The castle glowed with the burnished warmth of autumn. Gold light streamed through tall, arched windows, catching the flutter of ghosts as they drifted past, and the scent of pumpkin spice lingered everywhere — in the air, in the laughter, in the polished wood of the Great Hall itself.
For most of the day, Hogwarts felt charmed in the simplest way — alive and content.
Shya had noticed, though, a faint undercurrent beneath the comfort. Her reflection in her goblet that morning had shimmered strangely, the edges of her face slightly blurred, as if the castle's magic itself had shifted focus. It left her oddly restless, the sense of something just at the edge of perception.
Talora, on the other hand, was fighting her own unease. She'd woken before dawn with a splitting headache and a strange heaviness in her chest — the kind that made her want to stay curled up in bed. "It's probably just sugar withdrawal," she'd joked weakly when Shya pressed her, though the shadows under her eyes told another story.
By evening, the Great Hall had become a cathedral of firelight and shadow. Hundreds of jack-o'-lanterns floated high above the tables, their carved grins casting soft orange halos. The golden plates gleamed; platters refilled themselves in endless rhythm.
"See?" Mandy said, scooping pumpkin mousse onto her plate. "Halloween magic fixes everything. Even my anxiety."
Padma smirked. "That's not magic, that's serotonin."
Roman leaned in, tone dry. "And an unhealthy relationship with sugar."
"Please," Talora said, voice lighter than she felt. "As if any of us are healthy. My blood is 70% Butterbeer right now."
The group laughed — the easy kind that felt like home. Even Cassian cracked a quiet smile. For a little while, the flicker of candlelight erased the world outside.
But as the feast wound down, the energy began to dim. Students drifted away in pairs and clusters, their laughter echoing through the corridors. Shya and Talora lingered, helping themselves to the last of the treacle tart before standing.
Talora swayed slightly as she rose. "Merlin, I'm so tired I could sleep on a staircase."
Shya gave her a sidelong look. "Then let's not test that theory. Come on."
They left the Great Hall with Padma, Lisa, and Mandy, their chatter soft and lazy — until it wasn't.
The warmth of the feast didn't follow them out. The corridors were colder than they should have been, the torchlight dimmer. Somewhere in the distance, a door creaked open on its own.
"Feels weirdly quiet," Mandy said, rubbing her arms.
"Too quiet," Lisa murmured.
They rounded the corner near the first-floor landing — and stopped.
Talora froze first, the faint shimmer of candlelight glinting off something wet ahead. Her breath caught. "Bob," she whispered, voice trembling. "What is that?"
At first, it looked like water pooling on the stone floor. Then the scent hit — metallic, wrong. Shya stepped forward before anyone could stop her.
And there it was.
Mrs. Norris hung rigid from a torch bracket, her fur stiff as stone, her eyes wide and glassy. Beneath her, scrawled across the wall in jagged, gleaming scarlet, were words that didn't look written so much as carved in fury:
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.
ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.
No one moved.
A sound — faint and uneven — drew their attention. At the far end of the corridor, three figures stood frozen: Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger. Their faces were pale in the torchlight, their robes spattered with something dark and wet from the puddle below the message.
It didn't take genius to see what it looked like.
"Oh, brilliant," Shya muttered under her breath. "Of course it's them."
Hermione's wide eyes darted to her, but she didn't respond. No one did. The silence stretched, taut as string.
Then Filch's scream shattered it.
"My cat!" His voice echoed like a curse. "My poor Mrs. Norris!"
He shoved through the growing crowd, dropping to his knees beside the petrified creature. His face was twisted in grief and fury, his watery eyes snapping toward the trio. "You—you've murdered her!"
Talora flinched at the raw pain in his voice, her hands instinctively gripping Shya's sleeve. "This isn't right," she whispered. "Something's wrong with the magic here."
Before Shya could answer, the corridor exploded into motion. Teachers appeared — Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape — their robes whispering like storm clouds. The crowd was corralled back by sheer authority.
"Everyone back to your dormitories," McGonagall commanded sharply. "Immediately."
"Not a word to anyone," Snape added, his black eyes flicking toward Cassian and Roman, who lingered near the rear. Cassian's face was unreadable; Roman's hand flexed slightly, restless.
As they were herded away, Talora cast one last look over her shoulder. Dumbledore had crouched by Mrs. Norris, his expression unreadable. The torchlight made the red letters gleam like wounds.
That night, Ravenclaw Tower was too still.
Talora sat at the window, chin resting on her knees, the faint blue light of the moon silvering her hair. She hadn't been able to shake the ache in her chest — not fear, exactly, but a heavy pulse of dread that hummed in her bones.
Shya stood beside her, arms folded, staring at the reflection of the lake below. "It's different tonight," she said finally. "The air feels… wrong. Like the castle's holding its breath."
Talora's gaze stayed fixed on the glass. "Do you think this is a prank?" she asked softly.
Shya's reply was quiet, certain. "I don't think the professors would react like that for a prank".
Neither of them slept soundly.
Outside, the moonlight trembled on the Black Lake — the reflection perfect, fragile, and just slightly wrong.
The dream began like a whisper — soft, almost beautiful.
A black forest under silver moonlight. Snow drifting through the trees.
Then it shifted.
The light turned cold, like metal. The wind carried a scent of ash. And somewhere in the dark, something screamed.
Shya walked through it — or maybe she was standing still and the forest moved around her. The trees leaned toward her as she passed, bark cracking, leaves curling into dust. Ravens circled overhead, crying until their throats tore open.
She tried to call out, but her voice came out hollow — not sound, but a vibration that made the world crumble.
The ground split open. Roots bled black. Animals turned on one another, tearing and clawing in silence. Every heartbeat made something else die.
And then the forest bowed. Everything — beast, branch, shadow — knelt toward her.
She looked down at her hands and saw the dark leaking out of them like smoke.
One breath later, everything collapsed inward —
—and she woke up.
The dormitory was cold, the kind of cold that clung to skin. Morning light spilled weakly through the curtains, pale and watery after the storm.
Talora was already awake, sitting on the edge of her bed. She looked as though she'd been up for hours — her hair half-braided, her expression unfocused, her hand resting against her collarbone like she was trying to quiet something beneath it.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Shya swallowed, her throat tight. "You look like you saw a ghost."
Talora let out a quiet breath. "Maybe I did."
Something in her tone made Shya pause. "Bad dream?"
Talora hesitated, then gave a small nod. "Just… strange." She didn't elaborate, and Shya didn't push.
"Yeah," Shya said, forcing a wry smile. "Me too. Mine gets zero stars, no plot, terrible characters, and the director should be imprisoned."
That earned her a faint laugh. "You're impossible."
"I'm coping," Shya said simply. She swung her legs out of bed, pretending to yawn. "If anyone asks, I'm blaming the treacle tart. That much sugar before bed should be illegal."
"Or maybe it's the castle," Talora murmured, not quite joking. "Everything feels off since last night."
"Maybe Hogwarts just needs a nap," Shya said, slipping into her slippers. "I know I do."
Talora smiled at that, but it was tired — a curve of lips without the spark behind it.
The Great Hall felt strange that morning. The usual warmth — the chatter, the smell of toast, the echo of laughter — had thinned to a hum of anxious whispers. Every table buzzed with speculation about Mrs. Norris, about the blood on the wall, about Harry Potter's name being whispered like a hex.
Padma was trying to sound logical. "It's probably a prank that went wrong. No one could really open something from a thousand years ago."
Mandy stirred her porridge nervously. "Then why was Filch crying in the corridor this morning?"
"Because someone vandalized his cat," Lisa said flatly.
"Not helping," Talora murmured, rubbing her temple.
Shya pushed a piece of toast around her plate without eating. "Honestly, I think this is a perfect opportunity to cancel class. You know, for morale."
Padma looked up. "You just don't want to do Binns' essay."
"Correct," Shya said, deadpan.
That got a small ripple of laughter. Even Talora smiled, just a flicker — and for a second, it almost felt normal again.
Then a breeze drifted through the Hall, ruffling the tablecloths. The candles guttered. Talora looked up, a strange shiver running through her. For the briefest moment, she thought she saw her reflection in the silver jug — eyes brighter than they should be, expression unreadable.
When she blinked, it was gone.
"Bob?" Shya asked quietly. "You okay?"
Talora forced a grin. "Fine. Just thinking about how many detentions Lockhart would get if he had to clean up his own posters."
"Tragic," Shya said, rolling her eyes, and the moment passed.
After breakfast, life went on — or tried to. The castle hummed with rumors, lessons blurred together, and every corridor seemed a little dimmer.
History of Magic
Professor Binns' droning voice filled the room like fog.
"—and in the Year of the Goblin Rebellion, the Ministry—"
Hermione's hand shot up. "Professor Binns," she said eagerly, "could you tell us about the Chamber of Secrets?"
The ghost blinked mid-sentence, looking faintly affronted at being interrupted. "The what, Miss—ah—Granger?"
"The Chamber of Secrets, sir," Hermione said, leaning forward. "Students are talking about it. Some say it's real. That Salazar Slytherin—"
"Rubbish!" Binns snapped, suddenly sharp. "Pure legend. Nonsense, passed from one student to another. I teach history, not fantasy."
"But, Professor," she persisted, "surely there must have been records—"
Binns floated an inch higher in irritation. "There were no records because there was no chamber. Now, as I was saying—"
The lecture resumed instantly, as if nothing had happened. Hermione's shoulders slumped.
Across the room, Shya whispered, "So helpful," under her breath.
Talora hid a smile behind her hand.
Transfiguration
The classroom was quieter than usual. Normally, Transfiguration had an easy hum to it — the soft scrape of chairs, the occasional pop of a spell gone slightly wrong — but today, even the candles seemed subdued.
Professor McGonagall stood at the front, chalk in hand, sketching neat runic circles on the board. Her voice, calm and precise, filled the silence.
"Remember," she said, "the conversion of living to non-living material requires absolute concentration. Intent determines permanence. Sloppiness results in disaster."
A few nervous chuckles rippled across the room, quickly fading.
Talora's quill hovered above her parchment. Her mind wasn't on practicing magic — it hadn't been all day. The same question had been echoing in her head since breakfast, and though she knew it was foolish, it was becoming unbearable to hold it in.
She raised her hand.
"Yes, Miss Livanthos?" McGonagall said, looking up.
Talora hesitated, feeling the weight of a dozen curious eyes. "Professor," she began quietly, "I was wondering if you could tell us about… the Chamber of Secrets."
A faint ripple passed through the room — a collective intake of breath.
Even Shya looked up from her parchment, surprised.
McGonagall's expression didn't change at first. Then she set down her chalk with deliberate care. "What a very odd time to ask such a question," she said evenly.
"I'm sorry," Talora said quickly. "It's just—no one seems to know what it is. And everyone's talking about it."
For a long moment, McGonagall said nothing. The only sound was the soft hum of the candles. Then she drew herself up and clasped her hands in front of her robes.
"The Chamber of Secrets," she began, her tone clipped but not unkind, "is a legend that has haunted this school for many centuries."
She paced slowly along the front of the room. "When Hogwarts was founded, over a thousand years ago, its four founders — Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin — built this castle together. But Slytherin distrusted the others. He believed magical learning should be reserved for pure-blood witches and wizards — those of wizarding descent."
A few students exchanged uneasy glances.
"When he could not persuade the others," McGonagall continued, "he allegedly built a hidden chamber within the castle — one only he could open. And when he left the school, the legend claims he sealed it so that only his true heir might one day return… to purge the school of all those he deemed unworthy to study magic."
Her voice lingered on that last line — calm but edged, as if she despised the idea more than the legend itself.
Shya frowned slightly, her quill still. "So it's real?"
McGonagall's eyes met hers. "There is no evidence such a chamber exists," she said firmly. "The professors have searched this castle many times over the centuries. If such a place were hidden, it has never been found."
"But the message on the wall—" Padma began, then trailed off under McGonagall's look.
"The message," McGonagall said briskly, "is being investigated. Until we know more, I advise everyone to focus on your studies, not on legends. Fear and rumor serve only those who wish to see you frightened."
Her gaze softened as it returned to Talora. "I assure you, Miss Livanthos — Hogwarts is safe. Whatever may have happened last night, you are in no danger here."
Talora nodded quickly. "Yes, Professor. Thank you."
McGonagall gave a crisp nod and turned back to the board. "Now," she said, her tone snapping back to its usual precision, "if you'll all turn to page one-hundred and fifty-two, we'll resume with inanimate-to-animal transfigurations."
The scratching of quills filled the air again. The moment passed, though its echo lingered.
Shya leaned toward Talora and whispered, "Well. That was comforting in the same way as a pat on the head during an earthquake."
Talora smiled faintly, her voice low. "She's right about one thing, though."
"What's that?"
"Hogwarts doesn't feel safe.
By the time they trudged back to Ravenclaw Tower that evening, both girls were silent. Talora stopped halfway up the stairs, glancing back toward the window. "Do you ever feel like Hogwarts is… listening?"
Shya raised an eyebrow. "If it is, I hope it appreciates how cute we look while being traumatized."
Talora laughed softly. "You're terrible."
"I'm practical," Shya said, but her smile faltered just a little. "If I start hearing the walls whisper back, I'll let you know."
"Deal."
They reached their dorm and drew the curtains against the dark. Talora's breathing evened out first; Shya watched the flicker of torchlight against the walls until her own eyes drifted shut.
Somewhere deep in the castle, something shifted — a low, almost imperceptible hum, like the heartbeat of stone.
But for now, the girls slept.
Not peacefully, not completely —
but together.