me into consciousness.
I jolted upright against the leather couch, breath catching painfully in my throat. Sweat dampened the back of my neck despite the cold.
For several disorienting seconds, I remained frozen beneath the darkness of the drawing room, pulse hammering violently against my ribs while remnants of the dream clung stubbornly to my skin like cobwebs.
These seizures and visions.. They're becoming worse.
More frequent. More vivid.
And each time they left behind the same unbearable feeling—that I was forgetting something important before I even had the chance to understand it.
I dragged both hands through my hair, forcing myself to breathe steadily.
What does any of this mean?
The question haunted me endlessly now.
I pushed myself upright with a quiet curse, slipping my feet into house slippers before reaching for my wand resting along the arm of the couch.
"Lumos." Soft golden light bloomed instantly against the darkness.
The Black manor remained silent around me, though it was never truly asleep. Old houses like this breathed differently at night. Pipes groaned within the walls. Floorboards shifted without warning. Portraits whispered behind closed doors beneath layers of velvet shadow.
Tonight the manor felt especially restless.
Or perhaps I did.
Either way, remaining in my room had become impossible.
I wandered without purpose through the manor's winding corridors, following whichever hallway caught my attention next. The house was quiet at this hour. Too quiet. The sort of silence that seemed to settle over the estate whenever rain battered against the windows and cloud swallowed the moon.
Eventually I found myself in the kitchen.
A cup of tea sounded appealing.
Unfortunately, the familiar sound of approaching footsteps ruined that prospect almost immediately.
I glanced toward the doorway when Orion appeared.
"Orion," I said flatly, "why are you down here? Your presence is disturbing me."
"Oh.." He states flatly, "Well I was actually soon to be disturbing your best friend, my apologies."
I'm quick to throw a scoff and a disgusted look his way, "You're such a whore, Ori."
"You're the prude." he snickers.
I roll my eyes and continue to the cabinets, putting a pot of tea on and grabbing two teacups. He settles somewhere behind me before asking, "Kaida?"
"Hmm?" I hum, adding only half a cube of sugar into each teacup.
"Are you excited to go back to Hogwarts at all? You've barely spoken a word of it to Mum or Father.." he trails off, "Though not even Father is speaking much these days."
I ponder for a moment before settling to respond, "I suppose. Though I doubt there will be many pleasantries in store this year." I pour the brewed herbs into our cups, scents of cinnamon and red apple gracing my nose.
War has been ravaging the wizarding world for three decades now. With Grindelwald's ideologies rooted in every continent, mass pureblood immunization policies have been implemented, our trade routes have been obstructed, and laws are pushing towards restrictions on marriage.
"Well we have nothing to worry about, we're apart of the Noble House of Black," he jesters, with a toothy grin, taking the hot cup as I pass it to him.
"We have to ration sugar just like anyone else," I suggest with a blank face, "So I believe, our 'Noble House' is useless at the moment."
Neither of us have time to add when a voice emerges from the dimly lit hallway, "Do you really believe that to be of the House of Black, Kaidana?"
My brother and I instantly recognize our Father's resonating voice, the pair of us adjusting to sit up in his hardened presence. He enters from the opposite hallway that Orion did, eyebrows raised in disbelief.
I place my teacup onto the counter before me, unable to swallow the words I just spoke. "Father? I presumed you to be asleep." I countered quietly.
"You presumed wrong, and you misdirected your answer. Want to continue?" His voice was low enough to be heard, yet carried volumes. His arms crossed as he approached me, giving a quick glance to Orion but not addressing him. The bags under his eyes conveyed the lack of sleep we had in common, ascertaining that he'd been disturbed by something as well.
I swallowed thickly, "Father I meant nothing against the Black name but we are rationing just as anyone else." The words felt wrong as soon as they left my mouth.
The silver of the chandelier above gleamed in the moonlight, candles flickering softly. Somewhere beyond the tall glass windows, rain battered against the manor as if trying to force its way inside. Even the house elves were quiet.
I hesitated.
"So how are we different than-"
"We," Father interrupted smoothly, "are different."
His voice was not loud. It never needed to be.
Arcturus Black stood near the hearth with one hand clasped behind his back, the fire outlining the sharp edges of his face in amber light. His gaze settled on me with practiced patience, the kind reserved for correcting a child who had spoken out of turn.
Then he lifted his hand.
One pale finger pointed toward my forearm resting against the counter.
"The blood flowing through your veins," he said carefully, "has been bred pure for over one hundred and fifty years. There is power to that." The room seemed to constrict around me.
Not because I had never heard those words before-I had heard them all my life-but because of how easily he said them. As though purity were not an ideology and a law of nature. Like gravity.
Like death.
Across from me Orion shifted. For one hopeful second, I thought he might disagree. Might laugh about it. Might say Father was being dramatic. Might do anything other than sit in silence.
But Orion only glanced between us, his expression unreadable in the dim light. His eyes flickered briefly to the untouched sugar bowl at the center of the ebony counter, before returning his attention to Father. Quiet compliance. Much worse.
Father continued as if lecturing before the Wizengamot instead of speaking to his own children. "The world beyond this house is collapsing because people have forgotten the importance of distinction. There is chaos in Europe because standards have weakened. Blood matters. Legacy matters. Especially now."
Especially now.
Everyone had begun saying those words, as though war had became permission for cruelty.
"The muggles are at war," I said before I could stop myself, "And wizardkind would be wise not to follow them into ruin."
His eyes settled on me fully then. Assessing. Cold.
"You are entering your seventh year," he said. "It is time you understood that sentimentality is dangerous in times of instability."
There it was again. The language that everyone had been using. Words like instability, protection, preservation. These were nothing more than words polished until they no longer sounded cruel.
Orion finally spoke, though too softly to alter anything. "Father's been occupied with ministry discussions all week." I looked toward him.
Father answered instead, "Because unlike others within the Wizengamot, I understand what is required to secure the future of pure, elder bloodlines."
As he spoke a knot formed slowly in my stomach. There was something underneath his words tonight. Not just politics, but preparation. As though conversations were already taking place behind closed Ministry doors while the rest of us sat waiting to discover what has been decided for us.
The rain battered harder against the windows now.
Father reached for a copy of the prophet placed beside Orion's elbow, glancing briefly at the shifting headlines, before tucking it under his arm.
More disappearances, more unrest, more fear.
In times like these," Father said calmly, "the world reveals what people truly are." His gaze settled back on me. "And history remembers those strong enough to preserve it."
Silence followed. Heavy, familiar.
The chandelier's flames cracked softly in the hearth of the kitchen while somewhere upstairs an old pipe groaned. Orion remained still from across me, his tea long untouched, though whether from discomfort or agreement I could no longer tell.
Father smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from the sleeve of his robes before turning toward the hallway.
"I expect both of you packed before the weekend," he said without looking back. "The train leaves early Monday morning.
Then he disappeared from the doorway. The sound of his footsteps gradually faded into the house until only the rain remained.
Neither Orion nor I spoke for several moments.
My gaze drifted back toward the sugar bowl sitting at the center of the counter. Four cubes rested inside like precious stones in candlelight.
Ridiculous, really.
The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black measuring sugar by the cube while Father spoke of superiority like war itself had crowned pure-bloods kings above suffering.
Orion exhaled through his nose, "You do enjoy provoking him."
"I wasn't provoking him asshole." I state with a rather quick sigh of annoyance.
"No," he muttered. "You were questioning him. Which is somehow worse."
I looked toward the darkened doorway Father had vanished through. "There is something happening at the ministry." I spoke quietly.
"There's always something happening at the ministry." He contrasted.
"This feels different."
He did not answer immediately, which was answer enough.
"People are frightened." He finally said, voice lowering slightly. A strand of dark brown curls fell above his brow bone, to which he quickly swatted at.
"Frightened people make dangerous decisions." I said.
"You should be careful saying things like that." He replied in a chiding tone.
A bitter laugh nearly escaped me.
Inside the Black manor, caution was its own form of currency. Conversations lowered at the approach of doors. Newspapers vanished when certain names appeared in print. Even the portraits seemed to listen more attentively these days.
I sighed quietly. "I'm tired."
Orion nodded once, though he look as though he wished to say something more.
Instead he only reached for a different copy of The Prophet, unfolding it while the moving photograph on the page flickered beneath candlelight. I left him there with the headlines.
The following days before my return to Hogwarts passed with a strange heaviness. The manor seemed quieter than usual, though perhaps I only noticed the silence more now. House elves inventoried pantry shelves with nervous precision, while Ministry owls arrived at increasingly late hours carrying sealed letter stamped in dark wax.
Father spent most evenings behind closed study doors entertaining grim-faced officials whose conversations dissolved into murmurs whenever I passed. Certain words surfaced repeatedly nonetheless.
At night, Oxfordshire disappeared behind blackout curtains thick enough to suffocate moonlight entirely.
The house changed after dark. During the day, life continued with the careful precision expected of old wizarding families. Breakfast appeared at the same hour. Hogwarts letters arrived. Visitors exchanged polite conversation over tea as though the world beyond the estate walls wasn't steadily unraveling.
But evenings were different.
Once the sun disappeared, the performance became harder to maintain.
The Wireless rarely stopped speaking. Its low crackling voice drifted through drawing rooms and corridors alike, carrying reports from both the Muggle war and the growing unrest spreading across magical Europe. Every night, I lingered on the staircase landing outside the sitting room, hidden just beyond the doorway where no one thought to look.
The elder adults always sounded different after dark.
Less certain. More honest.
Disappearances in Prague. Attacks near the French and Belgian Ministries. Rumors that Grindelwald sympathizers had begun operating within Britain itself. Every conversation seemed to end the same way—not with disagreement or reassurance, but with silence.
The sort of silence that followed when everyone in a room understood something unpleasant and chose not to say it aloud.
It wasn't war that unsettled me most. It was everything spoken beneath it.
The quieter conversations exchanged over crystal glasses and lowered voices during dinners and private gatherings. Conversations that had little to do with battlefields and everything to do with preservation.
Marriage contracts. Family alliances. Ancient obligations. The necessity of maintaining strong magical bloodlines during uncertain times.
I heard the same arguments often enough that I could practically recite them myself. The world was changing. Old families needed to remain united. Traditions needed protecting. The future required careful planning.
Always spoken with the same calm certainty.
As though people could arrange the future neatly enough to survive it. As though war respected planning. As though destiny could be negotiated over dessert.
The older I became, the more those conversations seemed to follow me. At first, I'd assumed it was coincidence. Then I'd begun noticing the looks. Lingering glances from elder witches. Subtle evaluations hidden behind polite smiles. Questions disguised as harmless curiosity.
How old am I now?
Had I enjoyed my studies?
Was Hogwarts treating me well?
Each inquiry seemed innocent enough on its own. Together, they felt like measurements being taken.
I started recognizing the way their eyes moved. Assessing. Calculating. Not unkind. Which somehow made it worse.
Like pieces being considered on a chessboard before a move was made.
I understood that returning to Hogwarts wasn't simply a return. It was a transition. The adults around me all seemed aware of it, even if they believed I wasn't.
The rest of my week, up until my attendance for my seventh year, went rather quickly.
By Sunday evening, my trunk stood packed beside my bedroom door. The house felt strangely quiet. Not peaceful.. but expectant?
As though everyone was waiting for something to begin.
Before bed, I stood at the window and stared into the darkness beyond the glass. The countryside had vanished beneath the blackout. No stars. No moon. Nothing but my own reflection staring back at me.
For reasons I couldn't explain, my thoughts drifted once more to the "vision."
Gray eyes.
A raised hand.
The strange uncertainty that had lingered since my body paralyzed me that evening.
It wasn't memory. It wasn't prophecy. At least, I didn't think so.
It felt more like a thread I couldn't see, pulling somewhere beyond my understanding. I told myself it was nerves.
The explanation sounded reasonable enough that I almost believed it.
Almost.
When Monday morning arrived, King's Cross Station buzzed with familiar noise and movement. Students laughed. Owls screeched from their cages. Parents exchanged final instructions before departure. Everything appeared exactly as it always had.
When I stood on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, I felt the same unease settle between my ribs. The sensation that something had shifted while no one was looking. That events already in motion were gathering momentum beyond my sight.
By the time the Hogwarts Express pulled away from the station, Hogwarts no longer felt like a return to normalcy.
I was moving toward something.
And though I couldn't yet name it, the certainty followed me all the same. Something waited ahead.
Something inevitable.
𓂃𓂃𓂃
© 2026 by Ari Loren