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— Gryff

At Hogwarts, it seemed as if the ink took its own sweet time to dry.

Or perhaps that was just how it felt when Celeste found herself at a loss for words. She eased herself into a velvet-cushioned alcove tucked just below the arched window of the Ravenclaw common room, her legs neatly folded beneath her robes, with a roll of parchment spread across her lap. Pale morning light filtered in through stained glass, casting gentle blue and gold hues on the stone floor. Beyond the window, a light mist still blanketed the sky, softening the view of the castle towers into indistinct shapes amid the clouds.

The fire behind her had dwindled to glowing coals, leaving the room bathed in the quiet that only ancient spaces can hold - a quiet full of unuttered thoughts, fine dust, and lingering dreams. Celeste absentmindedly tapped the end of her quill against her chin, a delicate ink stain already blossoming on her finger.

Dear Grandfather…

She paused, letting the words hover, empty yet isolated on the page. There was an abundance of things she could write about - her classes, the floating candles, the way the castle murmured to itself when it was empty. She might mention how her wand practically vibrated with energy during Charms, or the Ravenclaw dormitory ceiling that seemed to twinkle with starlight while they slept. Yet, she hadn't brought her parchment to record the brilliance of stars.

With a careful gesture, she dipped the quill again, more slowly this time. The ink clung stubbornly to the nib, as if unwilling to let itself flow freely.

Dear Grandfather,

I think something is wrong with the wands.

The words stood out sharply against the parchment - direct and uncompromising - though she didn't didn't erase them.
Not mine, not exactly… but something about the way they behave, it's strange. Some flicker before they're even raised. Others flare or falter for no reason at all. I know it has only been a few days and we're still learning, but this doesn't feel like clumsiness.

It's like the wands are… reacting. Or resisting. Like something old has shifted and they don't know how to settle into it. I thought maybe I was imagining it but the feeling hasn't gone away. Yesterday, my wand hummed - just for a moment - before someone else cast a spell across the room.

Have you ever heard of anything like this?

Celeste re-read the lines, which now resembled a secret - a question wrapped in ink, waiting for someone wiser to untangle it. With a gentle flourish, she signed the letter.

With love,

Celeste

She lingered a moment longer, gazing out the window as the shifting light bathed the parchment in a warm, golden glow. A school owl swept past outside, its wings catching the breeze. She decided she'd send the letter before breakfast. The questions might wait a little longer, but they simply would not vanish.

She carefully descended the winding stairs of Ravenclaw Tower, her letter securely tucked in her satchel, her boots making little noise on the stone. The castle was slowly awakening, with sunlight casting long golden streaks across the flagstones, and ghosts drifting lazily through the upper corridors like silk scarves caught in a breeze. The morning air felt cooler, not with the usual autumn chill, but something else, as if the castle itself was holding its breath. Celeste made her way to the Owlery alone.

The spiral tower was chilly and open to the elements, the circular floor littered with old straw and scattered feathers. Dozens of owls gazed down at her from the rafters, their heads silently swiveling. Celeste approached one of the school owls - a sleek barn owl with intelligent eyes - and extended the scroll to it.

"Take this to Ollivanders," she whispered, carefully tying it to the bird's offered leg. "Diagon Alley."

With a strong flap of its wings, the owl took flight, vanishing into the mist beyond the tower's arch. Celeste watched as it disappeared into the pale sky.

He'll know something. He always does.

She turned and slowly descended the tower steps, her hand brushing against the cool stone wall. As she went lower, the castle's atmosphere seemed to shift - from light and airy in the towers to heavier in the halls. By the time she reached the first-floor corridor, the air felt denser. Not exactly darker, but quieter and tense. As she passed a suit of armour, her wand gave a slight twitch beneath her sleeve. Celeste hesitated.

The corridor was empty, with sunlight breaking across the floor in strips of gold and shadow. The armour stood motionless. No sound. No movement. Yet, something lingered - a whisper of magic, just below the surface of awareness, like a low note held too softly to hear. Then, it was gone. Celeste exhaled and continued walking, the echo of her footsteps trailing behind her.

~o~o~o~o~

The dungeons welcomed Celeste with a moist, lingering chill.

She entered the Potions classroom alongside her classmates. Torchlight danced along the stone walls, softly illuminating shelves lined with bottles full of roots, bones, and herbs. The air carried the scents of wet stone, licorice and smoke. She quickly located Harry and Ron near the center bench while Hermione had already set up her parchment beside them. Neville linger uncertainly close to a cauldron that seemed almost too big for him. Celeste settled into a seat a few rows back, unrolling her notes and carefully placing her wand beside her ink bottle.

There was a quiet shuffle of robes. Then an expectant silence.

Finally - he arrived.

Professor Snape swept into the room like a dark ripple made of ink, his billowing black robes moving silently as his presence filled the space even more profoundly than his words.

"There will be no careless wand-waving or foolish incantations in this class," he declared without preamble, his voice smooth yet laced with danger. "I doubt many of you will come to value the precise science and delicate art of potion-making…"

Celeste sat up straighter, her quill poised but still. She wasn't frightened of him, yet there was something in his tone that seemed to constrict the room, as if the very air was being squeezed through a fine sieve.

Snape's gaze glided over the students like a chilling breeze before settling on one target. "Harry Potter… our new celebrity."

A few students chuckled nervously though Celeste remained motionless.

Stepping nearer to the front, Snape asked, "Tell me, Potter - what would I obtain if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Celeste's quill paused over her notes. She immediately recognised the answer: the Draught of Living Death. It was detailed in the third chapter of Magical Drafts and Potions - a notoriously challenging sleeping potion.

Harry blinked and replied, "I don't know, sir."

A slight curl of Snape's lip didn't signal disappointment but rather anticipation. "Tut, tut… fame clearly isn't everything. Let's try again."

His robes whispered as he moved on.

"Tell me, if I asked you to find me a bezoar, where would you look?"

Celeste sensed a ripple of movement nearby - Hermione had nearly risen from her stool, hand twitching eagerly to be selected. Harry, on the other hand, remained silent.

Snape's eyes narrowed. "No idea?"

Still, nothing. Ron Weasley shot Harry a helpless glance.

"Thought you wouldn't crack open a book before class, eh, Potter?" Snape turned back to the blackboard with icy composure. "Let's try something simpler. What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Celeste silently reaffirmed the answer in her mind: there is no difference - they are merely two names for the same plant. Hermione's hand was still raised, trembling now. Harry's silence stretched on, and Celeste offered no response. She could have spoken; she knew she had the answer but this moment was not hers to disrupt. It felt as though she were observing a potion going awry - like offering input would only worsen the situation.

Snape allowed the silence to settle like a thick fog.

"Pity," he remarked coolly. "Clearly, celebrity is no substitute for preparation."

Celeste lowered her gaze to her parchment as Snape returned to the front, his voice already transitioning to the day's instructions. Yet, her thoughts lingered behind his words. She didn't truly know Professor Snape. His reputation had been established long before Hogwarts - brilliant, exacting, and unyielding. Yet today's lesson was different.

It was not just about strict discipline. It was performance - a calculated test staged not to gauge ability, but to draw out vulnerabilities. Harry's stumble wasn't solely a result of laziness. He tripped because the questions were sharp and overly specific for a first lesson, delivered with deliberate intent. Celeste didn't need magic to sense it. Glancing over, she saw Harry intently staring at his cauldron, his shoulders rigid. Hermione had finally lowered her hand with flushed cheeks, and no one dared speak.

Celeste dipped her quill into ink as Snape's voice sliced through the room with sleek, measured precision. "Today you will attempt a simple potion to cure boils," he announced. "I expect some of you to succeed in producing it."

A subtle wave of movement passed by as students began retrieving their ingredients. Celeste focused on her own supplies. The familiar process brought calm to her mind - dried nettles, snake fangs, stewed horned slugs all neatly arranged. She had never brewed a true potion before – nothing like on Snape's syllabus at least - but she'd spent enough hours mixing wandwood salves and stabilizing core tinctures to know the rhythm of magical preparation. With measured care, she crushed her snake fangs even as she watched Harry and Ron scramble over a shared pile of spilled components. Neville was already perspiring over his cauldron.

The room soon filled with the soft clinks of glass vials and the low gurgling of brewing potions. Celeste's potion simmered with a gentle blue haze, well on track and comfortably ahead. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted Hermione finishing her preparations with enviable speed, now urgently whispering instructions to Harry and Ron. Ron carelessly sliced his nettles while Harry's horned slugs threatened to spill over the edge of his desk. Snape prowled skillfully between the rows like a sleek black cat, pausing occasionally to sneer at a particularly clumsy attempt. He stopped behind Neville and hovered, as silent as a shadow. Celeste maintained her rhythm as she stirred her potion counterclockwise.

"Longbottom!" Snape's voice cut sharply through the dungeon like a knife. "Is there a reason your cauldron is nearly melting the table?"

Startled, Neville squeaked as his potion began hissing ominously, large bubbles forming over its rim. Celeste watched him fumble for his wand, panic overtaking him.

She hesitated, then leaned across the aisle, whispering urgently, "Stopper it with the porcupine quills!"

Neville's eyes widened with realisation. He quickly reached for the quills and added them just as his concoction threatened to explode. The potion subsided into the cauldron, its erratic spitting stilled by a sullen burble. Snape spun around abruptly, his gaze briefly meeting Celeste's before settling with a heavy finality on Neville. "Five points from Gryffindor for sheer incompetence," he declared coldly.

A few students snickered while Neville, utterly deflated, sank back into his seat in relief. Celeste lowered her chin and refocused on her parchment.

The class trudged on, with Snape's looming presence strengthening its grip as he circled among them like tightening spirals. Celeste observed him pausing by Harry and Ron's table to scrutinise their wavering potion, pointing out mistakes with an undercurrent of menace. "Are you quite sure this is meant to be purple, Potter?" he asked in a mocking tone. "No? Then why is it?"

After he moved on, Harry's face flushed with anger that nearly matched the hue of his potion. Celeste kept her attention on her own immaculate brew, transferring it with precise care into a small bottle. Yet, an unsettling sensation lingered - as though Snape were still weaving his web of tension throughout the room.

"Clean up your stations," he instructed as the bell rang out clearly through the dungeons. "I will not tolerate slovenly work."

At that, the class erupted into rushed activity; students clattered around as they packed up their equipment, eager to escape Snape's severe glare. Celeste corked her finished potion and gently placed it on Snape's desk for his evaluation. She caught Hermione's eye as she returned to gather her things - a silent look of shared frustration and understanding passing between them. Hermione, too, had known the answers; it was written in every determined line of her face. Meanwhile, Harry and Ron struggled to shove their belongings into their bags. Harry's features were stormy, yet there flickered something else within him - an anger mixed with resolve.

As they filed out of the classroom, Hermione hurried up to Harry, her voice rising in anxious insistence. "I told you, Harry, you should have read the books -"

Ron interrupted with a snort. "Yeah, because that would've stopped him from being such a git."

Celeste watched them leave, feeling the ripples of Hermione's indignation and Harry's frustration trail behind them. She joined the stream of students slowly emptying into the corridor, unhurried as she drifted out of the dungeons.

~o~o~o~o~

Celeste didn't head to the Great Hall straight away.

Instead, she wandered without thinking, her bag filled with books and her wand resting comfortably in its holster at her wrist, as if her feet were guiding her toward a quieter spot. She took a side corridor that curved behind the Charms classrooms, leading her into an older, less frequented part of the castle. Here, the air felt cooler, and the stone beneath her feet had been polished smooth by the passage of time. Not a soul crossed her path.

This hallway was entirely unfamiliar - a narrow passageway with lofty windows and faded banners from a century long forgotten. A subtle scent of parchment mixed with the faint aroma of rain, as though the stones themselves recalled more favourable weather. Then, she sensed it.

A shift - a subtle, immediate change. It wasn't cold or intimidating; rather, it was as if something just beneath the surface of the corridor had suddenly fixed its attention on her. Celeste halted, herwand twitching slightly under her sleeve - not buzzing or tugging forcefully, but warming softly with a low, pulsing thrum against her wrist, much like a heartbeat she hadn't known she was attuned to. Celeste slowly turned towards the wall. At first glance, it appeared ordinary: rugged stone, cracked in places, and darkened with moss near its base but as she drew closer, her breath hitched.

Faint markings revealed themselves - etched lines rather than painted designs, hidden symbols carved so delicately that they might vanish with a blink. There were spiralling runes and overlapping signs; they neither glowed nor emitted a hum, yet they were undeniably present. They carried a sense of familiarity… not from any school lesson or textbook, but from the shop, from Ollivanders. Celeste recalled feeling this once before when she was nine, assisting her grandfather in reorganising a collection of unbonded wands. These were wands that had been crafted but never chosen, lying in their boxes like dormant creatures - quiet, coiled and waiting. When she had picked one up, it had pulsated softly in her hand, as if trying to recall how to come alive.

This wall evoked the same sensation. It wasn't empty; it simply hadn't awakened yet. Still, there was an unmistakable difference. She pressed her hand gently against the stone - avoiding the runes themselves but positioning herself close enough to sense their vibration. Initially, it reminded her of the unbonded wands, but that similarity faded quickly. This was unlike a simple, sleeping wand - it was deeper, darker and felt distant. The only word that surfaced in Celeste's mind to describe it was older.

She stood there for a few moments more, the chill of the corridor brushing against her skin, the feeling fading from her wand like warmth from cooling tea.

She stepped back from the wall slowly, her hand falling to her side.

And as she turned to leave, the word slipped from her lips in a whisper she hadn't meant to say aloud:

"Older."

~o~o~o~o~

By the time Celeste arrived at the Great Hall, everything had transformed once more. The atmosphere was noisy, radiant and warm. Students filled every table, their lively chatter punctuated by the clink of goblets resonating beneath the high, vaulted ceiling. Floating candles swayed with the gentle breeze from the open windows, while the enchanted sky above - mirroring the real one outside - had finally cleared into a soft, silvery blue. Stopping near the Ravenclaw table, Celeste hesitated. Stepping back into such brightness felt odd after the quiet she had just left behind; her thoughts still echoed with memories of stone, runes and a word that clung to her senses like mist. A sense of age, of being older, lingered.

"Celeste!" someone called out.

She turned to see Harry standing near the Gryffindor table, beckoning her over. Hermione and Ron, looking up from their books and parchment, nodded at her arrival as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Blinking in mild surprise, Celeste stepped forward and slid onto the bench beside them.

"Thought you might want a break from Ravenclaw's daily debates," Harry said with a slight grin.

Celeste returned a soft smile. "They're currently arguing about the magical ethics of self-refilling teacups."

"That… sounds exhausting," Ron muttered, casting bewildered glances at the vocal Ravenclaw table as the debate heated up.

Celeste tilted her head. "They're passionate."

"You'd get along with Hermione," Ron added, shaking his head.

"I'm right here," Hermione interjected primly, though a smile tugged at her lips. "Besides, Celeste and I already met on the train."

Across the table, Seamus Finnegan was intently focused on a goblet of clear water, his wand clenched firmly in his fist. "Eye of rabbit, harp string hum… Turn this water into rum!" he declared with a grin.

The goblet let out a hissing sound, followed by a pop. A burst of smoke erupted from its top, and with a loud snap, the goblet split down the middle, sending splashes of charred water across the table. Seamus coughed and said, "Maybe a bit too much wand movement…"

Neville leaned back from the spreading mess, eyes wide. "Did it just explode?"

"A little," Seamus admitted, struggling to hide his amusement.

Celeste blinked, her gaze inadvertently drawn to his wand - slender, pale, with runes etched along its length. A quiet recognition flared in her stomach. That was one of the very wands Harry had tried out at Ollivanders - its phoenix feather core too eager, too fierce. It had even ignited a quill from across the room before he'd uttered a word. Celeste had taken it from his hand herself, murmuring that it was "more suited to someone who likes setting things on fire." And now, it seemed the wand had found its way to Seamus.

Her eyes shifted back to Seamus, who was grinning and shaking off the ash from his sleeve. Celeste couldn't help but smile faintly in acknowledgement - the wand had been right.

Before she could dwell on it further, the sound of fluttering wings filled the hall. The morning post had arrived in a whirlwind of feathers and parchment, with dozens of owls swooping through the enchanted ceiling and between the banners. Among them, a squat brown package, wrapped in rough, crinkled paper, descended gracefully through the air. It landed neatly in Neville Longbottom's lap and Neville looked down at the unexpected delivery with curiosity.

"Gran," he murmured, tugging at the string with his fingers. "She mentioned she'd send me something…"

He pulled out a small, clear glass ball which, after resting for a moment in his palm, filled with a bright red smoke. Across from him, Dean Thomas pointed it out for the rest of the table. "Hey, look! Neville's got a remembrall!"

Ron leaned over. "What's it do?"

"It glows red when you've forgotten something," Celeste told him as she glanced at Neville's gift. She'd seen remembralls before, tucked in the pockets of distracted wand customers who couldn't remember their wand core or payment pouch. This one gave off a particularly urgent hue - as though Neville had forgotten something important.

"It's glowing red now," Dean pointed out.

Neville seemed to deflate. "I just… can't remember what I've forgotten."

Celeste tilted her head thoughtfully before answering, "Your robes," she said gently.

Neville glanced down at himself, realising that his House cloak was missing from the rest of his uniform. His ears turned pink with embarrassment. "Oh," he mumbled. "Right."

Dean chuckled into his juice and even Hermione couldn't help but smile. Celeste gave Neville an encouraging nod before reaching for a teacup. She was just pouring herself a cup of tea when a copy of the Daily Prophet landed in front of Hermione with a flurry of feathers and paper. Hermione quickly unrolled it, using a napkin to wipe some tea from the corner where her own cup had been disturbed in the landing.

Harry peered across the table at it. "Anything interested?"

Hermione frowned as she scanned the headline. "There was a break-in at Gringotts."

Ron straightened up. "No way."

She read aloud: "Gringotts break-in latest. Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts, widely believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches. Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had, in fact, been emptied the same day.

"'We're not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what's good for you,' said a Gringotts spokes goblin this afternoon."

Celeste glanced at Harry who had gone very still.

"Vault 713," he murmured softly.

"Harry?" she asked, her expression quiet but curious.

"That's the vault Hagrid and I went to. Said it was Hogwarts business. Didn't tell me what was in it."

Ron leaned closer, peering at the headline. "Do you think it's connected? Someone broke in right after it was emptied?"

"I don't know," Harry muttered, shaking his head.

Celeste watched him closely, and for a moment, the clatter of the Great Hall faded to the edges. Something shifted in the air - not outside, but inside her. Warmth. Familiar. Not her emotions. Her wand.

It stirred faintly against her wrist again - just once, a single beat of recognition, like it had overheard something it shouldn't have. She glanced down, fingers brushing the wand through her robes. Harry still looked troubled, a crease forming between his brows.

"Whatever it was," Celeste said softly, more to herself than the others, "it mattered."

Hermione gave her a strange look, but said nothing. Celeste fell quiet again, but the echo lingered - inside her chest, inside the wandwood. Something old had shifted and her wand had felt it go.