The first sign was not sound—it was feeling.
A deep, resonant ripple ran through the stones underfoot, as if the entire castle had taken a single, sharp breath and held it. The air thickened, heavy with the scent of ozone and old magic. Then came the chime.
It wasn't loud, not at first—a single, pure note that seemed to emanate from the very walls, echoing through every classroom, corridor, and staircase. Then it deepened, resonating in their bones, a haunting hum that made quills roll across desks and inkpots shatter on the floor.
In the library, the stunned silence lasted only a second before it shattered into panic.
"That's the alarm!" a Hufflepuff shrieked, scrambling to her feet.
"The doors!" a prefect yelled, his voice cracking with urgency.
Madam Pince moved with a speed that belied her age. She slammed the main ledger shut, her face a mask of grim determination. "Prefects! To the doors! Now! Get everyone inside!"
Chaos erupted at the entrance. Students poured in from the corridor, their faces pale with terror, colliding with those trying to see out. Through the fray, Shya saw Professor Vector, her robes askew, physically shoving a group of terrified first-years across the threshold. "Inside, all of you! Move!"
A flash of russet feathers shot past Shya's ankles—one of Hagrid's roosters, its eyes wild, seeking refuge from the bedlam. It wasn't alone. Two more scrambled in, wings flapping, adding their frantic crows to the cacophony of screams and slamming doors.
"That's it! Seal it!" Madam Pince shrieked, and a pair of seventh-year Ravenclaws threw their weight against the heavy oak doors. As they swung shut, Shya caught a final, heart-stopping glimpse of the corridor: professors wading through them, their wands raised, faces set in lines of fierce protection.
The doors boomed shut. A complex web of silver runes flared to life across the ancient wood, burning with cold, protective light. The sound from the outside became muffled, distant, as if they were suddenly at the bottom of a deep, quiet sea.
Inside, the only sounds were ragged breathing, muffled sobs, and the distressed clucking of the roosters. The golden sconces flickered and died, replaced by a soft, blue-white luminescence that bloomed from the walls themselves. The great hourglass in the center of the room began to hum, its sand glowing with an unearthly light as the library's ancient defensive enchantments settled over them like a shroud.
Madam Pince stood before the sealed doors, her chest heaving, wand held aloft. Her hawk-like eyes swept over the huddled mass of students.
"The library is secured," she announced, her voice magically amplified, cutting through the fear. "No one enters, and no one leaves until the all-clear is given. You are in one of the safest places in Hogwarts. The castle itself will protect you now."
A first-year nearby whimpered, and Talora instinctively put a steadying hand on the girl's shoulder. Shya's gaze was fixed on the sealed doors, her mind racing, imagining what horror could have triggered such a response.
Luna, seemingly unperturbed, watched a rooster settle atop a stack of books on defensive magic. "They know," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. "The animals always know first. The castle's heart is angry."
The library, once a place of quiet study, had become a fortress—its walls alive with protective enchantments, its air thick with fear, and its new, feathered guardians standing watch from the shelves.
The corridors outside the sealed doors of the library were silent — the kind of silence that carried weight. The wards still shimmered faintly across the stones, old magic humming through the castle's bones, responding to a threat that only it could sense.
By the time the last chime faded, Dumbledore was already moving. His long robes swept through the corridor like a shadow of purpose, wand alight with a thin, golden glow. The Heads of House followed in tight formation — McGonagall quick and precise, Sprout a storm of earthy determination, Flitwick's small form radiating tension, and Snape, silent and predatory, his wand already drawn.
They turned the final corner, and the source of the alarm came into view.
Water ran in rivulets across the stone floor, trickling down the stairs in thin, shining sheets. The torches flickered low and strange, their light warped by the moisture that steamed faintly from the air. The door to the second-floor girls' bathroom hung slightly ajar, an unnatural chill seeping through the gap.
Dumbledore slowed. "Minerva," he said quietly.
She stepped forward, wand raised, murmuring a revealing charm. A thin veil of magic shimmered over the door — a residue of power, deep and old. "Headmaster," she said under her breath, "the wards were right. Something powerful was here."
"Still is," Snape muttered. His eyes had narrowed, the familiar sharpness in them honed by something colder — fear disguised as anger. "This magic isn't recent. It's ancient."
Sprout shivered, glancing around. "It feels wrong. Like the earth under the stones is awake."
Dumbledore nodded once. "Precisely why we do not enter hastily." He lifted his wand. "Hogwarts herself is protecting us. Proceed carefully."
The door swung open with a low, echoing creak.
The sight that met them was uncanny.
The floor was half-flooded, reflecting the flickering light like a dark mirror. The faucets of the sinks were running, but the water didn't ripple naturally — it pulsed faintly with a rhythm, as if something beneath were breathing. Myrtle hovered near the ceiling, her translucent form dim with distress, great tears falling soundlessly into the pool below.
"Oh, it's you," she said miserably. "Come to stare too, have you? Everyone does!"
"Miss Warren," McGonagall said briskly, stepping into the room. "We're not here to stare. Tell us what happened."
Myrtle sniffed dramatically. "I don't know! I was here like always, and then I heard it — hissing, awful hissing, right through the pipes. The walls shook, and then the water just—" She gestured helplessly at the flooded floor. "—exploded! I thought the ceiling would fall!"
Sprout frowned deeply. "The wards reacted to the creature's movement. It must have passed near this level."
"Or emerged," Snape added quietly.
He crouched near the sinks, gloved hand hovering just above the water. His reflection stared back at him, rippling unnaturally — the surface shimmered like something alive. "It came from here, not past it. The energy is concentrated beneath."
Dumbledore approached, his blue eyes scanning the floor, the fixtures, and finally the faint shimmer of protective enchantments barely visible in the torchlight. "Yes," he murmured. "You feel it too. The magic here is older than the castle's wards themselves."
As if to punctuate his words, a faint vibration ran through the tiles, rippling outward like a heartbeat.
"Albus," McGonagall said sharply. "That wasn't—"
"I know," Dumbledore said, his tone calm but taut. "We are standing over something very old indeed."
A sudden shout echoed from the corridor. "Headmaster!"
Professor Sinistra came running, her long midnight-blue robes damp at the hem. "We've found a student— down the corridor—"
She stepped aside, and there he was.
Harry Potter.
Soaked to the knees, hair plastered to his forehead, a water-stained book clutched tight in his hand.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Snape's expression hardened. "Of course."
Harry swallowed. "I— I saw the water from the stairs. I thought someone might be—"
"Hurt?" Snape finished coldly. "And naturally, rather than alerting an adult, you decided to launch your own heroic rescue mission?"
McGonagall's lips pressed thin. "Severus—"
"Don't you Severus me, Minerva!" he snapped, his control finally fraying. "Every time chaos strikes this castle, who do we find at its center? Potter! Wandering the halls alone during a lockdown!"
Harry's voice shook. "I wasn't wandering! I just—"
"Enough."
Dumbledore's quiet word cut through the argument like steel through silk.
He stepped forward, extending a hand toward the book in Harry's grasp. "May I?"
Harry hesitated, then handed it over.
Dumbledore turned it over carefully. The cover was dark, slick with water, the ink on its title almost completely faded. He opened it. Blank pages. Not a word of text.
"Curious," he murmured. "No immediate magic. But this—" he looked at the cover again, "—has been enchanted before. The residue remains."
Snape's gaze was sharp as a blade. "That boy is the only known Parselmouth in this castle, and now he's caught standing over the chamber's very entrance with a cursed book. Convenient, isn't it?"
Dumbledore didn't look up. "Known being the operative word, Severus. And the wards were already awake before Mr. Potter's arrival. Whatever tripped them was here first."
He shut the book with a soft, definitive sound and tucked it beneath his arm. "This will remain with me until I determine its nature."
Harry's face flushed. "But I didn't—"
Dumbledore's tone gentled, but his authority was absolute. "I believe you, Harry. But belief and proof are separate things. For now, this is safest in my keeping."
He turned slightly toward McGonagall. "Please escort Mr. Potter back to his common room — with a prefect, and a house-elf if necessary. No more solitary ventures."
McGonagall inclined her head, already stepping forward. "Come along, Potter."
Snape's dark eyes still burned with doubt. "And if he is lying?"
"Then Hogwarts herself will tell us," Dumbledore said simply, turning toward the door.
The wards around the room pulsed faintly, a shimmer of acknowledgment.
For a long moment, no one moved. The sound of dripping water filled the silence — slow, rhythmic, like a heartbeat in the stone.
Finally, Dumbledore spoke again, his voice low and grave.
"The castle is watching. And whatever lies beneath it… is awake."
The shimmering gold of the wards faded into silver, then slowly vanished, leaving only a faint ozone scent in the air — the kind that followed lightning. The library was dead quiet for a heartbeat before the whispers began, nervous and speculative, ricocheting from table to table.
"Maybe Peeves set it off again."
"No, it felt different—my wand hand went numb."
"I heard someone fainted near the third-floor corridor."
"Don't be thick, it was the dungeons. You could feel the floor shake."
No one really knew, and that made it worse.
Madam Pince stood ramrod-straight at the doors, wand glowing like a warning flare. "Stay seated!" she barked. "No one leaves until a prefect arrives. If I catch anyone near the exit, I will personally hex your shoelaces together for the rest of term!"
At their table, the group sat in taut silence. Quills and parchment lay forgotten.
Shya's fingers tapped against the spine of her book. "That wasn't Peeves," she said quietly. "Whatever it was… the castle didn't like it."
Talora's eyes flicked to the tall windows, where torchlight wavered like breath behind the glass. "The wards felt alive. Like they were trying to warn us."
Luna, serene as always, hummed faintly. "They did. They don't usually hum that loudly unless they're frightened."
Padma frowned. "You're saying Hogwarts got scared?"
"Maybe," Luna replied softly. "Or maybe it's just… awake."
The sound of footsteps finally broke the tension. Two prefects appeared at the doors, giving Pince a brisk nod. "Halls are secure. Everyone will be escorted back by year groups," one announced. "Quickly, please. No wandering."
The group stood, joining the long line filing toward the exit. As they passed the threshold, Shya glanced back once at the dim shelves and thought, for the briefest moment, she heard the faint pulse of magic still whispering through the air.
By morning, the castle had transformed again. The professors had convened through the night, and their decisions were swift and absolute.
Not just roosters now — patrols of them, stationed in every corridor, each charmed to crow if disturbed. Hagrid was seen leading a squawking parade of at least twenty-five through the entrance hall before breakfast.
Students were assigned walking partners, officially logged by prefects. Moving between classes now resembled military drills: two lines, single file, professors at the front and back. Even the staircases were locked in place.
Free time was nearly abolished. Clubs were suspended. Meals were shortened. Library visits required a signed note and an escort. Every classroom door bore new protective runes that shimmered faintly like liquid glass.
The air was still thick with fear, but after several uneventful weeks, a fragile rhythm returned.
Which, naturally, was when Lockhart decided that Hogwarts needed cheer.