The rain came in sheets now, a steady curtain that blurred the castle's windows and made the torches hiss with every gust that slipped through the ancient stones. Most of the students were already tucked into their dormitories, lulled by the comfort of routine, unaware that something had shifted in the fabric of Hogwarts that night.
She arrived without ceremony.
There was no thunderclap, no omen in the sky, only the soft echo of wet boots on stone as a figure emerged through the great oak doors. Her silhouette was slender beneath a heavy black cloak, her presence quiet but demanding. The flickering light from the Entrance Hall's chandeliers revealed a glint of silver around her throat and the slow drip of rain trailing from her hem like spilled ink.
Professor Snape accompanied her, his robes sweeping behind him in agitated swirls. His face was as unreadable as ever, but his posture betrayed the tension in his spine.
"Her name is Seraphine," he said to the assembled staff and prefects who had been hastily called down. "Seraphine Morwenna Black."
A silence followed. Not stunned—but uneasy.
From the marble staircase above, Harry Potter leaned forward. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop. He had only been wandering the corridors, sleepless again, his mind caught between Umbridge's sadistic reign and the lingering ache of the vision he'd had the night before.
But that name…
Black.
It hit his chest like a cold hand. Below him, Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance as they crept down beside him.
"Did he say Black?" Ron murmured.
"She can't be related to Sirius," Hermione whispered, but her tone lacked certainty.
Harry's eyes narrowed as he studied the girl below. She had pulled back her hood now, revealing a face pale as candle wax, with angular cheekbones and lips the color of dried rose petals. Her hair was black—not the dull, flat black of ink, but deep and iridescent, like a raven's wing. It hung damp and long, partially concealing the odd rune-pendant resting against her collarbone.
But it was her eyes that held him.
Silver-gray, with none of the warmth Sirius had. No light. Just mirrors. Cold ones.
She looked up, and for a second, he swore her eyes met his—though he was hidden in the shadows.
Dumbledore descended from the head table, his usual twinkle absent.
"Seraphine," he greeted. "Welcome to Hogwarts. Though rare, a transfer from Durmstrang is not unheard of… though it is curious. May I ask what prompted your arrival?"
She tilted her head slightly, like a bird calculating distance before a kill.
"My father passed," she said. Her voice was low, melodic, with an accent that was neither fully British nor foreign. "And Durmstrang is not known for its… compassion."
There was no trace of grief in her voice.
"Very well," Dumbledore said after a pause. "You will be sorted—formality, of course. The Hat will place you appropriately."
The Sorting Hat, groaning at the unexpected request, was placed upon her head.
It fell silent.
A full half-minute passed.
Then a whisper—only she could hear it:
"Curious… oh, very curious indeed… another Black, but not like the others. You carry something with you… something old… and wrong."
She smiled slightly beneath the brim.
"You don't want safety. You want knowledge. Power. You want to go where even Death hesitates to tread… yes… there's only one place for you."
"Slytherin!"
The word rang through the hall. Scattered applause followed from the Slytherin table, though not as hearty as it had been at the Welcoming Feast. There was a strange hush beneath it all, like the castle itself was holding its breath.
Draco Malfoy shifted to make room. He offered a practiced smirk.
"Another Black," he drawled as she sat beside him. "Didn't know there were any left who weren't rotting or in Azkaban."
Seraphine didn't look at him. "You'll find most things buried tend to claw their way back up eventually."
Draco's smirk faltered. She began cutting her roast lamb with clinical precision, as though she were performing a dissection.
Across the room, Harry sat down beside Hermione and Ron, unable to tear his gaze away.
"Did Sirius ever mention—?"
"No," Hermione said. "But the Black family tree is old, and full of branches they tried to erase. Burnt names. Vanished heirs. She might be one of those."
"Something's off about her," Ron muttered. "Makes the back of my neck itch."
Harry nodded. It wasn't just suspicion. It was instinct. Something in her presence felt… displaced. Like a note held just slightly out of tune.
The Great Hall slowly emptied. Dumbledore offered no further comment. Snape swept away into the dungeons. The candles guttered low, and the rain outside fell harder.
That night, deep in the Slytherin dormitory, Seraphine moved with deliberate grace as she unpacked her belongings. Her side of the room remained untouched by personal detail. No family photos. No keepsakes. Only carefully arranged books—most written in languages even the Room of Requirement would hesitate to provide—and a locked black case reinforced with silver runes.
She waited until the others were asleep.
Then she opened the case.
Wrapped in velvet was a jagged stone no larger than her thumb, pale as bone, riddled with veins of black that pulsed faintly in the dark. She lifted it with gloved fingers, though the fabric did nothing to muffle its call.
It whispered.
Not words exactly. Impressions. Images. Screams just outside the realm of sound.
The Veil Key.
A shard broken from the stone archway deep within the Department of Mysteries—the Veil through which none return. Her father had found it. And it had killed him slowly, turning his flesh cold and his eyes hollow.
But he had heard things before the end. And Seraphine had listened.
Now the shard whispered to her.
She closed her eyes. Let the noise wash over her.
It spoke of chambers beneath the castle. Of doors no longer marked. Of spells that needed no wand to cast. And of the line between death and magic growing thinner.
She whispered back.
The words weren't in any human tongue. They tasted of iron and rot and candle smoke.
The shard pulsed once. And Seraphine smiled.