The wind stopped.
It didn't fade. It didn't shift.
It vanished — like the sky itself was holding its breath.
Minerva McGonagall stood just beyond the gates of Hogwarts, wand gripped tight. Her jaw locked, lips a line. She wasn't blinking.
Beside her, Professors Flitwick and Burbage stood still as statues — neither speaking, both watching the sky.
And above them... it cracked.
No thunder. No lightning.
Just a ripple — slow and soundless — like something ancient had split the clouds open.
The first figure descended.
No broom. No wings. No magic they could see.
A black cloak. Arms folded. Head bowed.
He drifted like a ghost — and landed without sound.
Then came another.
And another.
Seven.
Ten.
Twelve.
Each figure floated from the sky, robes untouched by the wind, faces hidden beneath their hoods. They aligned in a silent arc across the courtyard — unmoving. Watching. Waiting.
No one dared speak.
Then the final figure appeared.
He descended slowly.
Deliberately.
Heavier than the rest. And when he landed, the ground itself gave a low groan — like the castle had felt it too.
His robe was edged in silver thread — a faint glimmer in the fading light. A coiled serpent. A broken ring.
But it wasn't the crest that made Minerva's breath hitch.
It was the eyes.
For only a flicker — beneath his hood — they glowed.
Green.
Not soft. Not kind.
Venomous. Burning. Ancient.
Minerva took half a step back.
Burbage whispered, "That can't be..."
Flitwick shook his head slowly. "It's not possible. The line—"
But no one finished the sentence.
Because they all felt it now.
The weight.
The wrongness.
The way the castle had gone cold.
Still... McGonagall hesitated.
Her voice came out hollow.
"It... it might not be them."
No one responded.
Because deep down, none of them believed that.
And somewhere behind them, the doors to Hogwarts creaked—
as if the castle itself was preparing to scream.
The final figure stood still.
The others flanked him like pillars — silent, unmoving, waiting.
Not a single spell had been cast.
Not a single threat spoken.
And yet the castle felt as though it were about to crack.
Then—
He spoke.
His voice did not echo.
It didn't rise or fall.
It slid — like oil through the air, ancient and dry, but clear.
"The serpent does not howl when it returns to its nest."
Minerva's jaw clenched.
"The blood that sleeps in stone may still remember its name."
Behind her, Flitwick's wand trembled slightly. He lowered it a fraction — not in surrender, but in fear.
"There is no lock without a key.
And no heir without the weight of bone."
The figure's face was still hidden, eyes dim beneath the hood — but it felt as if he were speaking through them.
To the castle.
To something beneath the castle.
"The voice will call again.
And the silence will answer."
Minerva glanced to her side.
Burbage's lips were parted, her breath short.
"He who walks the path of shadow may yet wear light —
but only after the fire forgets his name."
The wind didn't move.
The air had frozen entirely.
And then — as if the sky itself had grown impatient — the clouds above twisted inward, closing over the broken seam.
The Gaunts did not vanish.
They simply stood.
Waiting.
As if the prophecy had been spoken... and now, something had to answer.
The final Gaunt's voice faded.
The silence that followed was thicker than before — alive with tension.
The courtyard didn't breathe.
The professors stood frozen.
Even Minerva, wand raised, had not dared interrupt.
And then—
a figure burst through the castle doors.
Professor Sallow.
His cloak billowed behind him like smoke. His eyes blazed — not with fear, but fury.
"Why are you just standing there?" he barked, striding past the others.
Minerva reached out. "Sallow—"
He brushed her aside.
"We've seen this before," he growled. "We know what they are."
"Sallow, stop!"
But he didn't.
He strode forward until he stood halfway between the professors and the circle of hooded figures.
His wand rose — smooth, practiced, vicious.
The Gaunts didn't flinch.
Not one of them moved.
"You want to speak in riddles?" Sallow snarled, striding past the others.
"Then die in silence."
Minerva's voice rang out. "Sallow — no!"
But he didn't stop.
His wand came up, smooth and sure.
There was no rage in his voice — only intent.
"Avada Kedavra."
The words left his lips like a verdict.
A bolt of green light exploded from his wand — so fast, so sharp it seemed to split the very wind.
It hit the nearest hooded figure in the chest.
No scream.
No defense.
No resistance.
Just the sound of a body hitting stone.
Lifeless.
Gone.
The figure crumpled where it stood — a black heap on the ground, its face never revealed.
The others didn't move.
But the courtyard did.
A rumble passed beneath the professors' feet — low and brief, like the stone had swallowed a shout.
Behind Minerva, Flitwick's face had gone pale.
Burbage was frozen in place.
And then—
the Gaunts raised their heads.
All at once.
Together.
And from beneath every hood, a glow ignited.
Not gold.
Not white.
But deep, venomous green — so bright it shimmered like fire behind their eyes.
Minerva staggered back.
"No," she whispered. "He's provoked them..."
The final Gaunt stepped forward.
No wand.
But the air recoiled around him.
The temperature dropped.
And the wind twisted like it had been bent by force.
His voice came like a shadow stretching into day.
"The first blood was not ours."
The fallen Gaunt's body lifted — his cloak rising, folding into the air like smoke caught in wind.
It changed.
Formed.
Reshaped.
Twisted into something with limbs... and eyes... and breath.
And those eyes, too, glowed green.
The final Gaunt stepped forward, his voice calm and cutting:
"You've done well, Morvannon."
Sallow froze.
Minerva's eyes narrowed. "Morvannon...?"
The Gaunt didn't stop.
"We sent you for a reason.
And you have not disappointed."
A beat of stunned silence gripped the courtyard.
Professor Flitwick looked sharply at Sallow. "What's he talking about?"
Burbage's voice trembled. "Morvannon? That's not—no, that's not his name."
Sallow — or what they had known as Sallow — slowly turned to face them.
His expression was unchanged. But his mask had dropped.
His eyes...
glowed green.
Not with rage. Not with madness.
With recognition.
The same glow as the Gaunts.
The same fire as the mist.
The same mark buried deep in Hogwarts' stone.
Minerva stepped back.
"You..." she breathed. "You were one of them... this entire time."
He smiled — cold and quiet.
The kind of smile worn by someone who had been waiting to stop pretending.
Morvannon Gaunt — once called Professor Sallow — turned fully now, his serpent-green eyes glowing in the open courtyard light.
He looked at McGonagall... then Flitwick... then Burbage.
All of them still frozen.
Wands drawn.
Hearts racing.
He smiled — wide now. Cold. Real.
"I taught your children.
I stood beside you in staff meetings.
I watched you pretend this place was safe."
He laughed — quiet and razor-sharp.
"And you never questioned me.
Not once."
McGonagall's hand trembled at her side. "You were one of us..."
"No, Minerva," he said, voice venomous.
"I was never one of you.
I was what this castle was built to suppress.
And still, you welcomed me through the front gate."
Burbage shook her head. "You lied to everyone."
"No. You just didn't listen."
He took a single step closer — not threatening, but towering.
"You're all so proud.
So noble.
So sure that your ancient protections would hold..."
He glanced toward the tower behind them, where cracks had begun to crawl down the stone like veins.
"And yet here you are.
Standing on a crumbling fortress, trying to hold back blood with good intentions."
Flitwick muttered, "What are you planning?"
Morvannon's eyes flared brighter.
"Planning? I'm not planning anything.
The time for planning is over.
We're not coming, little Flitwick...
We're already here."
And with that —
He turned to face the arc of cloaked figures behind him.
He said nothing.
He didn't need to.
As if obeying an unspoken command, each of the Gaunts raised a hand to their hood—
And pulled them back.
The sound of twelve hoods falling was like leaves brushing stone...
But the sight that followed hit like thunder.
Their faces.
Some bore the twisted beauty of ancient bloodlines.
Others were cracked, leathery, warped by old curses or magic too wild to contain.
Eyes burned green in all of them — not like light, but like venom given form.
One had no mouth, just a glowing slit across bone.
Another's skin pulsed faintly, like it wasn't fully flesh.
They looked like ghosts who had refused to stay dead... and monsters who never needed to hide.
The professors recoiled instinctively.
Minerva stepped back.
Even Flitwick gasped.
Burbage put a hand to her mouth, frozen.
And then—
from the far back, behind the line of Gaunts...
Another figure stepped forward.
He did not descend.
He walked.
Slow. Steady.
Like this place already belonged to him.
His hood was already down.
And his face—
Marvolo Gaunt.
Not dead.
Not old.
Not weak.
His eyes glowed the deepest green of all — but they weren't just bright.
They were aware.
He looked directly at Minerva.
Then to Morvannon.
Then, finally, to the castle.
A long silence followed.
No one moved.
No one dared speak.
Everyone felt it — that cold knot in their stomach, that instinctive terror—
Except the Gaunts.
They bowed their heads.
And Hogwarts... groaned.
Inside the castle, the world felt like it had stopped breathing.
The walls were still.
The windows were dim.
And somewhere behind them... the ground had begun to hum.
Tom stood near the archway of the Great Hall, eyes narrowed.
He wasn't looking at anything — but he was seeing something.
Lucius paced behind him, arms crossed, face tight.
"Alright," he muttered. "I get suspense. I get theatrics. But this? This is madness."
He glanced around, lowering his voice. "Did someone curse the weather? Is this a prank? Is Peeves staging a revolution?"
Tom didn't respond.
Lucius stepped closer. "Tom?"
Still nothing.
Tom's eyes were distant, locked somewhere beneath the stone.
"Okay, now I'm worried," Lucius said. "You're doing the thing again — the creepy 'I can hear the walls breathing' thing."
Tom whispered, "I can."
Lucius blinked. "You can... what?"
Tom stepped forward, just one pace.
His fingers brushed the stone wall beside the door.
There was no mark.
Just a silence in his chest —
And his eyes, the only thing he couldn't hide, flickered faintly green.
"I know who's here," Tom said flatly.
Lucius's eyebrows rose. "Who?"
Tom's voice came low. Final.
"My blood."
Lucius stared at Tom for a long beat.
Then—
He burst out laughing.
"Okay, alright, you almost got me. That whole 'I know who's here' delivery? Flawless. Really spooky. You should write for the Daily Prophet."
Tom didn't move.
Lucius chuckled again, but it was thinner now. "You are joking, right?"
Before Tom could answer, footsteps echoed down the hall.
Lily Evans appeared, slowing as she approached them. She didn't say anything at first — just looked at Tom.
And Tom looked back.
Something passed between them.
No words. No expressions. Just a shared quiet — and Lily's eyes narrowing slightly, almost like a warning.
She glanced at Lucius, then back to Tom.
I think something's wrong.
Then, out loud:
"Come with me."
Lucius blinked. "Excuse you?"
Lily ignored him and turned on her heel.
Tom followed.
Lucius muttered, "Seriously? No explanation? Just walk off with—okay, sure, fine, this is normal."
He turned to follow but stopped as two more figures appeared at the end of the hall.
James Potter and Sirius Black.
James raised a brow. "Where's our charming green-eyed mystery heading?"
Sirius grinned. "Following Lily. Which means we're following him."
Lucius groaned. "Oh brilliant. It's a party now."
The four boys and Lily moved through the dim castle corridors.
Up staircases.
Past empty classrooms.
Higher and higher — toward the tallest tower.
None of them spoke.
But the deeper they climbed...
The quieter the air became.
As if the castle itself was listening.
They climbed in silence at first — past statues, old suits of armor, and half-lit torches that flickered oddly.
Until, inevitably...
James spoke.
"So," he said casually, "just curious — where exactly are we going? Or is this a secret love triangle situation?"
Lily rolled her eyes without slowing. "You weren't invited, James."
"I go where mystery goes," he said with a shrug. "Especially when it involves him."
Sirius smirked. "Besides, you didn't not invite us."
Lucius huffed. "They just insert themselves into everything, don't they?"
"Oh I'm sorry," Sirius said, mock offended. "Should we ask for permission next time the castle starts pulsing like it's alive?"
James glanced at Tom. "Still haven't answered the question, you know. How do you know something's wrong?"
Tom didn't answer.
He just kept climbing — eyes steady, steps sure.
Lily looked back at James. "Because he can feel it. Like the castle's humming under his skin."
Lucius muttered, "Lovely. That doesn't sound creepy at all."
They reached the landing of the sixth floor when the staircase jerked beneath them.
Not rotated.
Shoved.
A sharp, unnatural jolt threw them off balance — and before anyone could react, the steps shifted upward violently—
Pushing them all forward.
"Hey—!" Sirius stumbled.
"What is it doing?!" Lucius shouted.
The steps rose again like a wave under their feet — forcing them all up into a dark corridor that hadn't been there a second ago.
At the end stood a tall, curved door. No handle. No inscription. Just waiting.
Behind them, the staircase sealed shut.
Tom stood still.
The others stared.
"What... the hell just happened?" James muttered.
Sirius grinned, though his voice was tight. "I think the castle just decided we're in too deep to leave."
Lily stepped forward slowly. The door creaked open by itself.
And Hogwarts... welcomed them in.
The door groaned open.
A cold breeze slipped out — not wind exactly, but something older. Dust, silence... and a feeling that whispered you don't belong here.
The group stared at the dark passage ahead.
Then James stepped forward, chin up.
"Alright," he said, puffing his chest. "I'll go first."
Lucius rolled his eyes. "Of course you will."
James grinned back. "Bravery, my dear blond nuisance, is a Gryffindor curse."
Without waiting for a reply, he stepped into the darkness.
Tom followed. Then Lily. Sirius. And finally, Lucius, grumbling the whole way.
Inside, everything was pitch black.
Stone underfoot. Cold air. The door behind them shut with a deep clang that echoed like a bell tolling far below.
"Alright," Sirius said slowly. "Not terrifying at all."
Then—
Whoosh.
Candle sconces along the walls burst to life — one by one, down the curved corridor — throwing flickering golden light across the chamber.
And in that moment, they all stopped.
At the center of the room, beneath the high arched ceiling, stood James Potter... in Lily's arms.
Not near her.
Not beside her.
In. Her. Arms.
James blinked.
Lily looked horrified.
Lucius nearly choked. "Well. This escalated."
Sirius grinned like a wolf. "So brave he fainted into romance."
James instantly scrambled away. "I didn't faint!"
"You definitely did," Lucius said.
"I was caught off guard!"
"You were caught," Sirius said. "And by Lily. How poetic."
Lily folded her arms, cheeks burning. "You were trembling."
"I was evaluating magical threats."
Tom, meanwhile, hadn't said a word.
He was looking at the walls.
Not the candles.
Not the drama.
The walls — which now glowed faintly with etched lines.
Serpent lines.
Outside, the wind had died again.
The sky above Hogwarts was quiet — too quiet. The kind of silence that clung to your bones.
Twelve Gaunts stood in a wide arc across the courtyard.
Their hoods were down. Their green eyes blazed.
In the center stood Marvolo Gaunt, unmoving, unreadable.
Professor McGonagall took a step forward.
Her wand was still in her hand, but lowered.
She didn't raise her voice — she didn't need to.
"This is a school," she said. "Whatever quarrel you carry... do not make it with children."
Marvolo didn't answer.
The others behind him remained still — not tense, not loose — just waiting.
Minerva continued, slower this time.
Measured.
"If you've come seeking justice, there are ways.
If you've come seeking peace, there are hands that can reach across bloodlines."
Morvannon — still standing beside his kin — gave a low laugh.
"You still think this is about peace?"
Minerva didn't look at him. She kept her eyes on Marvolo.
"I know what happened to your family.
I know the history buried under these stones.
But you came here for a reason... and if you speak it, perhaps something can be salvaged."
There was a beat of silence.
Then Marvolo's voice — smooth, gravelly — finally emerged.
"Time."
Minerva stiffened. "What?"
He looked directly at her now. His green eyes were steady.
"You speak to buy time.
But time is not yours to borrow."
Flitwick whispered behind her, "He's not going to wait."
Minerva's knuckles whitened around her wand.
"Then give me a reason," she said to Marvolo.
"Why now? Why here? If your war is with blood, then speak to the one who carries it."
Marvolo tilted his head.
"We already are"
The courtyard held its breath.
McGonagall stood firm, wand steady, eyes locked with Marvolo Gaunt's.
Behind her, Flitwick and Burbage waited — silent, tense, unsure if a single word might trigger war.
But Marvolo didn't raise his wand.
He didn't shout.
He simply... spoke.
His voice was low and weathered, but carried like thunder trapped in old stone.
"You speak of peace as if it were ever ours to hold.
You speak of justice as if it were yours to grant."
He took a slow step forward, his robes brushing the cracked courtyard floor.
"For centuries, we were cast into the shadows — not for crimes, but for truths your founders feared.
The blood of Salazar did not fade. It was hidden. Buried. Forgotten... on purpose."
He gestured to the castle — to its spires and towers and walls that had begun to whisper.
"This place was not made to protect children. It was made to protect the world from children like us.
From names that carried power.
From blood that remembered."
McGonagall's lips pressed into a line, but she didn't speak.
Marvolo continued, voice thick with contempt and pride.
"You thought the line ended.
You thought our magic thinned.
But blood doesn't vanish. It waits. It hides until it's called again."
He turned now — not to McGonagall, but to the sky above the towers.
"And now, the blood has answered.
Through visions. Through stone. Through fire and sleep and dreams too ancient to name."
He paused — then faced her again.
"You feel it, don't you? The castle shifting. The wards thinning. The very bones of Hogwarts... afraid."
"Because the heir has awakened."
Flitwick whispered, "Heir?"
Marvolo's eyes flared — proud and final.
"The true descendant of Salazar.
Not raised by Gaunts... but born of us.
The boy the castle called to.
The child who hears what others fear.
The one who stood alone... yet never truly was."
He took one final step.
"My grandson."
A long silence followed.
"Tom.
Marvolo.
Riddle."
Silence.
A cold, brutal silence settled over the courtyard like ash.
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
McGonagall's face had gone pale.
She didn't blink. Didn't speak.
Her wand hung at her side, forgotten.
Behind her, the professors stood stunned — their composure shattered.
Flitwick's voice was barely audible. "Riddle...?"
Burbage covered her mouth. "He's just a boy."
"He always kept to himself," said Vector faintly. "Didn't speak much in class."
Another murmured, "I knew something was off about that one..."
Continues in the next page.