The corridors of Hogwarts were never really silent; even at night, even in the most deserted corners of the castle, there was always something, whispers in the stone, footsteps that didn't belong to anyone living. Maybe that's why I still dream of it. Maybe that's why I can hear echoes of a life I can never return to. They call it a school of magic, but what they don't tell you is that it's haunted, not by ghosts, not by spells, but by the people who once lived there. By the versions of us that will never leave.

______

Keira's first sensation was one of pain. A deep, throbbing pain emanated from the back, twisting through her limbs, like the dull throb of a bruise pressed too hard.

Not terrible, but nagging, a pesky reminder of the chaos the night before.

She inhaled slowly, the sharp scent of disinfectants and healing potions filling her lungs, thick and medicinal, as if the very air itself was trying to scrub away last night's failures. It did nothing to alleviate the tightness in her body nor the heavy pressure like a vise on her head.

Slughorn's party had been an absolute disaster.

She blinked a few times to let her eyes adjust to the frigid morning light filtering through the high windows. The hospital wing was quiet, with the exception of a soft rustle of sheets and the ambient murmurings of Madame Pomfrey while she went about her rounds.

She turned her head, despite a sharp reprimand from her spine, and looked at the bed on her left.

Caleb.

His face was slack with exhaustion, the colour still drained from his usually tanned complexion. But he was alive; that was more than she could say for how things might have ended. He was paying the price for Lestrange's foolishness, a victim of reckless magic and poor decision-making.

And now, with a feeling of inevitability, she looked to her right. The corners of her mouth rose up ever so slightly.

There lay Lestrange, sprawled across the hospital bed in the most undignified state possible.

Motionless, deathly pale, his usually smug face shaved clean of all expression, blank and disquietingly lifeless. For a fleeting moment, Keira entertained the thought that he might actually be dead.

What a shame.

But no, there it was; the slight rise and fall of the chest; the involuntary spasm of his fingers bound in some magical sleep. Tom wouldn't kill him outright. No, he wouldn't be so nice, and this was worse, this was calculated.

She breathed out slowly through her nose. Her fingers were absently curling round the fabric of her blanket.

Tom.

It wasn't even a question. She didn't need an explanation, nor did she particularly want one. The moment she had seen Lestrange leave the party with Tom's hand clinging to his shoulder like a death grip, she knew his evening was going to end badly. Tom didn't tolerate mistakes, and Lestrange had been monumentally, almost impressively, stupid.

Now, she could only wonder what ridiculous excuse Tom would spin for his dear friend's indefinite stay in the hospital wing. Some sort of spell gone wrong, or some kind of mysterious attack? She almost wished someone would ask for her just to hear the lie. Tom was always so creative with his lies.

Keira allowed herself a rare moment of stillness, letting her mind sift through the wreckage of last night.

Slughorn's party had been a spectacle of failure.

Rosier had been a catastrophe. He was supposed to spike Harry's drink, not his bloody friend's. And to make matters worse, the whole evening he had looked like a walking confession: the nervous glances, the stiff posture, the way his fingers were twitching against the rim of his glass; he looked as if he were trying to get Tom to notice something was wrong.

It was only a matter of time.

Tom would figure it out.

And when he did, Rosier was going to regret every breath he took.

Keira closed her eyes briefly, in an effort to control the slow burn of irritation that tightened inside her chest.

She was so tired of this.

Everything was working against her.

Despite all her efforts, she did not come any closer to revelation of anything concrete about the transfer students. Harry Ponty, Hermione Greene and Draco Milfoy remained just as enigmatic as from the moment they arrived. They had successfully concealed their secrets in a remarkable way. Too remarkable.

And Tom, Tom was growing restless. He was observing them even more closely, working harder, circling them even closer, and his patience was failing. Keira's own patience was running parallel to his, both of them holding the thread taut, neither willing to wait much longer.

She pressed her lips together, her fingers gripping the blanket tighter. She needed to act. She needed control.

If she did not seize this moment soon, Tom would, and if that happened, she wasn't sure she would be able to stop him.

She turned her eyes on Lestrange's lethargic state, she observed the slow, unvarying rise and fall of his chest. He was lucky, in a way. His mistakes had been paid for in blood and unconsciousness, but he'd wake up. Rosier? When tom was done with him, waking up might not be an option.

Keira leaned back against her pillows exhaling slowly through her nose.

She had to find a way in. Before it was too late.

Movement from her left caught Keira's attention.

Caleb stirred, shifting slightly beneath the crisp white sheets. He gave a tired grunt, his head slumping to one side as his eyes opened, heavy with fatigue. He looked dreadful; drained, disoriented, as if sleep had done little to mend the damage from the night before. For a moment, he simply stared at her, blinking sluggishly, his brain seemingly catching up to reality.

"Gray."

Keira, comfortable against the pillows in a state of detached humour, raised an eyebrow. "Macmillan."

Exhaling through his nose, his head bounced against the pillow. "Guess we both got unlucky last night."

Keira hummed, stretching out her sore limbs. "Seems that way."

Silence settled between them, not particularly tense, but not entirely comfortable either. The kind of silence that lingered between two people who had been drawn into the same disaster not by choice but by accident.

Finally Caleb shifted, rubbing his face with a groan. "Lestrange really went off the deep end, huh?"

Keira turned her head and glanced at Lestrange, whose motionless form was all that remained of him.

Pale. Still. Lifeless, except for the faint, steady rise of his chest.

Tom had been particularly creative last night.

Her lips curled faintly. "Tragic," she murmured, utterly unbothered.

Caleb snorted, but immediately winced and pressed his side with his hand.

"Yeah. Poor bastard. Wonder how long he's gonna be out."

Keira made a noncommittal noise, tilting her head thoughtfully. "Probably for quite some time."

Caleb shot her a wary look. "You say that like it's a normal thing."

Keira merely smiled and reached out for an apple on the bedside tray. "Depends on your definition of normal."

She took a slow bite, glancing at him from beneath her long lashes. She had the time to kill, and Caleb, whether he knew it or not, was about to become useful.

She let the conversation flow naturally at first. Too much directness was a mistake. People became defensive when being subjected to questioning.

She kept it light, let him settle back into the rhythm of conversation before she began her careful descent.

"How's Gryffindor treating you? she asked, fidgeting, as she changed her position.

Caleb blinked, momentarily thrown by the casual question. "Uh... good? No complaints."

Keira hummed. "No complaints? Impressive. I hear the dorms are dreadful."

Caleb let out a small chuckle. "Well, the bathroom situation is definitely worse than Slytherin's. But you know, it's not all bad. It's a bit... less... a bit..." He struggled for the right word.

Keira smirked knowingly. "Blood supremacy?"

Caleb huffed a laugh. "Something like that."

She studied him, feigning casual interest. "Must've been an adjustment, though. Just two transferred students thrown in, totally out of nowhere."

To his credit, Caleb did not look suspicious at the change in topic. "Yeah, it was. Took some getting used to. But they fit in well enough."

Keira tilted her head, tapping the apple with her fingers. "You all must've bonded quickly, then."

Caleb shrugged. "I mean, yeah? It's Gryffindor. Everyone's friendly. Well, mostly."

Keira allowed a contemplative hum to escape her lips before dropping the first breadcrumb. "And Ponty?"

She had kept her tone light, indifferent, but as she watched Caleb, she saw something flicker on his face, hesitating for a second, then he looked at her; and to her mild amusement she saw confusion. A touch of surprise. And something else suspicion?

Ah.

He thinks I'm interested in Harry.

How adorable.

Caleb shifted, watching her a little too closely now. "Ponty?" he echoed, as if testing the waters.

Keira smirked. "Yes, Macmillan. Ponty. The one you share a dormitory with."

Caleb hesitated again, then cleared his throat. "Uh. Yeah. He's, uh... he's nice, I guess?"

Keira arched a brow. Oh, this was fun.

"Just nice?" she repeated, letting just enough curiosity into her voice to keep Caleb's confusion alive.

Caleb rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah? I mean, he keeps to himself mostly. Can be a bit intense, but nothing weird."

Intense.

That, she already knew.

She leaned in slightly, tilting her head. "You don't think he's a little... distracted, sometimes?"

Caleb blinked, thrown by the shift. "Distracted?"

She shrugged, playing at indifference. "Like his mind is always somewhere else."

Caleb exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Well, he does take that medicine every week. Maybe that has something to do with it."

Keira stilled. The pieces clicked into place almost immediately.

Medicine.

Subtle, deliberately, she let a small, curious smile reach the ends of her lips.

She tilted her head. "Medicine?"

Caleb having just given it away, not realising it, shrugged. "Dunno, really. Some potion, I think. But he's never missed a dose. Not once. Like, his life depends on it."

Keira stored that information away immediately.

How very interesting.

But before she could ask more, the sound of heels clicking on stone filled the room. Madame Pomfrey appeared at the foot of the bed with her arms crossed, frowning as always.

"You two should be discharged by this evening," she announced briskly. "But as for Mr. Lestrange..."

She cast a disapproving glance at the corpse-like figure lying a few beds away.

"That remains to be seen."

Keira followed her gaze.

Lestrange really did look dead.

A slow, mirthful grin appeared on her face as she looked at his disturbingly lifeless face.

"Tragic," she murmured, utterly unbothered.

-

The corridors of Hogwarts stretched before them, eerily silent in the early morning hush. The usual hum of castle life, students rushing to class, portraits chattering, distant spells crackling through the air, felt subdued, like the entire school was holding its breath.

Harry could feel it, that strange, tense air lingering on the edges of every whisper.

People were talking.

About Lestrange losing his mind right in the middle of Slughorn's birthday party. About half the room being sent to the hospital wing, the other half scrambling for cover. About how Tom Riddle had dragged him away, and no one had seen him since.

Harry took a short sharp breath, scratching at his already-disheveled hair.

"You know," he said in a low voice and a little exasperated, "I always thought Hogwarts in our time was a bloody nightmare. But this? This is a whole new level of mental."

"I know. And I have a terrible feeling that it's only going to get worse." Hermione sighed wearily and, as they turned a corner, she clutched the book that was in her arms tighter.

"Oh yeah," Harry said dryly. "Because nothing says stable and predictable like a house full of repressed dark wizards with homicidal tendencies."

Hermione shot him a look, but there was no real heat in it. Because he wasn't wrong.

The change in recent atmosphere was deeply disconcerting, something unavoidable, a tragedy, in the making.

And Harry knew exactly where it would come from: Riddle and Keira.

They had always been dangerous, calculating, patient, methodical, but that restraint? That cool, careful control that made them so unsettling? It was cracking.

Riddle, for one, had been... off. More than usual.

His irritation could be read through him, even stronger than usual, a too visible tense jaw, an unintentional flash in his eyes when he thought no one was looking. Now he was watching them too closely, studying them like an equation that wasn't adding up, trying to figure out what was wrong with the picture.

And Keira?

She wasn't any better.

She wasn't as direct as Riddle, wasn't staring them down like she was mentally dismantling their entire existence piece by piece, but she was watching. Always watching.

Harry had felt her gaze linger too long, seen the way her piercing green eyes narrowed when she caught him in a lie, the way she had suddenly taken a deep, unsettling interest in the Tale of the Three Brothers. Of all things.

The moment he had seen her pouring over the legend like it held the key to something vital, his stomach had dropped.

That wasn't good. That was very, very bad.

"I feel like we're running out of time," Hermione murmured, voicing the thought they had both been avoiding.

Harry didn't answer right away. Because she was right.

Riddle and Keira had been in the marathon since day one. Circling them, testing them, waiting. But that patience wasn't going to last forever.

And when they stopped pretending?

Harry really, really didn't want to find out what happened next.

"Yeah," he muttered grimly. "And I have a strong suspicion it involves one of us getting brutally murdered."

Beneath Hermione's pointed eyes, Harry held up his hands. "What? I'm just saying. Historically speaking, when Tom Riddle runs out of patience, people tend to end up dead. It's practically a personality trait at this point."

Hermione did not dignify that with a response, but the way her grip on her book tightened spoke volumes.

Dumbledore. They needed Dumbledore.

They had one real lead, the book Hermione had stolen from the Restricted Section.

It was the only potential breakthrough they had seen, however, it was not sufficient.

Hermione had been wasting hours there, but the text was utterly abstruse, the content so complicated and layered that she even had trouble understanding its semantics.

Harry had taken one look at the content, skimmed a few paragraphs, and promptly decided that getting murdered by Riddle would be an easier fate than trying to understand any of it.

They needed help. Badly.

If anyone could untangle the mess, it was Dumbledore.

They finally reached the stone gargoyle guarding his office.

"You know," Harry muttered, crossing his arms, "I feel like he already knows everything we're about to tell him."

Hermione let out a slow breath. "Probably."

"Then why," Harry said, deadpan, "does he always let us sit there and suffer through the explanation like we're in some kind of excruciatingly slow theatre performance?"

Hermione sighed. "Because he's Dumbledore."

Harry groaned, running a hand down his face. "Brilliant. Can't wait for him to hit us with another cryptic one-liner before sending us off to almost die again."

Hermione did not reply to him, although he did notice her lip twitch ever so slightly.

They turned to the gargoyle.

Password.

Harry braced himself.

Hermione spoke, voice crisp and clear.

"Sherbet Lemon."

The gargoyle slid aside.

Harry sighed. "Of course."

The statue shifted and the stairways spiraled upward, granting them passage.

As they ascended, Harry released a slow breath. "I hope he actually has some good news for once."

Hermione hummed in agreement.

The door swung open before they could knock. Dumbledore was waiting for them.

He sat at his desk, fingers interlocked, his blue eyes sharp and knowing as they entered. Despite the warmth in his expression, there was something unreadable beneath it, something calculating and something else... something that made Harry's stomach tighten unpleasantly.

It was pity.

"You both look rather exhausted," Dumbledore observed, his voice gentle but laced with quiet understanding.

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Yeah, well, that happens when you spend every waking moment trying not to be discovered."

Dumbledore's lips twitched slightly. "Did you both have a nice time at Slughorn's birthday party last night?"

Harry's lips twisted. Oh, so we're starting with small talk.

"Well," he stated flatly, slumping into the chair across from Dumbledore, "It depends how you define 'a nice time'. If you define it as watching a Slytherin lose his mind and nearly curse the entire room, then yes," he added. "It was a fantastic evening."

Dumbledore hummed, entirely unbothered. "I did hear about the... unfortunate events that transpired."

Hermione cleared her throat, moving the book in her arms. "Professor, we have something to show you."

Dumbledore's gaze flickered to the book.

The moment he laid his eyes on it, his expression shifted, not surprise, not quite, but recognition. A flicker of something deep, knowing, and perhaps a touch wary.

"You recognize it," Hermione observed carefully.

Dumbledore took the book, his fingers brushing lightly over the old pages. "I do. He exhaled softly, tapping a single finger against the worn leather. "A book written by Karl Gray, I have encountered similar texts before. But this one is indeed... quite unique."

Harry and Hermione exchanged a quick glance.

"It's quite complicated to understand," Hermione admitted. "I've been thinking about how to make sense of it, but some of the ideas." She made an involuntary head shake, exasperated. "They're beyond me."

Dumbledore hummed silently to himself, turning the pages a few moments, his eyes running over the thick, ancient characters. Silence stretched between them as he read, the only sound the faint rustling of parchment.

And, after a few moments, he closed the book softly and leaned backward slightly.

"I will need time to go through this thoroughly," he said at last. "However..." He studied them carefully. "I may have another solution as well."

Harry and Hermione straightened.

"My friend in France," Dumbledore went on, "the same one I told you last time, has been interested in the type of magic that we are about to find out more about. He is also a remote cousin of the author of the book which you have found."

Hermione's breath hitched. "So he is from the Gray's family?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Indeed. The Grays have always pursued... unconventional fields of study. Their knowledge covers centuries and if there are answers to be retrieved about this book, I am sure he will be one of the very few to truly understand it."

Harry frowned. "But if he's in France, how does that help us?"

The eyes of Dumbledore nevertheless did not betray a tremor, a