The Serpent Prince

The day was barely half over, and Alex already felt a strange mixture of excitement and weariness settling in. The structure of Hogwarts, with its rolling schedule of classes and the ceaseless chatter of students, was a far cry from the rigid, solitary life he had known at Arctis Palace. Here, the rhythm of life was unpredictable, yet oddly comforting.

After Charms, the first-years were ushered to their next lesson: Defense Against the Dark Arts. The corridor leading to the classroom was filled with laughter and whispers, the students energized by their successful attempts—or failures—with the Levitation Charm.

"I still can't believe you got it on your first try," Malcolm said, bumping Alex's shoulder lightly as they walked. "Flitwick looked like he wanted to give you a gold star or something."

"It was a simple charm," Alex replied, his tone neutral. "A strong foundation makes all the difference."

Malcolm groaned. "You sound like one of my mum's books: Practical Spellwork for the Average Wizard. She made me read that over the summer. Nearly bored myself to death."

Imogen, walking just ahead of them, glanced back with a smirk. "You probably should've paid more attention, Travers. You almost set your feather on fire."

"I was experimenting!" Malcolm shot back, his ears turning pink.

Alex chuckled softly, his amusement hidden beneath a calm expression. He found himself oddly enjoying the banter—it was far removed from the stiff formality of courtly conversation.

When they entered the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, Alex immediately noticed the stark difference in atmosphere. The room was dark but not foreboding, its walls lined with shelves holding jars of strange, preserved creatures and artifacts that pulsed faintly with magic. A large blackboard stood at the front, and behind the teacher's desk was a collection of worn tomes, their spines cracked with age.

The professor, a wiry man with silver-threaded hair and sharp, assessing eyes, stood at the front of the room, arms crossed. His presence was commanding, and the room fell silent almost immediately.

"Good," he said, his voice low but carrying easily. "At least you know how to shut up when required."

A few students exchanged nervous glances.

"I am Professor Radwick," he continued. "I will be teaching you the principles and practices of defending yourself against the Dark Arts. Note that I said defending. This is not a class where you will learn to attack, hex, or curse. My job is to ensure you leave this room prepared to survive."

Alex found himself leaning forward slightly, intrigued by the man's directness.

"For today," Radwick went on, "we will focus on one of the most fundamental aspects of defense: awareness. A wizard who cannot anticipate danger is already halfway to defeat."

He turned to the blackboard and flicked his wand, causing words to scrawl themselves across the surface:

"Identify the Unseen."

"Most threats," Radwick said, turning back to the class, "are not obvious. They hide in shadows, in plain sight, or even within yourself. Recognizing the signs of danger before it strikes is an art—and one you will learn."

The lesson began with a series of scenarios, each designed to test the students' observational skills. Radwick conjured illusions that mimicked common magical threats: an innocuous-looking object cursed with a jinx, a shadow that moved slightly out of sync with the light, and a series of flickering runes meant to disorient.

Alex found the exercise fascinating. His system, while silent, seemed to buzz faintly in the back of his mind, urging him to pay attention. He noticed small details others overlooked: the faint shimmer around a cursed quill, the almost imperceptible hiss of a shadow slipping into darkness.

By the end of the lesson, Professor Radwick addressed the class with a rare note of approval.

"Not bad," he said, though his tone remained cool. "Lorian, Greengrass—your attention to detail was impressive. Keep it up."

Alex inclined his head slightly, accepting the praise without letting it linger. Imogen, seated a row behind him, shot him a small smirk that said I told you so.

After Defense Against the Dark Arts, the first-years were given a short break before lunch. Alex found himself wandering the corridors with Malcolm and Imogen, the latter teasing Malcolm mercilessly about his less-than-stellar performance in class.

"I'm just saying," Imogen drawled, "maybe you shouldn't have tried to poke the cursed quill. Even Radwick looked like he was questioning your survival instincts."

"I wanted to confirm it was cursed!" Malcolm protested, his face reddening.

"By touching it?" Alex asked, raising an eyebrow.

Malcolm groaned. "All right, fine! I messed up. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," Imogen replied, grinning.

As they rounded a corner, Alex caught sight of the Black Lake through a tall, arched window. The water was dark and still, its surface broken only by the occasional ripple. Something about the view drew him in, and he paused, stepping closer to the glass.

"You all right?" Imogen asked, noticing his sudden stillness.

"Yes," Alex said, though his gaze remained fixed on the lake. "It's… beautiful, in a way."

Malcolm peered over his shoulder. "Beautiful? It's a giant puddle full of kelpies and grindylows. Not exactly paradise."

Alex didn't respond immediately. There was something unsettling about the lake, though he couldn't put his finger on it. It wasn't just its size or its darkness—it was the way it seemed to watch him, as if the water itself was alive and aware.

Shaking off the thought, Alex turned back to his companions. "Let's head to lunch."

The Great Hall was bustling with activity when they arrived, the long tables laden with an array of dishes. Roast chicken, buttered vegetables, flaky pies, and bowls of steaming soup filled the room with mouthwatering aromas. Students chatted animatedly, their voices blending into a constant hum of energy.

Alex took his usual seat at the Slytherin table, his movements precise and controlled. Malcolm immediately dove into the food, piling his plate high with sausages and mashed potatoes, while Imogen served herself with a refined efficiency that spoke of her upbringing.

"You're quiet," Imogen said, glancing at Alex as she speared a roasted carrot with her fork.

"Just thinking," Alex replied.

"About the lake?" she guessed, her sharp eyes watching him carefully.

Alex hesitated before nodding. "It feels… different. Like there's something beneath the surface."

"There is," she said simply. "The lake's full of secrets. Merfolk, grindylows, maybe even a kraken if the legends are true. It's been there longer than Hogwarts itself."

"That doesn't bother you?" Alex asked.

She smirked. "Why should it? Everything at Hogwarts has secrets. The trick is figuring out which ones are worth uncovering."

Her words lingered with Alex as the conversation shifted to lighter topics. He couldn't shake the sense that Imogen's nonchalance was a mask—one she wore with skill but not without purpose.

The afternoon brought Potions, a subject Alex found both fascinating and challenging. The classroom, located deep within the dungeons, was cold and damp, its air heavy with the scent of ingredients both fresh and foul. Cauldrons bubbled on each desk, their contents shimmering in shades of green, blue, and gold.

Professor Slughorn, a jovial man with a round belly and a walrus-like mustache, greeted the class warmly.

"Ah, welcome, welcome!" he said, his hands clapping together. "Today, we begin our journey into the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. It is a subject that requires precision, patience, and above all, passion."

Alex listened intently as Slughorn introduced the basic principles of potion-making, his voice alternating between enthusiasm and gentle admonishment. Their first task was to brew a simple Cure for Boils, a potion that required careful measurement and timing.

As Alex worked, his movements were deliberate, each step calculated. He added ingredients with precision, stirring exactly as instructed. Around him, the room was alive with quiet muttering and the occasional puff of smoke as other students struggled with their mixtures.

Malcolm's cauldron, predictably, began to emit a strange hissing noise halfway through the lesson.

"Er… Alex?" Malcolm whispered, his voice tinged with panic.

Alex glanced over, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the situation. "You added too much snake fang. Stir counterclockwise and add two drops of the nettle extract."

Malcolm followed the instructions, his hands fumbling slightly, and the potion settled into a calm, pale green.

"Thanks," Malcolm muttered, his relief evident.

"You'll get the hang of it," Alex said, his tone reassuring.

By the end of the lesson, Alex's potion earned him a nod of approval from Slughorn.

"Well done, Mr. Lorian!" the professor said, beaming. "A natural talent, I see. Keep up the good work."

As they left the classroom, Imogen fell into step beside Alex, her smirk firmly in place.

"Seems like you're making quite the impression," she said. "First Flitwick, now Slughorn. At this rate, you'll have the professors eating out of your hand by Christmas."

Alex glanced at her. "It's better to be prepared than to rely on charm alone."

"True," she admitted. "But a little charm never hurts."

Alex allowed himself a faint smile as they walked back toward the common room. For all the challenges Hogwarts presented, he found himself enjoying the rhythm of life here—the lessons, the camaraderie, and the subtle undercurrents of mystery that seemed to flow through every corner of the castle.

And beneath it all, the system hummed quietly, a constant reminder that his journey was only beginning.