The Halloween decorations had gone up early that day. Enchanted jack-o'-lanterns floated in the halls, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. Candles were enchanted to glow in eerie green and orange hues, and the smell of roasted pumpkin and spiced apples drifted up from the kitchens. Students bustled through the corridors, chatting excitedly about the upcoming feast—some already dressed in costumes, others laughing over charmed sweets that changed your voice or gave you bat wings for ears.
Cael stood by one of the castle's tall windows, watching as twilight painted the Forbidden Forest in deep blue and violet.
And then, it happened.
A loud, frantic voice echoed down the corridor.
"Professor! Professor McGonagall!" Percy Weasley came sprinting down the hall, red-faced and panting. His Head boy badge was crooked, and his usually neat robes were flapping wildly.
Professor McGonagall, who had just emerged from her office, turned sharply. "Mr. Weasley, what on earth is the matter?"
Percy stumbled to a halt, breath heaving. "It's—the Fat Lady. Her portrait—at Gryffindor Tower—it's been… destroyed. Torn apart."
"What!?" McGonagall's voice shot up an octave. Students nearby gasped, some even dropping the sweets they were holding.
"Come at once," Percy urged, motioning frantically.
Cael exchanged a glance with Hermione, who had been walking beside him, and they both followed as a growing crowd moved toward the Gryffindor common room entrance.
When they arrived, the scene stopped everyone cold.
The Fat Lady's portrait was in ruins.
Long claw marks had slashed through the canvas. The gilt frame was cracked, and torn shreds of fabric dangled loosely from the edges. There was no sign of the Fat Lady herself.
Whispers rose. Even Peeves hovered above the corridor, unusually silent, as students stared in stunned silence.
Just then, Professor Dumbledore arrived, his cloak billowing and eyes sharp beneath his half-moon spectacles. He surveyed the damage grimly.
"Where is she?" he asked McGonagall.
"She's gone," she replied quietly. "Fled."
"Find her," Dumbledore said calmly. "Search every portrait on every floor. She'll be hiding somewhere."
Within minutes, the staff sprang into action, calling on nearby portraits for help.
Eventually, it was Sir Cadogan—the mad knight in full armor—who located her on the fifth floor behind a tapestry of trolls in ballet tutus. The Fat Lady, trembling and pale, refused to return to her post.
"It was him," she whimpered. "Sirius Black. I recognized him. He tried to force me to let him in. When I refused, he—he went mad! Tore right through!"
Murmurs broke out among the staff.
Dumbledore's expression hardened. "Thank you," he said gently to the Fat Lady, then turned to McGonagall. "The students cannot return here tonight. Have them sleep in the Great Hall."
"Yes, Headmaster."
"And alert the rest of the staff. We begin a full investigation. No corner of this castle is to go unchecked."
By nightfall, every Gryffindor was gathered in the Great Hall. Sleeping bags were spread across the stone floor, some enchanted to warm the occupants, others patchy and old. House-elves brought pillows and blankets, while teachers patrolled the edges of the room.
Most of the younger students fell asleep quickly, comforted by the closeness of their classmates.
But not everyone was asleep.
Harry lay still in his sleeping bag, eyes half-closed but alert. Cael was nearby, pretending to be asleep. Hermione too, though wrapped in a blanket, clutched her book too tightly to be at rest.
At the far end of the hall, beyond the flickering torches, two figures stood in hushed conversation—Professor Dumbledore and Professor Snape.
Cael tuned his ears carefully, just enough to catch their words.
"I do not understand," Dumbledore said, his voice low. "The castle is protected by dozens of enchantments. How did Black get in?"
Snape's voice was sharp, edged with quiet bitterness. "Perhaps someone let him in."
Dumbledore's reply came swiftly. "No. I trust Remus. He would never do such a thing."
Snape paused for a long beat before speaking again, this time with a darker tone. "And what of his nephew?"
Cael's chest tightened.
Harry's brows furrowed.
Hermione, eyes barely open, turned her head slightly.
Snape continued, "Who's to say the boy hasn't been in contact with Black? He is his blood. It wouldn't be the first time family bonds obscured loyalty."
Dumbledore's eyes remained fixed ahead, his tone even. "Cael has shown nothing but discipline and promise. You suspect him because of who he's related to—not what he has done."
"Sometimes, Headmaster, those are one and the same."
A cold silence passed between them.
Cael lay still, breath steady, but his mind churned. Snape's suspicion was dangerous—but not unexpected. The moment his relations with the Black family was revealed he also became involved in this mess, and more attention he drew. And now, with Sirius Black's presence confirmed inside the walls of Hogwarts, things were only going to grow more complicated.
Across the hall, Fred and George snored loudly, unaware of anything beyond their dreams. Ron muttered something about Scabbers in his sleep. Hermione shifted under her blanket and glanced at Cael, as if trying to read his thoughts through the dim firelight.
But Cael didn't move. He stayed perfectly still, gazing at the ceiling charmed to look like the sky. Storm clouds gathered there—dark, heavy, and silent.
Much like the night itself.