Albus dreamed in green.
Not the soft green of forest leaves or spring grass. This green was cold—the murky, twisting green of something ancient moving beneath water. He couldn't tell if he was floating or falling. Everything around him shimmered like lake glass, and though he couldn't see his own hands, he could feel something wrapped around his wrist—tight, pulsing.
In the silence of that dream, he heard it again:
"You have been marked."
A whisper. A hiss. A promise.
He opened his eyes and the dream shattered into shards of shadow.
The Symbol
Morning light filtered through the green-tinted windows of the dormitory. The lake outside was still and quiet, casting soft ripples of reflected sunlight against the stone walls. Someone's snores echoed from another bed. Scorpius was sprawled across his mattress, one arm dangling off the side, muttering about cheese wheels and dueling lessons in his sleep.
Albus sat up slowly. The cold from the dream still clung to his skin.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed—and froze.
There, on the inside of his left wrist, just beneath the skin, something shimmered faintly. A shape. Not a bruise, not an illusion—something real.
He held it up to the light.
It was the same symbol he had seen flare on the door: a circle, a serpent devouring its own tail, and inside it, a downward-pointing triangle with three jagged lines crossing through it like claw marks.
It didn't hurt. Didn't burn.
But it felt alive.
Tell No One
He showed Scorpius first.
They stood in the far corner of the Slytherin common room, near the statue of the water-drenched knight. Fiona joined them a moment later, hair still damp from a rushed shower, her bag thudding against the floor.
Scorpius narrowed his eyes at the mark. "So… congratulations, you're cursed."
"Not helping," Albus muttered.
"It doesn't look evil," Fiona said, kneeling beside them and tilting her head. "It's… complicated. Symmetrical. Definitely magical. Possibly ritualistic."
"Comforting," Scorpius said. "Any chance it's, I don't know, a secret protection seal that keeps giant snakes from eating you?"
Albus pulled his sleeve down.
"I haven't told anyone else," he said. "Not even Isadora."
"Good," Fiona said immediately. "If someone marked you magically, and the school finds out, they might isolate you. There's precedent. Old ones."
Scorpius frowned. "That's ridiculous."
"It's Hogwarts," Fiona replied flatly. "Ridiculous is a requirement."
They agreed to keep it secret. For now.
And to find answers. Somehow.
Ancient Magic
Their first clue came that afternoon in the Ancient Runes elective. Professor Sato, a wiry man with sharp eyes and parchment-dry voice, spoke with an intensity that made even Fiona sit up straighter.
"Runes are not spells," he explained, tapping a diagram with his wand. "They are agreements. Language that shaped the foundations of magical law long before wands existed."
He gestured toward the blackboard, where a glowing diagram now hovered—a serpent twisting around a spear.
"This is the Ouroboros. The eternal cycle. Often associated with transformation, protection, rebirth, and… concealment."
Albus's heart skipped.
Fiona's hand shot up. "Professor, could that symbol also relate to Salazar Slytherin's private sigils? I've seen variations in pre-foundation texts—some linked to blood rituals."
Professor Sato raised an eyebrow. "A rare observation, Miss Macmillan. Yes. There is evidence—though disputed—that Slytherin experimented with non-wand magic, including inscriptional sigils and blood-binding glyphs. He may have borrowed from older magical cultures beyond Britain."
Scorpius whispered to Albus, "He absolutely had a secret death cult."
Albus didn't respond. He was staring at the board.
The shape was too close.
It was exactly the outer ring of the mark on his wrist.
Later, he lingered after class and asked Professor Sato quietly: "What would it mean if someone had that symbol appear on their skin?"
The professor paused.
"That would depend entirely on context," he said. "And intent. Some marks are binding, others protective. Still others are… prophetic."
"Prophetic?"
"Old magic has a memory," Sato said. "Sometimes it remembers you before you remember yourself."
Albus left the classroom with the hairs on his arms standing on end.
Rumors and Relics
That evening, Fiona dragged them to the library—third floor, back corner, past a shelf of "Dangerous Herbal Remedies (and How to Cook With Them)."
She had a parchment roll in her hands, covered in scribbled notes and references.
"I found a mention of the House of Shadows," she said. "Not in the main collection. But buried in a 17th-century translation of 'The Seven Forbidden Halls of Albion.'"
Scorpius raised an eyebrow. "Sounds promising."
"It's mostly poetic nonsense. But listen to this part."
She unrolled the parchment and read aloud:
'In the belly of the serpent's house, the Fifth Door waits—sealed by blood and bound by time. Those who bear the Mark of Shadow may pass, but only at cost.'
Albus's throat went dry.
Fiona looked at him. "Your mark."
"What's the Fifth Door?" Scorpius asked.
"No idea," she said. "But the way it's phrased… there may be others."
Albus sat back slowly.
The sealed door in the dungeons might not be the only one.
There could be more.
The Shadow Gate Stirs
That night, he woke to the sound of whispers.
Not loud. Not even spoken aloud. But curling in the air around him like fog.
He rose from bed and crept to the window. The lake was darker than usual—thicker, like ink rather than water. Shapes drifted past, distant and slow.
He turned toward the hallway and felt drawn.
Like the door was calling him.
He didn't wake Scorpius. Didn't grab his wand. He just walked.
Past the common room.
Through the cold halls.
Down into the corridor.
And there it was—the sealed door. Waiting. Watching.
This time, the gemstone in the center was already glowing.
Softly.
Rhythmically.
Like a second heartbeat.
Albus approached.
As he reached out, the mark on his wrist burned. Not painfully—but like it was waking up too.
He touched the door.
This time, the carvings shifted. Ever so slightly. As if they were rearranging themselves beneath his palm. Like the stone was alive.
Then the voice came again. Closer. Louder.
"The first gate trembles."
And a line appeared across the floor—glowing faintly in the dark.
Like a crack.
He didn't remember walking back.
He only remembered waking in bed, sweating, heart racing, the mark on his wrist still glowing faintly beneath the skin.
In the Library Again
The next morning, they reconvened in the library.
He told them everything.
"Well," Scorpius said. "I was going to complain about my Charms homework, but I guess you win."
Fiona looked shaken. "The door moved?"
"It responded," Albus said. "Like it knew me."
"I've read about doors like that," she whispered. "Living enchantments. They only open for chosen bearers. Or cursed ones."
Albus looked at her. "Which am I?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she laid out another parchment.
"This isn't just some sealed hallway," she said. "It's something older. A test, maybe. Or a prison."
Scorpius leaned forward. "Prison for what?"
The parchment read:
Some doors open to knowledge.Some open to power.But the Fifth opens only to what should remain lost.
Albus swallowed hard.
Whatever was behind that door—whatever had marked him—was waking up.
And he wasn't sure they were ready for it.