Time passed like a spring breeze....quick, deceptively gentle, and gone before Rigel could breathe. Five weeks slipped by, and naturally, none of them were peaceful.
First came what he considered the greatest flop of his existence: self-doubt gnawed at him relentlessly.
It was Hermione's birthday. Rigel had carefully prepared the gift, tasking Etheline with delivering it directly to Hermione's bed. He was certain she would love it, a first edition of The Secret Garden, a book he remembered Hermione had wanted to try. Yet it turned out to be an abysmal misstep. Hermione's reaction was cold and distant; she avoided him. The few words they exchanged were clipped, and her usual warmth was replaced with a curt politeness that stung more than he cared to admit. The blow wasn't only to his ego it seemed to chip away at the humor he usually carried like armor.
The very next day brought the infamous Potter incident. Only a blind troll would have failed to recognize the package Rigel received: a broom. The matter became the talk of the common room, and Malfoy did not let it drop for a week. Every mention of it was like a small dagger, driving Rigel closer to the edge, until he found himself seriously contemplating the merits of a well-aimed Diffindo.
Then came the private lessons with Snape. True to form, he refused to call Rigel by name, forcing the boy to respond to clipped commands and critical eyes. Under Snape's relentless scrutiny, Rigel studied and experimented, pushing through advanced potions with meticulous precision. If he had been talented before, now he was uncovering the secrets that could make him a true potion master.
Snape's sarcasm and half-insults cut sharp, but Rigel understood them, each barb a sign of approval, a measure of expectations met, or even surpassed. Where others might have faltered under such relentless pressure, Rigel thrived, honing not just skill, but the patience and cunning necessary to command magic on his own terms.
But all was not lost. Two weeks after being tasked with finding a proper training space, Tenebris unearthed three potential rooms, giving Rigel the push he needed to keep his temper in check before any overly irritating Slytherin got sliced… or something far worse. The first was a long-dismissed classroom on the fourth floor. The second was stranger still: a room that appeared and disappeared on the seventh floor, accessible only by circling a painting of three trolls practicing ballet three times, while thinking of rabbits, at least according to Tenebris, who babbled endlessly about his adventure, brimming with pride.
And then there was the third, the chosen one. Hidden in a forgotten corner on the fifth floor, this room responded only to Parseltongue.... a secret that made it, in Rigel's estimation, perfect. Here, at last, he could experiment freely, test his spells, even his darker ones, and let his mind stretch beyond the bounds of ordinary classrooms. It was a place he could truly call his own.
And now, in this hidden alcove, Rigel stood poised, Tenebris coiled lazily at his side. Before him, a wooden mannequin waited silently, its form unassuming yet perfect for the tests Rigel had in mind. The dim light cast sharp shadows across the floor, tracing the lines of Rigel's stance as he prepared to push both his skill and his patience to their limits.
Rigel's eyes narrowed. In a fluid motion, he cast a Glacio, sending a sharp layer of ice skittering across the floor beneath the mannequin's feet. Before it could regain balance, a Depulso followed, jerking the target violently and sending it sprawling.
As the wooden form hit the ground, Rigel pivoted smoothly, sliding to the side as if dodging an incoming curse, every movement calculated, precise. With the mannequin down, he moved in, casting Diffindo with sharp, deliberate strikes: first at the head, then the chest, and finally the arm, each cut clean and exact, testing the range and control of his spells.
The moment the final Diffindo struck, the wooden mannequin groaned and splintered, then, almost as if obeying some ancient enchantment, its fragments stitched themselves together, wood knitting back into a flawless figure. The floor smoothed, the walls gleamed briefly as the faint shimmer of magic traced along the edges, erasing every mark of combat. In an instant, the room returned to its original state, as if it had been waiting for Rigel alone.... perfectly silent, perfectly poised, a space that seemed to breathe with the cunning design of its founder. Here, in this secluded alcove, he could unleash his full repertoire without restraint, and the room, loyal to his command and only his, would rise to every challenge, repairing, reshaping, and renewing itself as if Salazar himself had intended it for the cunning and ambitious.
Rigel's gaze fixed on the wooden mannequin. He whispered, "Diffindo Exitialis." The spell struck the target, leaving only a small cut along the arm. From it, fine wooden dust trickled endlessly, as if the mannequin were bleeding from within. A faint, satisfied smile curved Rigel's lips as he noted the precision with which he now cast the spell after a week of grueling practice. The only thing left to perfect it, he thought, would be a living target, to witness its effect in full, to test the spell's intended lethality on flesh rather than timber.
With a subtle motion and a whispered
Tenebris tilted his head, tongue flicking, confused.
Rigel let out a frustrated huff, shoulders sagging slightly.
A maddening smile crept across his face, sharp and unsettling.
Rigel leaned slightly forward, eyes narrowing, and whispered,
Tenebris, despite all the years he had known his master, could never truly grow accustomed to this side of Rigel the inhuman edge, more predator than man. Silent, he observed, scales bristling, as his master surrendered fully to the maddening obsession that blurred the line between genius and mania, a pursuit of perfection that ignored all sense of normalcy.
And so Rigel readied himself for the next stage of his training routine. The now-intact mannequin split into five separate dummies, each armed with a wand and programmed to fight back from the very start. He personally instructed them to wield cutting, breaking, and disarming spells without restriction, trusting only his reflexes and skill to keep him safe.
An hour later, Rigel lay battered and exhausted on the floor. Sweat slicked his hair and dripped down his face; a thin cut on his right arm bled steadily. Yet despite the pain, there was a spark of amusement in his eyes, a small, eerie laugh slipping between ragged breaths. The scattered bruises, the scratches, the tiny wounds that littered his body... all of it delighted him. He had pushed himself to the edge, and in that chaos, he found a grim sort of pleasure.
Some time later, once his breathing had finally slowed to a human rhythm, Rigel rose from the floor. Muscles taut, he focused with a calm born of exhaustion and obsession.
Wand in hand, he casted his first ever personal creation: Tracem Estinquerem.
The spell shimmered briefly in the air before dissolving into nothingness, erasing all magic cast within the past day from the wand it originated from. A single, perfected charm... casted wardless, energy-efficient, and honed to near absolute precision.
This was more than a spell; it was a weapon, a safeguard. Anyone attempting to track his magic would find nothing but empty air, no trace of his hand, no whisper of his work. Rigel allowed himself a small, satisfied smile, the thrill of mastery seeping through the calm mask he always wore.
Tenebris, still coiled and watching silently from the corner, finally let out a low, warning hiss.
Rigel's head tilted slightly toward him, eyes sharp, voice calm but edged with determination.
His gaze drifted back to the scattered dummies, faint dust still floating in the air. There was no arrogance here, only a measured obsession with mastery, the quiet hum of someone who refused to settle.
Tenebris let out a sharp, annoyed hiss, more a scoff than anything.
Rigel didn't even blink.
Tenebris froze for a beat, then flicked his tongue thoughtfully, as if a sudden realization snapped into place.
Rigel answered without hesitation.
Tenebris stared at him for a long second.<…Masbro, you terrify me sometimes.>
Rigel stumbled from the training room, muscles screaming, sweat slicking his hair. Each step toward his quarters was heavy, deliberate, the echo of his exhaustion trailing behind him. Once inside, he sank into a steaming bath, the water rising around him like a soft reprieve from the chaos of the day.
In his hand, he cradled the locket he always carried, fingers brushing the cold metal. For a moment long enough for someone watching to notice a shadow of a smile flickered across his face. It was a smile tinged with loss, a subtle ache, the faint void of missing someone he could never reclaim. His eyes glistened, wet with quiet grief, but no tear fell.
After a heartbeat suspended in memory, he set the locket aside, collected himself, and stepped from the bath. Etheline coiled around him, a warm, gentle hug that anchored him back to the present. Together, they drifted to bed, the world outside held at bay, leaving only the fragile closeness of two beings seeking comfort in one another.
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