Chapter 13
A single torch still burned in the corridor as Thaddeus d'Aubigny emerged into the stony hush of the Owlery. It was past midnight, the moments when daylight dozes and the entire castle drowses—but for him, sleep had proved impossible. The crisp bite of autumn air flooded his lungs the instant he stepped into the circular tower, the scent of old straw and owl down swirling around him.
Rustling wings stirred overhead, a gentle murmur of beaks tapping against stone. Countless owls lined the rafters—barn owls with bright disc faces, haughty eagle owls, smaller tawny owls blinking in dreamy half-sleep. They watched him with keen eyes that seemed to ask, Why are you here at such an hour?
Thaddeus drew his traveling cloak tighter, bracing against a draft that wafted through the arched windows. With measured care, he retrieved a neatly folded parchment from his satchel. A letter sealed with the d'Aubigny crest. This was hardly his first letter to the new matriarch of House d'Aubigny—his aunt—but tonight it felt heavier than usual. The weeks since his arrival at Hogwarts had been rife with half-glimpsed secrets and ominous pranks. Now, in the small hours, he had discovered something beyond mere mischief, something that hinted at a threat larger than petty student rivalries.
His aunt must know what was brewing.
He singled out his family's owl—an elegant, iron-gray bird perched in the highest recess. A wave of recognition passed between them when his gaze met the owl's. With a soft trill, the creature fluttered down to land upon a battered wooden stand. Thaddeus stroked its speckled feathers and murmured a soft greeting.
"I'm sorry to send you out so late," he whispered, voice hushed in that grand tower. "But this can't wait."
He fastened the letter to the owl's slender leg with careful precision. Inside, he had outlined the suspicious paint fiasco, the uneasy sense in the castle wards, and the possibility that someone—or something—was testing Hogwarts's defenses. Though he had little proof, his instincts insisted that time was slipping away like sand through an hourglass.
Drawing a steadying breath, Thaddeus carried the owl to the nearest window. Outside, night's darkness spread like ink across the grounds, the forest beyond slumbering in silhouette. A few pinpoints of starlight glimmered overhead, half-cloaked by drifting clouds.
"Fly safe," he said, setting the bird upon the narrow ledge. The owl regarded him with solemn eyes, then launched into the open air, wings carving graceful arcs against the gloom. Thaddeus stood a moment, tracking the faint shape until it vanished into the star-flecked sky.
A fresh gust of cold wind sluiced through the Owlery. Feathers ruffled, talons scraped. Thaddeus inhaled the tang of straw and quietly pivoted toward the staircase. He had done what he must. Now the wait began.
Descending from the Owlery toward the dungeons, Thaddeus felt an electric tension beneath his skin—a prickle that skittered along his arms and the nape of his neck. The castle corridors were deserted, but they did not feel empty. Some intangible force lingered in the air, as if the wards themselves vibrated with aftershock.
He paused at a junction near the Charms classroom, gaze flicking left and right. The corridor was cast in watery lamplight, revealing polished suits of armor and silent portraits. Usually, Hogwarts's nights carried a hush that felt ancient, comforting even. Tonight, it felt as though every shadow stretched too far, and each hush was too complete.
What happened here?
It was that same question that had battered his thoughts all evening. He had sensed the quiver of magic when he returned from sending the letter. A tremor, like a single plucked harp string, echoing through Hogwarts's wards. But how? And where?
A whisper of air brushed past him, uncomfortably cold. He let his fingertips rest on the rough surface of the wall, trying to sense the ebb and flow of enchantments. This was a trick he had learned from his father's teachings on curse-breaking—feeling for the magical currents that thrived in old stone.
He almost expected to hear the pulse again, but the wards were silent. Or not silent, precisely, but… uneasy. The magic here bristled as if recently disrupted. He pictured an invisible swirl of energies scattering like startled birds.
He set his jaw, carefully ascending a flight of worn steps that led to another corridor. There must be some trace. Perhaps the culprit had left a scuff, a dark stain, a lingering whiff of hexwork.
Yet corridor after corridor revealed nothing. He walked softly, ears straining for any sound—footsteps, chanting, distant sobbing. But the castle's hush was absolute, broken only by the occasional flicker of torchlight or the shuffle of a portrait occupant turning in their painted bed.
At one point, he paused by a wide window overlooking the grounds. The moon was hidden behind layers of cloud, leaving the lawns below in near-complete darkness. A faint stirring along the Forbidden Forest's edge drew his attention, but no shape resolved itself from the black.
Somewhere in this castle, something happened.
His mind flicked to Bellatrix's cold stare in previous days, to the hush of Elysia's speculation about an unknown saboteur, to the grim expression that had stolen across Andromeda's face the night the kettle changed everything. He realized with a chill that so many pieces hovered at the periphery, and if only he could see them from above, they might form a coherent picture.
Hours slipped by in that quest—if "quest" it could be called. It was more a restless roaming, chasing the faint sense that a heavy footstep had left footprints in the magic. He found no definitive sign. Just an occasional frisson in the air or the creeping sensation of being watched.
He ended up near the Astronomy Tower at one point, half-tempted to climb its spiral stairs. But the vision of the open sky teased him away, for he knew he was running in circles, and the answers would not simply appear on a windy parapet.
By the time he descended again toward the ground floor, a dreadful weariness pulled at him. Fine lines of exhaustion wove across his vision, and every torch-flame seemed too bright against the gloom. He realized the night was nearly gone. If he kept wandering, he might pass the first wave of dawn still empty-handed.
Then again, what else could he do? Return to the Slytherin common room? The notion felt suffocating. His mind was too bristling with questions to face the constraints of that serpentine common space. No—he would see this through.
He found himself crossing the Entrance Hall, footsteps echoing off the marble floor. Just beyond the doors lay the Great Hall, silent in these dim hours. A wave of memory crashed into him: the Sorting Feast a handful of weeks ago, the sly grin on Elysia's face, the new swirl of House alliances. The recollection felt distant, like it belonged to a different life.
A sigh escaped him. Perhaps he was chasing ghosts. Yet I know something is wrong, he told himself for the hundredth time, and if no one else sees it, I must be certain of it, at least.
He placed a palm against one of the great double doors. The wood was sturdy beneath his hand, carved with centuries of swirling motifs. Tentatively, he pushed it open enough to slip inside.
The Great Hall lay in near darkness, the enchanted ceiling showing the last stars of night. Long tables stretched out in solemn rows. The slight glow from the high windows gave faint shape to benches and silver serving-ware. Usually a place of noise and laughter, it now carried only the hush of sleeping echo.
At first, Thaddeus considered it deserted—but then he noticed the quiet scurrying of a house-elf near the dais, checking cutlery for breakfast. The little creature darted a glance at him before vanishing behind a large pillar, spooked by his presence.
He walked slowly down the aisle between the tables. The hush felt profound, as though the hall itself meditated in the hours before dawn. With the wards still unsettled in the back of his senses, he couldn't help a faint prickle of disquiet.
At the Slytherin table, he paused, fingertips grazing the bench. He'd spent so many meals there, fending off curious stares, overhearing the quiet barbs of older students testing his pedigree. D'Aubigny…? But we never knew Arthur had a son. The memory brought a grim smile to his lips.
His father had always been an outlier—celebrated for curse-breaking but notorious for ignoring pure-blood pomp. In contrast, the new matriarch, Thaddeus's aunt, was tradition incarnate: cunning, distant, and unwavering in her belief that House d'Aubigny must keep a vigilant eye on the world. Her letter summoning him to Hogwarts had been cryptic. The subtext was not: Darkness is rising; see what you can discover.
And now here he was, rummaging for clues in the middle of the night, with little to show for it but doubt.
Weariness washed over him, pulling him down to sit on the bench. He closed his eyes, letting the silence of the Great Hall envelop him. In the hush, he felt again that flicker of magical disturbance—a faint bruise in the wards. Or was that only in his imagination now?
Time thinned, and he drifted on the edge of dozing. Flickers of dreamlike images danced through his mind: a swirl of red-stained runes on cold stone, the secret mark etched beneath a magical kettle, the quiet corridors that gave no sign of wrongdoing.
Minutes stretched. Perhaps an hour. And then the faintest glow touched the high enchanted ceiling, an echo of the real dawn creeping across the horizon outside. The Hall's ceiling softened from starlight to a bluish shimmer.
With a low groan, Thaddeus forced himself upright. He had not fully slept, but a half-slumber had stolen some small part of his exhaustion. The entire body of students would soon awaken. They would trickle in for breakfast, bright-eyed or bleary, and life would resume its ordinary rhythm.
But for him, nothing felt ordinary.
There is a reason you're here, an inner voice whispered, beyond coursework and House politics. His aunt's instructions burned in his memory: Watch. Listen. Report. She suspected that events outside Hogwarts—mutterings of war, of a figure rising in the shadows—would soon encroach upon these ancient walls.
He had not believed her then, at least not fully. Hogwarts had always been a fortress of tradition, of security. But now…
He exhaled, feeling the prickle of tension coil in his stomach. The wards might be centuries old, but they were not invincible. If those with enough cunning discovered how to bypass them, then whatever illusions of safety Hogwarts wore would vanish.
And he was here, apparently, to stand at the threshold of that unveiling.
Footsteps echoed in the Entrance Hall. The broad doors groaned open, letting in faint voices. An early wave of students tumbled in—most of them yawning and groggy-eyed, some exchanging quiet banter, a few scanning the benches to pick their usual spots. The Hall began to lighten under the first streaks of day, the torches flaring more brightly in response.
Thaddeus rose, stepping aside to avoid collisions as a trio of younger Ravenclaws bustled past. He caught a whiff of fresh bread and hot porridge; the House-elves had begun to fill the tables with breakfast. Normalcy crept back in, even if the memory of the night still weighed on him.
He nodded at a passing Slytherin fourth-year, who looked mildly startled to see him so early, alone. He offered no explanation. Let them wonder.
Slowly, he drifted toward the side of the Hall, leaning against a marble column from which he could watch the swirl of arrivals. Familiar faces dotted the crowd: a haggard Hufflepuff prefect, a pair of Gryffindor second-years chattering about Quidditch, and older students whispering about last-minute Potions essays.
All so ordinary. All so oblivious.
No one else felt the quake? he thought. Or if they did, they had hidden it behind the mundane swirl of morning routine.
He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling the scents of tea and toasted bread. Then, with a slow release of breath, he reminded himself: Your aunt expects a report. And that unspoken second vow: You are here for reasons deeper than your classmates know.
His mind lingered on the secrets left behind in the corridors—whatever traces there were of powerful, ominous magic. He had found no concrete evidence, but in his gut, he was certain: Something had happened. Something that heralded the approach of greater dangers.
And so he stood there, half-lost in thought, while the Hall gradually filled with the daily bustle: the scrape of benches, the clatter of plates, the hum of conversation building. Across the way, he glimpsed Elysia slipping in with a small group of friends, her gaze searching until it found him. Worry flickered in her eyes. He gave a slight nod, acknowledging he was safe… for now.
But as the chatter of breakfast rose around him, Thaddeus couldn't shake the sensation that the real feast—whatever malicious banquet was being prepared for Hogwarts—had only just begun.
He was here because House d'Aubigny suspected the storm was coming.
He pushed off the column, letting his gaze sweep over the crowd. The sky above, reflected in the enchanted ceiling, glowed with a gentle morning light. A new day, he thought, but no real answers.
And yet, a promise stirred in him—a vow that he would unearth the truth behind last night's disturbance, behind the creeping darkness that brushed Hogwarts's walls. If no one else felt the tremor, then he alone must reveal it.
This was his purpose.