The Next Morning
The sky above Hogwarts was grey and unmoving, heavy with clouds that refused to break. Mist rolled against the high windows, turning the morning light a pale silver that made everything look half-awake.
Tom stood by the dormitory window, eyes tracing the horizon, though he wasn't seeing it.
He hadn't slept much — not after what happened the night before.
That serpent...
The way it had shifted. Not into a person, not entirely, but into something ancient. Something aware.
And Professor Shallow — the way he stood there like it was all normal, like it was meant to happen — like Tom was meant to see it.
No explanations. No comfort. Just vague words and a departure that left more questions than answers.
Now, the castle felt... different.
Not just strange — restless.
Like it knew something had changed.
Tom turned away from the window as the others began to stir.
Lucius groaned as he sat up, muttering about needing a mirror. Mulciber bumped into Avery and nearly tripped over a pair of boots.
Tom said nothing. He just dressed, slow and mechanical.
By breakfast, the tension had spread.
The Great Hall buzzed as usual, but there was something off in the rhythm. Conversations were shorter, glances sharper. The sky above the enchanted ceiling flickered oddly — clouds moving too fast, as though blown by wind that didn't exist.
Tom sat at the Slytherin table, his food untouched. He could still hear the serpent's voice — not in words, not now — just the sensation of it curling at the back of his mind.
Across the hall, James Potter arrived with Sirius and Peter. He was quieter than usual. No pranks, no loud jokes — just a glance across the room.
Tom felt it before he saw it.
James's eyes were on him.
Sharp. Uneasy.
Not hateful — not yet — but searching. Suspicious.
He didn't know why... but it felt unsettling.
Suddenly, one of the enchanted candles above the Ravenclaw table sparked — a burst of green, quick and silent — and then went dark.
Whispers stirred. No one screamed, but heads turned. Even Professor Flitwick paused mid-bite.
The green glow was gone.
But the air hadn't settled.
Tom lowered his eyes and tightened his grip on the edge of the table.
Something in Hogwarts had woken up.
And it hadn't gone back to sleep.
After lunch, the castle seemed to shift again — just slightly. Like the walls were listening.
Students poured into their afternoon classes with tired chatter and unfinished homework, but something still felt... off.
In Charms, the classroom was warm with quiet chatter and flicks of wands. Professor Flitwick, beaming as always, stood perched on his usual stack of books.
"Now remember — it's Wingardium Leviosa, not Leviosaaa. Swish and flick, nice and steady—"
Bertram Aubrey, a jumpy Ravenclaw boy, raised his wand with hesitation.
"Wingardium Leviosa."
The feather rose. Just a little.
Then spun.
Once. Then again — faster, sharper — now glowing faintly green at its edges.
Bertram blinked.
"Wait, it's not—"
The feather jerked sideways and struck his desk.
In a split second, the entire desk lifted off the ground, levitated high into the air — and then smashed into the ceiling, exploding with a blast of wooden shards and parchment.
CRACK!
Screams broke out.
Ink sprayed over three students.
Flitwick was thrown backward onto the floor, his wand clattering beside him.
For a breath, no one moved.
Then: Bertram began to cry.
"I... I didn't mean— I didn't do anything—!"
Professor Flitwick scrambled up and rushed to his side. He gently put a hand on the boy's arm — not angry, just shaken.
"It's alright, Bertram," he said softly. "No one's blaming you."
He looked at the ceiling — now cracked — and then the blackened spot on the floor where the desk had been.
No one knew what had caused it.
And no one said a word.
Flitwick steadied himself. His smile didn't return.
"That will be all for today."
Several hours had passed since the Charms incident, but the silence it left behind still lingered.
Now, under the fogged glass roof of Greenhouse Three, the air was heavy with the scent of soil, moss, and something faintly metallic.
Students worked in pairs at long wooden benches, repotting clusters of Fluttervines — delicate plants that vibrated softly when touched and were known to hum in harmony with human voices.
Professor Sprout moved between them with her usual energy, sleeves rolled up and hands stained green.
"Nice and gentle, everyone! Fluttervines don't respond well to rough handling."
At the second bench, Lily Evans bent over a small, tangled plant whose leaves shimmered with silver veins.
"You're lovely," she whispered. "Let's not give me trouble today, yeah?"
She reached for it.
Just as her fingers brushed the stem, the vine snapped back violently — far more force than it should have had — and let out a scream.
Not a rustle.
Not a creak.
A human-like, piercing scream.
The entire greenhouse froze.
A moment later, more plants reacted — shaking, pulling at their soil, vines rising into the air like whips.
One lashed across the aisle, knocking a Slytherin boy flat on his back.
Another curled around a watering can and flung it across the room.
"What's happening?!" someone yelled.
"Back away from the benches!" Sprout barked, drawing her wand.
She muttered rapid spells — Containia! Rootia Repel! Immobilior! — each one slamming into a writhing vine with bright flashes of light.
Slowly... the plants settled.
Their leaves drooped. The air grew still again.
And then someone gasped.
Everyone turned toward Lily's bench.
Etched clearly in the soil beneath the Fluttervine roots, as if burned by magic:
WE ARE NO LONGER SAFE, DANGER IS COMING
A silence swept through the greenhouse. Even the wind outside seemed to pause.
Professor Sprout stared at the message, her wand trembling slightly in her hand.
"That's enough for today," she said, voice barely above a whisper.
"Everyone... back to the castle."
The greenhouse had long since emptied, but Professor Sprout remained behind, staring at the words carved deep into the soil.
WE ARE NO LONGER SAFE
DANGER IS COMING
The letters hadn't faded.
They sat like wounds in the dirt — unnatural, too perfect to have been made by any root or hand.
Sprout didn't know what disturbed her more: that she had no idea how the message got there... or that something in her gut told her it was meant to be seen.
She didn't waste time.
By sundown, every professor still on castle grounds had gathered inside the greenhouse.
Flitwick stood quietly near the edge, his usual spark missing.
Slughorn arrived late, mopping sweat from his brow with a silk handkerchief.
McGonagall stepped forward first, eyes narrowed behind her square spectacles.
"You're certain no one tampered with it?" she asked.
"Positive," Sprout said. "It happened right after a surge of magical activity. The plants went wild — I've never seen them react like that. And when they settled... this was there."
She motioned to the soil.
There was a long pause as the professors stepped closer, each of them reading the same six words.
WE ARE NO LONGER SAFE
DANGER IS COMING
Flitwick looked around uneasily.
"It's not a prank. No student I know could pull off this kind of control."
Slughorn muttered, half to himself,
"Or would want to."
Sallow stood near the back, silent and unreadable.
McGonagall's lips tightened.
"Two unexplained magical events. One message. And the Headmaster is still away."
Sprout nodded slowly.
"We need to decide what comes next."
The candles above the Great Hall burned lower than usual that evening, casting long shadows across the enchanted ceiling. The stormy clouds above flickered unnaturally, pulsing now and then with veins of pale green lightning — silent, but unsettling.
Dinner was quieter.
Conversations were hushed. Every clink of cutlery seemed louder than it should have. Eyes darted to professors more than food.
Tom Riddle sat still at the Slytherin table, untouched plate before him.
James Potter watched from Gryffindor's end, unusually quiet.
Even Lily glanced toward the teachers' table with a frown that hadn't left her face since Herbology.
Then —
the great oak doors creaked open.
Professor McGonagall strode in, robes swishing, face pale and tight. Behind her came Professors Flitwick, Sprout, and Slughorn. Professor Sallow entered last, hands behind his back, eyes unreadable.
McGonagall stopped before the staff table and raised her wand. A sharp ring echoed through the Hall — all voices stopped.
"May I have your attention."
The silence that followed was immediate. Even the ghosts froze.
McGonagall's voice was calm, but cold — clipped with something few had ever heard from her: urgency.
"There have been... several magical disturbances today. Unusual, unpredictable, and in two cases, dangerous."
A ripple passed through the Hall.
"At this time, we do not know the cause. However, the safety of our students is — and always will be — our highest priority."
Her eyes swept the four long tables.
"As of this moment, all students are to return to their respective dormitories immediately after dinner. You are to remain there until further notice. No evening strolls. No hallway wandering. No exceptions."
She let the words settle.
"Prefects will do headcounts. Any student found outside their common room after curfew will face immediate disciplinary action... and will answer directly to me."
There was a long pause.
Then —
"Dismissed."
No one moved at first. It felt like the room itself had to exhale before anyone could stand.
Slowly, students rose. The usual scraping of benches sounded like thunder.
Whispers filled the air.
But the air itself...
still didn't feel safe.
The entrance to the Slytherin common room hissed open as the last of the green-robed students filtered in, their footsteps echoing through the low-lit chamber carved beneath the Black Lake.
The room, usually buzzing with whispers and rivalry, was now eerily quiet.
A cold draught crept along the stone floor.
At the center of the room stood Magnus Rosier, the Fifth-Year prefect — tall, broad-shouldered, with a pinched expression like he'd rather be anywhere else.
He cleared his throat as everyone gathered.
"Listen up," he said sharply. "You heard McGonagall. No one is to leave their dorms tonight. Not for any reason."
A few groans rippled through the crowd.
"What's going on?" Avery asked, arms crossed. "Is this a prank?"
"Yeah, what danger? Nobody tells us anything," Mulciber muttered.
"It's just a broken plant and a floating desk!" someone snapped from the back. "Now we're locked down like prisoners?"
Rosier raised a hand, silencing the room.
"I'm not here to explain it," he said coldly. "I'm here to enforce it."
"If you're caught wandering, you'll answer to McGonagall. And believe me — she's not in the mood for excuses."
Lucius Malfoy leaned back on one of the long green couches, arms folded behind his head.
"Tch. Overreacting. I say let the Gryffindors get caught. They'd probably deserve it."
A few laughed — half-heartedly.
But the fear was there. Under the surface.
Even the fire in the hearth crackled softer than usual.
Tom stood near the corner, silent, watching the others. He wasn't confused like they were.
He was unsettled — not because of what they said, but because something inside him agreed:
We are no longer safe.
Meanwhile...
The Gryffindor common room glowed with warmth, but James Potter couldn't feel it.
He sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, the flickering firelight dancing in his eyes. Sirius sat beside him, unusually quiet for once.
James's voice was barely a whisper.
"Riddle... he was talking to someone. A man. Or something that used to be a man. It changed... came from a snake."
Sirius didn't laugh.
Didn't scoff.
Just stared.
"Do you think he's connected to all this?"
James didn't answer.
But deep inside...
he already knew.
Beneath them, far under the stone and shadow of the lake, Tom Riddle lay on his bed in the Slytherin dormitory, eyes open in the dark.
The room was quiet now.
The others had fallen asleep — all except him.
His fingers traced the edge of the small black box resting beside his pillow.
"You are the heir of ruin..."
The voice still echoed in his mind. Not loud. Not clear.
But present.
And the worst part?
It didn't feel like a lie.
He didn't understand what the serpent-man was...
or why he had chosen to speak to him.
But Tom knew this:
The message wasn't just for anyone.
It was for him.
"I didn't ask for any of this..." he whispered.
But no one answered.
Above him, across the ceiling, a faint shadow flickered.
That night, sleep came for Tom slowly... then dragged him under like cold water.
The darkness wasn't sudden.
It crept in — quiet, suffocating, familiar.
And then the dream began again.
The one he'd hoped was finished.
The world around him twisted — a storm of black robes, dead faces, and screaming flames.
Hands reached for him, long and shadowed, from behind walls that bled.
Snakes slithered beneath his feet, hissing in voices that spoke no language he knew — yet he understood them.
Ahead of him...
A figure.
Cloaked. Faceless. Waiting.
Behind the figure, the world split open — and through the crack, he saw something worse than fire.
He saw Lily.
Lying still.
Eyes wide.
Unmoving.
"You can't stop what's in your blood..."
The voice wasn't the serpent-man's this time.
It was older. Echoing. Like it came from the bones of the castle itself.
"You carry a name that does not belong to the light..."
Tom tried to run. His legs didn't move. He was frozen — as if the dream had become a tomb.
The hooded figure raised its hand...
And then—
GASP
Tom snapped awake, breath caught in his throat, cold sweat soaking his collar.
His chest heaved as he sat upright in bed, heart racing.
The dormitory was dark and still. Only soft breathing from the other boys filled the silence.
But something wasn't right.
The black box on his nightstand was glowing.
Soft. Green. Pulsing slowly.
Like it was... breathing.
The glow grew stronger.
Pale green light pulsed through the gaps in the black box's seams — rhythmic, like a heartbeat.
Tom stared at it, breath shallow.
It wasn't humming.
It wasn't whispering.
It was... calling.
Not with words.
But with pull — like an invisible hand curling around his chest, tugging him forward.
He reached out slowly.
The moment his fingers touched the surface, the box grew ice-cold.
And then—
the air around him exploded into a swirl of black fumes.
There was no sound. No flash. Just a whoosh of shadows, and Tom was gone.
Vanished.
The dormitory was silent once more.
Except...
One pair of eyes were still open.
Severus Snape, lying in his bed just a few feet away, had been awake the entire time.
He had seen it all — the box, the glow, the smoke.
His eyes were wide. His breath caught.
But he didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He simply lay there...
Terrified.
Severus lay frozen beneath his blankets, eyes wide open, staring at the space where Tom had vanished.
The dark fumes had long since faded, but the echo of what he'd just seen still clung to the room like mist.
His fingers trembled.
He'd seen spells. He'd read books.
But that...
That wasn't ordinary magic.
That was something else.
Something wrong.
He waited.
One minute.
Then two.
No sound. No return.
What if he doesn't come back?
What if I imagined it?
No. I didn't.
At last, he slipped quietly out of bed, feet landing soft on the cold stone floor.
Every breath he took sounded too loud in the stillness.
He padded across the room, past Lucius, Mulciber, and Avery — all still asleep — and opened the heavy wooden door to the corridor beyond.
In the flickering green torchlight, he paused at the stairwell that led to the common room.
His voice came out barely louder than a whisper.
"Rosier..."
"Prefect Rosier?"
No answer.
He moved faster now, down the steps, heart hammering.
He had to find someone.
Because whatever just happened to Tom Riddle...
Wasn't normal.
And Severus Snape didn't want to be the only one who knew.
While the castle slept and Severus Snape slipped through shadowed halls in search of the prefect, Tom Riddle was no longer in Hogwarts.
He had vanished from his bed in a swirl of black fumes — and now, he stood in silence, the world around him rebuilt from mist and memory.
It wasn't a place.
It was a presence.
Thick black fog curled around his feet and stretched endlessly in every direction. There was no sky. No ground. Just a space that existed... and waited.
The black box had vanished from his hands.
The air was cold and humming. And then—
It began.
The mist shifted like fabric in water, folding back on itself to reveal visions, echoes, and fragments of a life that wasn't his...
The mist thickened around Tom's feet, curling like fingers, drawing him deeper.
He didn't walk — not really — but he moved forward all the same.
And the visions began.
A wooden door appeared in the fog. Crooked. Rotting.
It creaked open without touch.
Inside, he saw her — the girl with green eyes — maybe ten or eleven. Small. Filthy. Beaten down by the world.
She sat hunched in a dark corner of a collapsing shack, clutching a doll made of sticks and thread.
A man's voice boomed from the other room. Cruel. Spitting.
"Useless girl! Get out of my sight!"
She flinched but didn't cry.
When the man passed by the doorway, Tom caught a glimpse of his face — twisted, angry, cold.
He looked like a Gaunt.
The girl reached into the shadows and drew out a tiny wand — nothing more than a splinter of wood.
She pointed it at the door.
"Let them all disappear," she whispered.
The door slammed shut — and locked itself with no spell.
Screams followed. Muffled. Then silence.
And just like that, the vision crumbled.
Some black fog reappeared
Now she was older — maybe fifteen — standing before a shattered mirror, brushing her tangled black hair. Her eyes burned with something bitter... and hungry.
She stared into the broken glass, whispering to her reflection.
"I will not be forgotten."
The room behind her was lined with old, rotten portraits. Eyes scratched out. Dust and decay everywhere.
Then — the mirror flashed.
And instead of her reflection... Tom saw his own face.
He gasped.
The mist blinked again.
The fog swirled again.
Shapes formed in smoke — jagged stone walls, splintered wood, and the scent of wet earth. It was a shack, but not abandoned.
Two figures stood inside.
The girl — now a teenager, eyes dark and wild — and a man hunched by a fire, his beard tangled like roots and fingers twitching over a cracked ring.
"We're Gaunts," the man rasped. "Direct blood of Salazar Slytherin. This world has forgotten what we are."
"Then we'll make them remember," the girl said quietly, but with venom in her voice.
Tom stepped closer, staring into the illusion.
The man was Marvolo Gaunt, and though Tom didn't know the name yet, the ring on his hand glowed faintly with something ancient.
"The Muggles grow bolder," Marvolo snarled. "Filth in our alleys. Squibs in our families. This world is sick."
"Then we burn it down," the girl whispered.
The fire in the hearth flickered green.
Marvolo reached into a chest and pulled out a rolled parchment.
"The names. The towns. The blood-traitors. We start in the East."
"And when they fall?" the girl asked.
He turned to her with a grin missing several teeth.
"Then the wizarding world will beg for the return of the old ways."
Tom could feel it — the hatred that lived in the room. It wrapped around them, fed on them.
This wasn't just vengeance.
It was doctrine.
Fanaticism.
A family curse.
The girl stepped forward and placed her hand over her father's — sealing the parchment between them.
"The Gaunts will rise again."
The vision pulsed once — and faded.
But it left something behind.
Continues in the next part.