The moment Albus opened the journal, the air in the room seemed to shift. Not with a breeze or sound, but with something deeper—like the castle itself was holding its breath. The faint greenish glow from the underwater windows cast flickering shadows over the worn leather cover, and Albus felt a strange pulse thrumming beneath his fingertips.
He sat very still, eyes wide, as the ink inside the journal began to shimmer and slither like a living thing. Slowly, silver letters started to form on the blank pages, curling into elaborate spirals and intricate runes unlike anything he had seen before.
The words didn't write themselves in neat, straight lines. Instead, they twisted and turned in serpentine loops that seemed to crawl across the page like smoke curling in a breeze. Though the language was unfamiliar, Albus felt the strange sensation of the symbols lodging themselves inside his mind, seeping into his memory as if the journal was teaching him a language he had forgotten.
His breath hitched. The journal was alive. And it was speaking to him.
Echoes of the Past
Sleep had become a stranger to him.
The first night, the journal had filled only two pages. By dawn, it had expanded to five, its silver ink pulsing faintly under the dim light of the common room lamps. Some of the writing glimmered with a subtle light; others absorbed the shadows around them, as if swallowing the darkness whole.
He didn't dare show it to anyone yet—not Scorpius, not Fiona—until he understood more.
When he finally joined them for breakfast the next day, his hands trembled slightly as he unfolded the parchment scroll of his schedule. Scorpius caught the nervous energy instantly.
"You look like you read a cursed prophecy and decided to take it very personally," he said, handing him a slice of buttered toast.
Albus tried to smile but only managed a thin line. "I found a journal. On my bed. Last night."
Fiona's eyes snapped up from her porridge. "A journal? Like a diary?"
"Not exactly. It's more like… a book that's writing itself."
Scorpius raised an eyebrow. "You mean it's haunted? Possessed?"
"No," Albus said carefully. "It's not a ghost. The ink flows on its own. It's in a language I don't know but… somehow understand."
Fiona leaned forward, intrigued. "Is it magical? Sentient magic?"
Albus nodded. "I think so."
"Do you have it with you now?"
Albus glanced around before slipping the journal from under his cloak and placing it on the table. The silver ink gleamed faintly even in the morning light.
Fiona's fingers hovered over the cover reverently. "We should analyze the ink. See if it can be deciphered or contained."
Scorpius smirked. "In other words, make sure it doesn't try to eat you."
Albus chuckled weakly. "Yeah. Something like that."
Wards and Warnings
That evening, the common room was quiet but for the soft crackle of the fire and the distant splashes from the lake. The three friends gathered around the journal on a low table carved from dark oak, the weight of their secret heavy in the air.
Fiona pulled a small pouch of herbs and powders from her bag and sprinkled a fine dust in a perfect circle around the book. She muttered an incantation in a language older than Hogwarts itself. Soft, blue glyphs rose from her wand, weaving a lattice of protection that shimmered over the table.
"The wards will hold the magic at bay long enough for us to study the language safely," she explained. "It's ancient protective magic—binding and defensive."
The journal's silver letters pulsed once more, then stilled.
Albus's gaze locked onto the first page, where a line of text had transformed:
"The serpent speaks in riddles. But the House remembers."
Fiona's breath caught. "That's Old Serathic. A long-dead magical dialect. Predates even Latin by centuries. Used in secret rites before the founding of Hogwarts."
"How can I understand it, then?" Albus asked, feeling a mixture of awe and fear.
"It's not just written language," Fiona said, eyes intense. "The glyphs are psychically bound to you. They choose your mind as the translator."
Scorpius whistled softly. "So he's got a psychic bond with a snake-written prophecy journal. No big deal."
The Next Gate
The following page contained no writing—only a stark, haunting image sketched in black ink. The lines were jagged and raw, depicting an ancient stone archway half-buried beneath twisting vines, with two moons reflected in a still pool beneath it.
Beneath the image, a phrase glowed faintly in the same silver script:
"When the twin moons rise, the Second Gate shall call."
Albus frowned. "There aren't two moons at Hogwarts."
"Not literally," Fiona said thoughtfully. "Could refer to phases of the moon—like a specific lunar alignment."
"Or maybe the moons are metaphorical," Scorpius suggested. "Like reflections—maybe the lake."
Albus's eyes widened. "The Black Lake reflects the moon. The ruins along the shore…"
Fiona nodded slowly. "Submerged ruins that some say predate Hogwarts itself."
Albus closed the journal and looked at them both. "Then that's where we have to go next."
Scorpius groaned. "You realize 'submerged ruins' means 'damp, dark, probably creepy, and possibly full of giant magical eels,' right?"
The Warning of the Bloody Baron
Before they could make plans, the castle seemed to resist their quest.
That night, the air grew heavy and cold. Whispers drifted through the corridors, faint and indistinct but filled with dread.
From the shadows stepped the Bloody Baron, his chains clinking softly as he glided toward them.
Albus's breath caught.
He had never feared ghosts before—but the Baron's presence was different. Foreboding.
"You meddle in ancient things," the Baron's voice rasped, cold and dry as bones. "Blood that should have run dry. Names that should have been forgotten."
Scorpius stepped forward. "What do you know about the Fifth Door?"
The Baron's hollow eyes fixed on Albus. "I was there when the House first opened. When the seal was broken."
Albus swallowed hard.
"What came through was not of this world," the Baron continued. "It spoke in shadows and whispers. It fed on secrets, on fear, on blood."
Fiona's voice trembled. "You saw it?"
The Baron nodded slowly. "And fled, even in death."
He floated closer, pointing a spectral finger at Albus.
"You bear the mark. But your fate is not yet sealed."
Then he vanished, leaving behind only the faint echo of his chains.
The Pull of the Gate
Sleep abandoned Albus again that night.
But this time, it was not dreams that stirred him from slumber—it was a feeling. A call deep in his bones, pulling him downward, away from warmth, toward the cold depths beneath the castle.
He slipped from his bed, the journal open on the table before him. The silver words had changed again:
"Beneath water, the serpent sleeps."
Below, a new line of ancient runes glowed faintly.
Albus reached out, fingertips brushing the symbols.
The mark on his wrist flared bright, not with pain, but recognition.
The Fifth Door had called.
Now, the lake was calling too.