I woke up late… very late, actually. By the time I finally rolled out of bed, I'd apparently missed quite a bit: a spat between Ron and Hermione, breakfast, my usual morning reading, and—somewhat surprisingly—the moment when Ron and Hermione managed to call an unspoken truce, with them now barely speaking to each other in civil tones. Honestly, I didn't mind missing any of it. If anything, not having to sit through the tension between those two felt like a win.
"Anything else I missed?" I asked Neville, who happened to be the only one left in the dormitory. He seemed to be waiting for me, probably because he was the one who'd filled me in on everything so far.
"Well, there was a new announcement on the notice board," Neville replied thoughtfully, fidgeting with his copy of Shrubs of the Sahara. "Apparently, the Hogwarts Express is available for the next two days if anyone wants to go home. And oh, there'll be fireworks for New Year's Eve."
I raised an eyebrow. The Hogwarts Express running? Fireworks? Cool, I guess. But there was one pressing question in my mind. "Why didn't anyone wake me up for breakfast?"
Neville shifted slightly, looking a bit sheepish. "Um, don't you have those privacy enchantments around your bed?"
"Oh… those?" I said, blinking as realization hit me. "They only work when the curtains are closed." I shrugged. "When they're open, they're off. The one on my trunk always works, though," I added, as if that was of any particular interest.
Neville gave a nod, eyes on his book. "Guess they just figured you wanted the extra sleep," he murmured. Then, as if he'd just remembered something crucial, he looked up at me with a little grin. "Oh, and Seamus tried a new hair-styling spell. His hair's bright green now… looks a bit like he got hexed by a garden gnome."
We shared a quiet chuckle at that, and as I headed to finally get dressed, I thought maybe, just maybe, sleeping in had been the best decision of the day. And the day had only started.
As I descended from the dormitory into the common room, I felt eyes flicker toward me, each glance lingering for a second before shifting away. A small spark of amusement flared within me, but I smothered it, choosing instead to ignore everyone as I headed for the exit. Without a word, I slipped out of the portrait hole, grateful to escape the room's curious stares.
First things first—I needed food. My mind was a whirlpool of thoughts, especially after last night's dream about Grindelwald, and I had to process everything carefully. I couldn't afford rash decisions. Breakfast—or rather, brunch—was my priority, and I could think things over on the way to the kitchens.
Navigating swiftly through the corridors, I reached the Grand Staircase and began descending its labyrinthine structure. Before long, I found myself near the final steps leading down to the dungeons.
Yesterday's dream was disturbing. Grindelwald had seen me in my dream, or so it seemed, as though he were aware of my presence, his gaze meeting mine in a way that felt deeply unnatural. The entire experience was bizarre, disorienting, and thoroughly unsettling. How could he have appeared so vividly? And why would he want to meet me, of all people?
If I were being honest with myself, yes, I did want to meet him—if only out of a strange, almost academic curiosity. Grindelwald is a legendary figure, infamous for his power. He's not just a dark wizard but a magical titan, the only known person to have successfully wielded a diabolical spell. He was the master of the Elder Wand, a symbol of his unparalleled mastery and ruthlessness. Grindelwald isn't someone to be taken lightly.
But any curiosity I had was overshadowed by a deep, lingering fear. As terrifying as Dumbledore is in his own way, at least with him, I have some leverage—a faint understanding of his ideals, his quirks, even what might drive him. Grindelwald, however, is an enigma. I'm defenseless against him, armed only with the scant knowledge of his connection with Dumbledore, his infamous role in the world wars, and his radical, chillingly fascist ideology.
Grindelwald's more than just powerful; he's dangerous in ways that words fail to capture. Meeting him would be like staring into the very heart of darkness. I've played with darkness before, fought it back with every ounce of my being. I've faced Voldemort in my past life, battling him with every fiber of my being. But Grindelwald? He's something entirely different. His darkness isn't like Voldemort's.
Voldemort's evil was like a deep pit—a concentrated, suffocating blackness, a singular hole that could consume everything in its grasp. But Grindelwald? He's like the deep sea—vast, unfathomable, and endless. It may not be as black as night; it's more bluish and gray, but its depth is infinite, stretching far beyond anything Voldemort could ever comprehend. Grindelwald's darkness doesn't consume in the same way; it spreads, touches everything, and waits.
A chill crept down my spine as images of Grindelwald—those haunting illustrations I'd seen in books—flickered through my mind. His gaze in my dream had been as piercing as it was unsettling, his eyes a strange contrast of monochromatic intensity that seemed to strip away any defenses I had. I glanced around, taking in the dark stone walls of the dungeon corridor. For a moment, they looked unsettlingly like the corridors of Nurmengard prison from my dream. But no, this was Hogwarts—this was home. I took a deep, shaky breath to steady myself.
Just then, I sensed a subtle change in the ambient magic around me. In a bustling space, such fluctuations are barely noticeable, lost amid the crowd's energy. But here, alone in the corridor, it was unmistakable. The magical currents felt charged, as if someone were stirring them intentionally.
With a practiced motion, I spun around, sweeping my hand through the air. A green ribbon of magic trailed from my fingertips, quickly morphing into a flock of tiny bluish-green birds that shot forward, intercepting several thin streams of light headed my way.
Boom! Crash!
Each spell collided with the birds, exploding on impact and filling the corridor with a dense cloud of dust and the sharp smell of burnt magic. As the haze settled, I scanned the magical signatures around me—eight, to be exact.
"You never learn, do you, Malfoy?" I called out, easily picking out his signature. I could feel the familiar energy of his cronies too. Crabbe and Goyle, of course. Alongside them were Montague, Warrington, Flint, and two other Slytherins whose signatures I didn't recognize.
The corridor was still shrouded in dust, but I didn't need sight to know exactly where each of them was. They, on the other hand, were at a clear disadvantage.
"Catch this, Montague," I muttered, my wand now firmly in hand after I'd summoned it with a flick of my enchanted ring. In one swift move, I sent a Leg-Locker Curse, a Boil Hex, and a Bat-Bogey Hex straight toward him, each spell slicing through the dust cloud with precision.
A loud yelp escaped Montague, and I could hear the others shifting nervously, muttering among themselves as they tried to make sense of how I'd identified Malfoy and Montague so easily.
"Surprised?" I smirked, my voice echoing down the corridor. "You might want to reconsider your tactics next time."
One by one, with cold, calculated precision, I took each of them down, more annoyed than angry, really. These were just misguided kids, after all. I hated them, but even so, they didn't deserve my full wrath.
"Ventus," I muttered, casting a spell to clear the corridor. Slowly, the cloud of dust and smoke dispersed, revealing a corridor slightly worse for wear. Ignoring the eight Slytherins sprawled on the floor, I set to work with basic Repairing Charms, undoing the damage I'd caused.
"Free my hand, you bloody Half-blood," someone spat. I turned, allowing my eyes to glow just slightly, a bit of theatrics for effect. It wasn't Malfoy, nor Crabbe or Goyle; they at least had the sense not to push further.
The speaker was Warrington, who, despite his bravado, visibly gulped as he met my gaze. The air was thick with tension, and I could feel the crackling of their nervous energy.
"I don't know you two," I said coolly, turning to the two unfamiliar faces. "Names?"
"Lu-Lucian Blackthorn," stammered one, trembling slightly.
"Ca-Cassian Ironwood," said the other, barely managing to keep his voice steady.
"Noted," I replied sharply before turning my attention back to Warrington. "Mind repeating what you just said?" My words came out smooth but charged with magic, pressing down on him ever so slightly.
He paled, shaking his head vigorously, unable to form a response.
"You know," I began, a trace of cold amusement coloring my tone, "my day was off to a rather pleasant start. Now, which one of you thought it would be brilliant to ambush me?"
Silence. Absolute silence. No one dared to speak.
"So, you're all going down together? Not very Slytherin, is it?" I arched an eyebrow, letting my gaze drift to Malfoy's eyes. For a brief second, I pushed past his flimsy Occlumency defenses, slipping into his mind undetected. His memories unfolded like a book, giving me exactly what I needed. Warrington was the mastermind, rallying the others under the guise of strength in numbers.
"Oh, Warrington." I withdrew abruptly, watching Malfoy flinch as my presence exited his mind. I turned to face Warrington. "It was you, then."
He opened his mouth, attempting to stammer out a defense, but no words came. His eyes widened as he realized he'd been muted.
"Did I say you could speak?" My voice sliced through the silence, sharp and controlled. "You will listen, and listen well."
The others stood frozen, their bravado stripped away. They all knew now, without a doubt, that this little ambush had been a grave mistake—one born of poor judgment by one of their own.
"Honestly," I began, letting my gaze settle coldly on Malfoy, "I'm most disappointed in you, Malfoy. I really thought you might stop being a nuisance." My voice dripped with disdain. "Yes, a nuisance, because that's all you've ever been—a bug buzzing at my side. And I genuinely thought you'd have figured out by now that I'm not playing games this year." My tone grew sharper, tinged with a barely restrained edge of magic.
"Consider this your last warning, Malfoy. If you try something like this again, I won't hold back—and trust me, no one will be able to stop me. Not your goons, not Snape, not even Dumbledore. And certainly not your father."
The magic in my words pressed down on him, an invisible weight that left him splayed on the floor, unable to so much as lift a finger.
"Now, grab your boyfriends—your 'bodyguards'—or whatever they are, and get out of here." I released the magical hold, and for a second, Malfoy stayed frozen. But as my gaze bore into him, he finally scrambled to his feet, dragging Crabbe and Goyle with him as he bolted down the corridor.
I turned to the two I hadn't known before. "Lucian and Cassian, was it?" Their faces were pale, eyes wide with fear. I let the silence stretch, watching them fidget. "Get lost. And don't cross me again."
They didn't need telling twice. Both scrambled to their feet, disappearing down the corridor with hurried, stumbling steps.
Now only the three seventh-year Slytherins remained. I regarded them with a steely look, my patience wearing thin.
"Well, then," I said, my eyes narrowing dangerously. "What should I do with you three, hmm?" My voice was a low, menacing murmur. "Malfoy's a coward, and those two just wanted a little recognition. But you three—what exactly were you hoping to accomplish by attacking me?"
"I think I asked a question, didn't I?" My voice cut through the silence, sharp and unyielding. The three sixth-years exchanged uneasy glances but stayed silent, defiance flickering in their eyes—more out of fear than true courage, I suspected.
I took a step closer, folding my arms as I examined each of them with a cold, appraising stare. "You thought you could take me down, did you?" I continued, my tone laced with contempt. "Or maybe you thought I'd back down? I can assure you, I'm not the one who's leaving here humiliated."
"So, heed my warning carefully," I continued, my voice slicing through the tension. "You're sixth-years, aren't you? Only a year and a half left at Hogwarts. That's all you need to get through." I let the words hang in the air, watching the flash of fear mixed with anger in their eyes.
"Don't provoke me," I warned, my tone hardening. "Because, believe me, I don't need a year and a half. I don't even need a month to make your lives miserable." I saw the weight of my words settle over them, the smugness fading as reality struck.
I waved my hand, allowing Warrington his voice back as I watched them scramble away, their footsteps echoing down the corridor in frantic retreat. But something else lingered—a presence I couldn't ignore.
Turning, I let my gaze settle on the intricate designs carved into the dungeon's right wall, my eyes narrowing. I could sense her presence lurking nearby, and I wasn't in the mood to play her games. After a few moments of silence, I lifted my wand, directing it toward the open mouth of one of the carved serpents.
The reaction was immediate. A small beetle emerged, buzzing anxiously in the air before morphing mid-flight into the familiar, overly adorned figure of Rita Skeeter.
"Calm down, darling," she simpered, attempting a pout, though a flicker of fear betrayed her eyes.
"That wasn't so hard, was it?" I replied coldly, unamused by her theatrics. "Tell me—were you spying, or just here to stir up trouble?"
Rita adjusted her glasses, a nervous smile slipping onto her lips. "Oh, come now, I was merely… observing, dear. It's a journalist's duty, after all, to stay informed."
"Is that so?" I asked, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks more like an intrusion."
"Relax, honey," she purred, attempting to reclaim her footing but clearly unnerved. "You know I mean no harm."
I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose and clearing my mind with a light Occlumency technique. "Perhaps," I replied, my voice measured. "But only because you wouldn't get away with it."
"Semantics, dear," she retorted with a small grin, puffing out her chest. "Semantics. And hey, isn't it nice having your own personal newswoman?" she added, a suggestive edge to her tone.
She was pushing her luck, and I was close to hexing her. But I kept my composure, offering a small, icy smile. "Oh? Then tell me—what's the latest news around town?"
"Well, apart from scary, slippery Slytherins—"
"Not going in the Prophet," I interjected.
"Hogwarts Champion going with the Beauxbatons champion—"
"You didn't report that already?"
"Oh, of course I did, darling," she replied with a sly smile, winking conspiratorially. She leaned in closer, widening her eyes in an attempt to appear innocent—though to me, it only made her look unsettling. "But perhaps there's something else you'd like to share with me?"
"You are really grating my nerves," I said, a little annoyed. "Tell me, did you find anything fun on Crouch?"
A vicious grin crept onto her lips. "Oh dear, you gave me such a juicy topic," she gushed. Twirling a lock of hair, she added, "And don't get me started on Karkaroff." Her eyes had an unsettling intensity.
"So, when's the good news being released?" I asked, plastering a grin on my face.
"Oh, soon. Very soon," she murmured, almost purring. "But you didn't tell me—what's new?"
"Nothing much, really. Except for a certain beetle not getting the hint," I pointed out.
She placed a hand over her chest in a mock-hurt expression, adopting an innocent face. "You wound me, darling."
"You know what? There's this Ministry worker named Umbridge," I said after a moment, the gears in my brain picking up pace. "Very nasty woman, really. Try finding dirt on her. And keep it with you. It'll probably help you next year."
"Next year?" she asked, biting the end of her quill. "Are you a seer now?" She winked.
"Get going," I rolled my eyes. When she didn't move after a few seconds, lost in thought, I repeated, "Don't make me spell it out."
"So eager to lose me," she complained, huffing with a smirk, and then left, sauntering her way out.
Shaking my head in exasperation, I made my way down the dimly lit corridors toward the kitchen, the destination I had left the common room for originally. Also, there was no better comfort than a quiet meal away from prying eyes.
I quickly reached the kitchen, greeted by the warmth of a crackling fire and the busy yet quiet scurrying of house-elves going about their work. A few looked up curiously, their large eyes reflecting the glow of the fire, but quickly went back to their duties, sensing my need for a little solitude.
I looked around and noticed that Dobby was not present.
One house-elf, a small, wiry creature with oversized ears, noticed me and approached with a polite bow. "Is there something Master would like?" he asked, his voice soft but eager.
"Yes, please. I could use a bite to eat," I replied with a grateful nod. "Maybe some soup and bread, if that's not too much trouble."
"Not at all, sir!" The elf bustled away with a purpose, leaving me alone to gather my thoughts.
I settled onto a stool by the long wooden counter, leaning back as I took in the comforting sights and sounds of the kitchen. Moments later, the elf returned with a steaming bowl of thick soup, fragrant with herbs, and a warm, crusty roll on the side.
"Here you are, sir," he said, placing it carefully before me, his expression one of quiet pride.
"Thank you," I said sincerely, lifting the spoon to take a sip. I gave him a small nod of approval, and he beamed, before scurrying back to his duties.
After I had eaten, I rose from the stool, feeling more settled, and swiftly left the kitchen. My footsteps echoed softly in the quiet halls as I made my way to the seventh floor, where I knew the Room of Requirement would be waiting.
Reaching the familiar stretch of the seventh-floor corridor, I glanced around to make sure no one was nearby. Then, with hurried steps, I paced back and forth three times, focusing on what I needed the room to become.
Finally, as if answering my silent call, the door to the Room of Requirement materialized in the stone wall before me. I reached out, grasping its handle firmly, and with a quiet breath, pushed it open. Stepping through, I entered the room, feeling better in the privacy that only this room can provide in this castle.
I needed to decide on my next course of action. Right now, the only real asset I had keeping me busy were the books Dumbledore had given me. Still, I felt unprepared to continue with Slytherin's journal; that one held secrets I wasn't ready to confront just yet. Dumbledore's journal, on the other hand, had been manageable so far, though I suspected it would get more challenging after a few hundred pages.
"Let's train," I murmured, raising my wand. It was time to practice the spells from Dumbledore's journal. Although his journal focused primarily on transfiguration, it also contained a wealth of elemental spells—surprisingly useful additions I was eager to master.
Author's Note: Sorry for the late update, I kinda got lazy... So... sorry. Anyways, here is a short chapter. It's short but I think the writing is pretty solid... SO yeah. Hope everyone has a good day.
Thank You!
Cheers!