chapter 14

The next morning, the greenish glow of the Slytherin common room cast long shadows along the stone walls as I stirred awake. It was easy to lose track of time down here, especially without windows to mark the morning. The dim, eerie light filtering through the lake outside the common room provided just enough illumination to remind me of the day's beginning. I stretched, the aches of yesterday's events still present in my muscles. The troll, the fight, the aftermath—it was all vivid in my mind, and though I had managed to pull through, the exhaustion I felt afterward lingered.

I dressed quickly, pulling on my robes and gathering my things before heading out. The dormitory was silent, with the other Slytherin boys still asleep. Their snores echoed softly off the stone walls, providing a small sense of peace before what I knew would be a hectic day. Rumors must have already started spreading. There was no way a fight with a troll in Hogwarts would go unnoticed.

By the time I reached the Great Hall, breakfast was in full swing. As soon as I stepped through the entrance, the familiar hum of conversation filled the air, but this morning, the buzz was more charged. I could feel the weight of the stares as I walked to the Slytherin table, the whispers following me like a shadow.

"That's him," someone muttered as I passed. "The one who fought the troll."

I sighed, keeping my head down as I made my way to my seat. Draco Malfoy, sitting with his usual entourage, wasted no time sneering at me. "So, you're the big hero now, Sayre? Taking on trolls all by yourself?"

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "I was just in the wrong place, at the right time" I replied casually, reaching for a piece of toast.

Malfoy's grin widened as he leaned back, clearly enjoying himself. "I heard you were hissing at the troll. What were you trying to do, make friends with it?"

Crabbe and Goyle chuckled behind him, but I didn't take the bait. Instead, I shrugged. "If you're looking for a new best friend, Malfoy, I'm sure the troll's still looking for company."

Malfoy's grin faltered, but before he could fire back, Pansy Parkinson leaned in, her curiosity evident. "You really fought it by yourself? How did you do it?"

I had expected the questions, but they still grated on me. I didn't want to be the center of attention, especially not for something like this. "I just used what I've learned," I replied simply, hoping that would be enough to end the conversation.

But of course, it wasn't.

"Come on," Pansy pressed, her eyes wide. "People are saying you used advanced magic. Spells that no first-year should know."

I focused on my breakfast, avoiding her gaze, hoping she'd take the hint. The last thing I needed was to fuel the rumors.

"It's not that complicated," I said, keeping my tone light and casual, but I knew it would set him off. "Ever since my aunt took over as Lady Black, I've had the opportunity to work on magic with my cousin."

There was a brief pause, and then, right on cue, Draco's fork clattered against his plate. His pale face twisted into a sneer, and I could practically see the jealousy radiating off him. His voice was sharp when he spoke, dripping with barely controlled bitterness.

"Your aunt? Your family took the Black title?" Draco's eyes narrowed as he glared at me. "That title belongs to my family. I should have had it, not some relative who was disowned."

I leaned back, allowing myself a smug smirk as I met Draco's gaze. I could play his game. "Actually, Malfoy, it's rightfully my family's title. The Black legacy passed down to me, but I gave it to Aunt Andromeda. I already have quite the prestige, and frankly, she'll do more good with it than I can."

For a moment, Draco's sneer faltered. "You? The Black legacy passed to you?" he repeated, incredulity creeping into his voice. He looked me up and down, clearly trying to piece together how someone like me could have a claim to the Black family name, especially after his assumption that my aunt had been disowned. "Andromeda's a blood traitor. The title should've gone to my family, not to someone like her. How could you—?"

I cut him off, leaning forward slightly and lowering my voice just enough to ensure that everyone at the table could still hear. "Because, Malfoy, I'm not just anyone. My mother is Bellatrix Sayre Neé Black. The eldest daughter of the Black family."

There was a collective intake of breath from the students around us. The moment I said her name, the atmosphere at the table shifted. Everyone knew who Bellatrix was, of course. Her reputation as one of Voldemort's most loyal followers had secured her place in wizarding history, but she was also infamous for being locked away in Azkaban. And now I had dropped the bomb that I was her son.

Draco blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "Bellatrix…?" he muttered, eyes widening slightly. I could see him processing this new information. He hadn't expected that. Draco was always so sure of his knowledge of pure-blood families and their politics, but this was a curveball.

"Surprised?" I asked with a faint smile. "I don't make a habit of advertising it, but yes, my mother is Bellatrix. And despite her being in Azkaban for some rather awful crimes, I'm still the eldest son of the eldest daughter in the remaining lines that are still alive. If Uncle Sirius had a son, now that would be a different story."

Draco's mouth opened and closed a few times, clearly trying to form a response. For someone who always had something to say, this revelation had momentarily silenced him. "But—how could she—" he began, his voice trailing off.

I shrugged, enjoying the brief moment of power I had over him. "Yeah, I heard she had a rather unhealthy obsession with snake-face, but hey, somehow Dad got down to business for me to be born before he died."

Draco stared at me, speechless, his mouth hanging open as he struggled to process the information I had just casually dropped on the table. Around us, the Slytherins had gone deadly silent, their forks paused mid-air, and all eyes were locked on me. The weight of my words — particularly the fact that I had just called Voldemort "snake-face" — hung heavy in the air, like I had uttered something unspeakable.

Draco's pale face twitched, as though he was trying to decide whether he had misheard me. "Snake-face?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. The expression of disbelief deepened, and it wasn't just Draco—everyone around the table was staring at me like I had just committed an act of treason.

Even Pansy Parkinson, who usually followed Draco's lead without question, looked genuinely shocked, her eyes wide. Crabbe and Goyle, for all their lack of intelligence, seemed to grasp the severity of what I had just said. Everyone looked like they were waiting for something—perhaps for me to retract my words, or for the earth to swallow me whole.

I leaned back in my seat, meeting their wide-eyed stares with a nonchalant smirk. "Oh, don't get your knickers in a twist," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "What? You can't handle a little nickname for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" I made a dramatic pause, mocking the fearful whispers most people used when talking about Voldemort.

The silence at the table continued for a beat longer before someone, most likely Blaise Zabini, let out a soft chuckle. That seemed to break the tension, and I could see a few of the students shifting uncomfortably, clearly unsure how to respond.

"Relax," I added, waving a hand dismissively. "He's not lurking under the table, waiting to curse me for calling him snake-face." I shot a glance around the table, half-amused, half-exasperated. "Honestly, you'd think I just insulted Merlin himself."

Draco, however, still hadn't regained his composure. His eyes flickered with a mixture of shock and anger. "You're insane," he finally managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper. "You can't just—just say that. Do you even know who—"

"Oh, I know exactly who Voldemort is," I interrupted smoothly, emphasizing the name with casual defiance. The entire table seemed to flinch at the sound of it. "Trust me, Malfoy, I'm well aware of his… legacy." I shrugged, leaning back and casually picking at my food. "But you can't live your whole life terrified of a name. Especially one tied to someone with a face like that."

Draco's fists clenched at the mention of Voldemort's name, and I could see him struggling to maintain his usual composure. He wasn't the only one. The entire table looked like they were sitting on a knife's edge, waiting for something terrible to happen just because I had spoken the Dark Lord's name out loud.

For a moment, it looked like Draco might explode—his face was red, his lips tight—but then he exhaled sharply, choosing to ignore the rest of my comment. "You have no idea what you're talking about," he said, his voice strained but cold. "You may be Bellatrix's son, but that doesn't mean you understand what you're dealing with."

I raised an eyebrow at him, a smirk still playing at the corner of my lips. "Maybe, maybe not. But what I do understand, Malfoy, is that fear gives people power. And I'm not interested in giving power to someone who's not even here."

The table was still tense, but the spell of shock seemed to have broken. A few students exchanged glances, unsure of what to make of me, but it was clear that the conversation had shifted. The initial shock of my lineage had already been absorbed, and now the focus was on the fact that I had casually spoken Voldemort's name like it meant nothing.

Draco, still seething, looked like he wanted to say more, but he seemed to recognize that pressing the issue wouldn't lead anywhere. Instead, he shot me a glare filled with barely concealed resentment before turning back to his plate, his appetite clearly gone.

Pansy Parkinson leaned in slightly, her curiosity getting the better of her. "You really don't care, do you?" she asked, her voice soft but full of wonder. "About… You-Know-Who?"

I looked at her, a faint smile playing on my lips. "I care about a lot of things, Pansy," I replied lightly. "But being scared of someone who's not around anymore isn't one of them."

Her eyes widened slightly at my words, but she didn't press further, likely too shocked by the casual way I was treating the whole conversation. Crabbe and Goyle were still staring at me with their mouths hanging open, as if I'd grown a second head.

"Look," I added, leaning forward slightly, "I'm not saying he wasn't dangerous. Obviously, Voldemort's name isn't something people throw around for fun. But if you spend your whole life tiptoeing around a name, you're giving him more power than he deserves. You can fear what he did, but fearing his name is pointless."

The silence that followed was thick with uncertainty. For a moment, I wasn't sure if anyone would respond, but then, surprisingly, Blaise Zabini let out a soft chuckle.

"Well, at least someone's got a bit of sense around here," he muttered, raising his goblet as though to toast my statement. I caught his eye, and he gave me a subtle nod, one that carried a hint of respect.

Draco, on the other hand, looked like he was on the verge of an aneurysm. He clearly wasn't ready to admit defeat in this conversation, but he also wasn't willing to escalate things further, especially with the eyes of the entire table watching.

"Enjoy your jokes while you can, Sayre," Draco said coldly, standing up abruptly from the table. "But don't think your name, or your mother's, will protect you forever."

I watched him walk away, Crabbe and Goyle dutifully following behind, their hulking frames a poor imitation of Draco's self-imposed superiority. Once he was gone, the tension at the table finally seemed to ease.

I let out a small sigh, turning back to my food, though I couldn't help but notice Quirrell staring me down with rather ominous red eyes. Obviously the parasite that is currently Voldemort didn't like my little spiel to his future followers.

So like a hypocrite, I finished my breakfast quickly, eager to escape his watchful eyes, as I'm no where near strong enough to handle that lunitic even in this form.

As I stood to leave, I noticed Harry, Ron, and Hermione at the Gryffindor table. They were watching me, but I didn't linger long enough to gauge their expressions. I knew Ron was probably plotting my downfall, thinking I was the next big bad because of my mother. Harry, on the other hand, seemed cautious, trying to decide what to make of me as he sorted through all the rumors he was hearing. Hermione offered me a small smile, concern flickering in her eyes, and I nodded back, showing I was fine—I was the one who revealed my background, after all. But the most striking reaction came from Neville. He looked at me with such fear that I almost felt bad. Still, I could see the rage behind his fear, simmering just beneath the surface.

His wand had its own temper, only truly obeying him when he was fighting against those who killed his parents. I'd have to be careful around him. He might be scared now, but once that fear gave way to rage, he could be a dangerous opponent, if his fathers wand decides to properly work.

Making my way to Charms, the corridor outside the classroom was buzzing with students, and I could hear snippets of conversation about the troll and, of course, my mother. It seemed like the whole school was talking about it now. No surprise there—Hogwarts thrived on rumors.

When I entered the Charms classroom, Professor Flitwick was already at his desk, his eyes twinkling as he spotted me. "Ah, Mr. Sayre," he called out as I approached. "A moment, if you please."

I walked up to his desk, trying not to let my nerves show. "Yes, Professor?"

"Word has spread quickly about your… encounter with the troll last night, as well as your rather famous parentage," Flitwick said, his tone both curious and slightly concerned. "I must say, I'm quite impressed. Very few students—especially first-years—would have kept their wits about them in such a situation." He seemed to gloss over the whole 'Bellatrix' thing, which I was grateful for.

"Thank you, sir," I replied, managing a small smile.

Flitwick gave a nod but continued with a more serious tone. "I've also heard reports that you performed magic beyond what is typically taught in the first year. Is that true?"

I hesitated for a moment before answering. "I've been practicing a lot, Professor. My cousin, as you might know, decided to become an Auror, so I've been lucky enough to join her in her training and pick up a few things."

Flitwick's eyebrows rose in surprise, clearly intrigued. "Indeed? Well, it's good to see such dedication to your studies. But do be cautious, Mr. Sayre. Magic is not to be taken lightly, especially at your level."

"I understand," I said quickly, eager to move past the topic. "I can still feel the exhaustion from last night, so I've learned my lesson."

Flitwick gave me a thoughtful look, but then his expression shifted slightly, and I could tell he had something else on his mind. "Mr. Sayre, considering your performance and your clear talent, I wanted to extend an invitation."

I blinked, unsure of where this was going. "An invitation, sir?"

"Yes," Flitwick said with a smile. "The Junior Dueling Competition this summer. It's open to first- and second-year students, and based on your recent display, I believe you'd be an excellent candidate to participate—and likely win. It would be an opportunity to hone your skills further, under more controlled circumstances, of course."

A dueling competition? The idea intrigued me. I had always wanted to push my magic further, and this seemed like the perfect chance to do just that.

"I'll think about it, sir," I replied carefully.

"Please do," Flitwick said with a nod. "It would be an excellent opportunity for you to develop your abilities."

With that, he waved me off, and I took my seat at the back of the classroom. As the lesson began, my mind kept drifting back to the idea of the dueling competition. It would be an incredible chance to test myself and see how far I could push my magic. But at the same time, it would draw even more attention to me—something I wasn't sure I wanted.

The lesson passed in a blur, and by the end of it, I had made up my mind. I couldn't rely solely on spell knowledge. I needed control and endurance. If the troll had taught me anything, it was that I still had a long way to go as the fight only lasted a few moments but drained all my endurance, I'm sure I'm using more power than necessary when casting my spells.

After classes, I made my way to the seventh floor. There was only one place where I could train without interruption—the Room of Requirement. As I paced in front of the blank wall, focusing on my need for a place to practice, the door appeared just as I had hoped. Inside, the room was exactly what I needed—spacious, with practice dummies and shelves filled with magical tools.

I spent the rest of the afternoon pushing myself, casting spells over and over, focusing on my control and stamina. The hours passed, and by the time I was finished, I was exhausted once again. But this time, it was the good kind of exhaustion, the kind that came from hard work and progress.

As I collapsed into one of the chairs that had appeared near the wall, I let out a long sigh. Tomorrow, the whispers would continue, and the rumors would still swirl, especially with my mother's name now in the mix. I wouldn't be surprised if I woke up to find my face in the Daily Prophet, being labeled as the next Dark Lord. But tonight, I had made progress, and for the first time in days, my mind felt a little more at peace.

Though not drastic, I could feel that the output of my spells had become more fluid than before. While practicing at the Tonks', I hadn't thought to push myself to the point of exhaustion as I had when fighting the troll. It seemed that magic, like a muscle, needed constant exercise in order to grow. Of course, I'd experience some improvement simply by aging, but it wouldn't be as strong if I didn't start practicing properly from the age of 11.

This was only the beginning, and I had no intention of stopping now.