Albus Potter had never liked silence.
Not the kind that came when you were reading, or thinking, or listening to a story. He liked those silences. They made sense. They were full of possibility.
No, the silence Albus hated was the kind that pressed against your ears in the middle of the night, when the rest of the world was asleep and your own thoughts were too loud. The kind of silence that felt like it was waiting for something.
And in the Slytherin dormitory, deep beneath the castle, that was exactly the kind of silence that wrapped around him like a second blanket.
It was the third night of term, and he hadn't slept a minute.
Not because of homesickness. Not because of nerves. But because of the door.
The memory of it was burned into his mind: the smooth black gemstone set into the ancient stone, the strange carvings that didn't match any known Hogwarts architecture, the subtle pulse that throbbed under his fingers like a slow heartbeat.
And then there had been the sound. Not a trick of the ears. Not imagination.
The castle had groaned.
And then Isadora Flint had appeared out of nowhere and told them that the door hadn't opened in a century.
"The last time someone tried, we still don't talk about it."
That wasn't something you just said lightly.
Albus turned onto his side, facing the green-tinged light of the underwater windows. Shadows of fish darted past the glass. Once, he thought he saw the silhouette of something larger—serpentine, slow, undulating like it had no bones—but when he blinked, it was gone.
He rubbed his eyes.
Across the room, Scorpius mumbled something in his sleep about floating feathers and cranberries.
Albus let out a long, tired breath. He needed answers. And tomorrow, he intended to start finding them.
Hogwarts in the Morning
The castle looked different at dawn.
He and Scorpius were the first ones up, and they took the long route to the Great Hall. The staircases groaned and shifted lazily under their feet, still waking from slumber. The portraits on the walls yawned and muttered as they passed—an old witch in a bonnet scowled at them and hissed something in Latin.
The corridors were flooded with golden light from high windows. Dust danced in the beams like fireflies.
For a moment, Albus forgot about the door. Forgot about the whispers in the common room and the stares from Gryffindor. Forgot about the knot in his stomach.
Here, in the early light, Hogwarts was beautiful. Vast and wild and unknowable.
"You know," Scorpius said beside him, arms behind his head, "for a school full of people who think we're weird, we've done alright."
Albus gave a half-smile. "We're not that weird."
"Speak for yourself," Scorpius said. "I collect moth wings."
Albus stared at him.
"What? They're shiny."
Breakfast and a Rumor
By the time they reached the Great Hall, the tables were half-full and filling fast. Albus spotted Rose sitting with a few other Gryffindors. She caught his eye, then looked quickly back at her toast.
He didn't take it personally.
As he sat at the Slytherin table, a second-year girl leaned toward a friend and whispered just loud enough for him to hear:"Guess his dad's not as disappointed as people thought…"
The other girl giggled.
Scorpius immediately dropped his fork and gave them both a long, slow glare.
"What?" the first girl snapped.
"Nothing," he said sweetly. "I was just imagining what you'd look like with toadstools growing out of your ears."
The girl flushed and turned away.
Albus shook his head, smiling. "You can't threaten people with hypothetical fungi."
"I can," Scorpius said. "And I will."
Just then, the owl post arrived in a flurry of wings and feathers. A barn owl dropped a crisp piece of parchment onto Albus's plate—his class schedule.
"Let's see…" he said, reading aloud. "Defense Against the Dark Arts. With Hufflepuff."
Scorpius's eyes lit up. "Oho. That's us. I heard we got a new professor this year. Some ex–curse-breaker or something."
"Hope he's not boring."
Scorpius grinned. "I hope he is."
Defense Against the Dark Arts
Professor Thorne was not boring.
He swept into the classroom like a thundercloud in human form—tall, lean, salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, and a long grey robe embroidered with subtle protective runes. His wand was holstered like a weapon at his side.
When he spoke, the room quieted instantly.
"There is a lie they tell you," he said, pacing the front of the classroom with slow, deliberate steps. "That darkness is evil. That light is good. That these things are simple. Clean."
He stopped and turned to face them.
"They are not."
No one dared fidget. Albus leaned forward slightly, intrigued.
"Darkness is a tool," Thorne said. "Like any other form of magic. And like any tool, it can destroy—or save—depending on the hands that wield it."
He raised his wand and flicked it toward the ceiling.
A shimmering black mist filled the air, coalescing into the image of a tall, floating creature draped in tattered robes. Its mouth was open in a silent wail. Its eyes were pits of nothing.
"Can anyone name this?"
No one answered.
"A Banshee," Thorne said. "Common in the older parts of Ireland. Harbinger of death. One scream and your eardrums rupture. Two, and you're not waking up."
The image dissipated into fog.
"Wands out. Pairs. Let's see if you can manage a basic Shield Charm."
Albus partnered with Scorpius. Their first attempt was a disaster—Scorpius shouted "Protego!" so loudly that his wand sparked and shot a jet of light straight into the ceiling.
Professor Thorne said nothing, but his eyebrow twitched.
The second try went better. Albus managed a faint shimmer of magical resistance between him and a conjured spark. Thorne paused behind him and nodded once.
"Your father was terrible at this spell until third year," he said quietly.
Albus blinked. "You knew him?"
"I studied under Professor Snape. Your father visited in the summers after the war."
Albus wasn't sure how to respond.
Thorne gave him a look that was neither warm nor cold. "You'll be better than him. If you stop hesitating."
Then he moved on.
A New Name
After class, as they gathered their bags, someone stepped in front of them—a girl with light brown hair, glasses slipping down her nose, and a backpack almost as tall as she was.
"I'm Fiona Macmillan," she said quickly, in one breath. "Hufflepuff. Sorry to interrupt."
Scorpius blinked. "You're very small and very fast. I'm listening."
Fiona adjusted her glasses.
"I saw you two the other night," she said, voice lowering. "Near the sealed corridor."
Albus straightened. "What about it?"
Fiona looked over her shoulder, then leaned in. "My grandmother went to Hogwarts during the 1960s. She told me stories about that door."
Scorpius folded his arms. "What kind of stories?"
Fiona swallowed. "That it's not part of the original castle. That it was added long after the founders died. That people who went looking for it… didn't always come back."
Albus and Scorpius exchanged a glance.
Fiona continued, her voice hushed. "She called it the House of Shadows. Said it was a secret society. That it had something to do with Salazar Slytherin's hidden work—something even the other founders didn't know about."
Albus frowned. "Why are you telling us this?"
Fiona bit her lip. "Because I think it's waking up."
Back to the Door
That night, they went back.
Albus, Scorpius, and Fiona crept through the dungeons under cover of darkness, avoiding prefect patrols and staying close to the walls. Albus led the way, his wand lit with a soft Lumos, Fiona clutching her book like a shield.
The corridor was colder than before.
When they reached the sealed door, it looked exactly the same—only now, something about the stone felt alert.
Fiona crouched by the carvings, brushing her fingers across a half-erased symbol.
"This one's not Hogwarts standard. It's Archaic Latin. And not just Latin—Ritual Latin. Almost cultic."
Scorpius muttered, "Brilliant."
Albus stared at the black gemstone embedded in the door.
He didn't touch it this time.
Instead, he leaned forward. "Umbra Domus," he whispered.
The gemstone flickered.
Then something else stirred.
A low rumble began in the walls. A cold breeze swept through the corridor, extinguishing the torches in rapid succession. Fiona gasped. Scorpius raised his wand.
From behind the door, something moved.
Not loudly. Not violently. Just enough.
Albus's breath caught.
Then came a voice.
Not loud—but so close it might have been inside his own skull.
"You have been marked."
A symbol flared to life on the wall—burning softly in green flame.
A circle. A serpent. And inside it, a triangle of three points.
Then it vanished.
The door went still.
They didn't speak as they ran back to the common room.
They didn't speak as they collapsed into bed.
Only when the torches dimmed and sleep crept in did Albus whisper:
"What have we found?"
No one answered.
But the castle knew.
And it was no longer sleeping.