As the golden plates shimmered and faded, wiped clean by invisible magic, Dumbledore rose once more at the head of the Great Hall.
"Now then," he said cheerfully, his voice carrying with practiced warmth, "off to bed, all of you. A good night's rest before a long year of learning, laughter, and the occasional life-threatening mishap. Prefects, if you would?"
At each house table, older students stood, calling the first-years to follow. Cael rose among them, stomach pleasantly full and limbs heavy with drowsiness. On either side of him, the redheaded twins—Fred and George, who had been talking between bites of pudding and tales of vanishing staircases and screaming teapots—flanked him like grinning bookends.
"Stick close," said Fred, tapping his temple.
"The staircases move," George added.
"Randomly," Fred clarified. "Sometimes when you're on them."
"Sometimes when you're under them," George corrected solemnly.
"Or when you're late."
"Which you always are," George informed Fred.
"Which is why I'm never surprised," Fred said smugly.
The castle loomed around them—hallways stretching like ribs through a great stone beast. The portraits muttered, lanterns swayed on unseen drafts, and ghosts glided through walls with the mild indifference of the aristocratic dead. The castle wasn't just old—it felt aware.
Eventually, they reached a tall painting of a stout woman in rose-pink silk, perched in an elaborate gilded frame. The Fat Lady regarded them with a raised brow and a theatrical flair.
"Password?"
"Caput Draconis," the prefect intoned.
The portrait swung forward with a soft whoosh, revealing the entrance to Gryffindor Tower.
Inside was a circular common room aglow with firelight. Crimson and gold banners hung from the walls, and the plush armchairs sagged with generations of secrets. The air smelled of waxed wood, wool, and something faintly cinnamon-sweet. Cael inhaled slowly. Not home. Not yet. But something adjacent.
The boys were led up a narrow spiral staircase to their dormitory, where five four-poster beds stood in a compact, circular space. Each bed was draped in velvet, with brass plaques gleaming above the headboards.
The prefect paused, looking faintly sheepish. "Right. So… we've got five boys this year, and only four beds in this room. One of you will have to bunk with the second-years—there's room down there."
A beat of awkward silence.
Cael stepped forward. "I'll go."
The prefect looked relieved. "Thanks. Otherwise I'd have to drag the Dean into it. That's never a short conversation."
"It's fine," Cael said with a shrug. "The others seemed like they already knew each other. No point disturbing that."
"They did," the prefect confirmed. "Don't worry—the second-years are a good lot. Funny. You'll like them."
They descended a separate staircase. A sudden burst of laughter rang out from the room below. When they entered, the cause was immediately clear.
Fred and George Weasley were there—again—hurling balled-up socks at a dark-skinned boy who retaliated by lobbing a slipper with unnerving precision. The moment they noticed the prefect, all three straightened with the exaggerated innocence of practiced mischief-makers.
"Oy, Cael!" Fred beamed. "You're rooming with us? Brilliant!"
George clapped his hands. "Excellent taste, Prefect. Cael here's obviously a discerning young man."
Fred gestured grandly. "And this," he said, pointing to the boy who was now half-smiling and dodging another slipper, "is Lee Jordan. He tortures insects for sport."
George nodded gravely. "And eats them. But it's fine—he's got Chinese ancestry. It's practically a delicacy."
Lee tackled George onto the bed. "Ignore them, Cael. They've been dropped on their heads—repeatedly. I don't eat bugs. Not on purpose."
Cael grinned despite himself, retreating to the farthest corner where a bed waited—his name gleaming on a little plaque like an invitation. He sat, taking in the carvings of lions on the wooden posts, the quilted bedding, the small window letting in a silver spill of moonlight.
Fred plopped down nearby, still talking. "Anyway, Cael. Big plans this year. We're breaking into Filch's office."
George's eyes lit up. "He's got all sorts of contraband—items he confiscated last year. Some of them are legendary."
"Last time," Fred said, "we almost made it. But we lacked a proper way ."
Cael leaned forward. "How ?"
The twins exchanged a glance.
"He's one of us," George whispered.
Fred nodded solemnly. "We'll try again next week. Too much security right now. But you're in?"
Cael smirked. "I'm in."
Fred gave him a dramatic bow. "Excellent. You're already our favorite roommate."
"No offense, Lee."
"None taken," Lee said, kicking off his shoes. "As long as I don't have to eat insects."
Above them, the rafters creaked. Someone laughed downstairs. Then the fire settled. The quiet deepened.
Cael lay back, staring at the ceiling. Hogwarts. At last.
Six months of surviving. Of maneuvering. Of pushing every advantage. He was here now.
But so was someone else.
SYSTEM: You're thinking of the Slytherin girl, aren't you? Cassandra Vole.
Cael closed one eye. She's interesting.
SYSTEM: So is a fire-breathing manticore. Try not to flirt with either.
I'm not flirting, Cael thought dryly. I'm observing.
SYSTEM: You're already planning.
A glowing blue panel blinked into view in the corner of his vision. The interface snapped open.
NEW QUEST
Objective: Earn 100 House Points.
Reward: Potential 1st Place House Ranking.
Cael groaned. "One hundred? Are you insane?"
SYSTEM: No. You are. But you have time. Better get moving.
With a muttered curse, Cael rolled over and finally let sleep take him.
Tomorrow would be the beginning.
Meanwhile, far below the castle…
In the cool, shadowed stillness of the Slytherin dormitory, Cassandra Vole sat poised at the edge of her bed. The room shimmered with green lantern-light reflected in the black marble floors, casting watery glints across the vaulted ceiling.
Her hair, Golden and straight, flowed like silk beneath the brush she pulled through it in deliberate, controlled strokes. Around her, the other girls murmured and gossiped, but Cassandra heard none of it.
She was not here to make friends.
She was here for power. For clarity. For future steps that had nothing to do with laughter in common rooms or pillow fights beneath enchanted ceilings.
Yet her thoughts slid, again, to the boy from the train.
Too quiet. Too watchful.
"Cael Vale," she murmured. "So. Gryffindor."
Her smile was faint. Ambiguous.
"You look very much like one a careless at that typical Gryffindor ."
She curled into the emerald sheets, her thoughts sharp and gleaming.
"I hope you're entertaining," she whispered, "if only to keep me from being bored."
A pause.
"Or useful. If not… a disappointment."
The lanterns flickered.
Sleep came, eventually. But even then, her mind remained focused.
Calculated.