While laughter filled the Great Hall, the castle's higher floors were quiet, the silence feeling deliberate and watchful.
In the empty Gryffindor boys' dormitory, the fire had burned down to embers. The door, which had been firmly shut, creaked open just enough to allow a sliver of a figure to slip through. It was not a shimmer or a distortion, but a person—moving with a frantic, jerky urgency, as if fighting their own body with every step.
Their footsteps, soft and hurried, pattered against the wooden floor. They didn't go straight to the bedside table.
First, they fell upon Harry's trunk, yanking it open with frantic, clumsy hands. Books, quills, and rolls of parchment were flung aside. A small box of Every Flavour Beans scattered across the floor like colourful hail.
They pulled out robes, shaking them out, desperate fingers searching pockets and seams. A handful of Fizzing Whizbees were crushed under a knee, and a white school shirt, now smudged with dirt from the floor, was tossed over a bedpost.
Feathers from a ripped pillow drifted in the air, settling over the scene of destruction like a soft, mocking snow. Only when the trunk was emptied and deemed a failure did they spin around, their breathing a ragged, panicked gasp in the stillness, and lunge for the bedside table.
Their hand, trembling violently, snatched the black notebook from where it lay. They clutched it to their chest, a sob catching in their throat. This was wrong. This was all so wrong.
But the relief was short-lived.
The moment their fingers made contact with the false book, a silent, invisible trigger was sprung. Up in the Headmaster's office, high above the cheerful noise of the Great Hall, the real diary—sealed behind layers of shimmering gold and violet wards—began to pulse with a dark, hungry light.
The protective runes surrounding it didn't shatter; they simply… dissolved, unspooling into nothingness like smoke. The diary lifted from its prison, hung in the air for a heartbeat, and then vanished with a sound like a dying sigh.
Simultaneously, in the Gryffindor dormitory, the fake notebook in the unknown thief's hands seemed to grow heavy and cold. A ripple passed over its surface. The thief stared at it, confusion breaking through their panic. It felt different. Wrong.
Before they could process it, the air in front of them twisted. The real diary materialized from nothing, dropping into their now-empty hand with a soft, final thud. The switch was complete, executed in less than a second by a magic far older and more cunning than any simple switching spell.
The thief stared, horrified, at the now-authentic book in their hand. This wasn't what they wanted. This was worse. A low, mournful note echoed faintly from somewhere high above—Fawkes's lament, a warning that went unheard by everyone but the portraits, who shifted uneasily in their frames.
With a choked cry, the thief turned and fled, the real diary burning like a brand in their grip, their frantic footsteps echoing back down the deserted staircase.
By lunch, the whispers were a constant, buzzing undercurrent in the Great Hall.
"Someone got into the Gryffindor tower!" a Hufflepuff was saying at the next table, her eyes wide. "They ransacked Potter's things!"
"But that's the strange part," a Ravenclaw countered, leaning in conspiratorially. "The portrait hole wasn't forced. The fat lady wasn't even Confounded. She swears she only let Gryffindors in all morning."
"So it was one of them?" a third student gasped.
"Maybe," a Ravenclaw said, her voice dropping. "But why would a Gryffindor trash their own housemate's trunk? And they didn't take any Galleons or his broom—just some old, blank notebook."
At their table, the group leaned in as the rumor made its way down the benches.
"A blank notebook?" Lisa Turpin said incredulously. "That's what they stole? Of all things?"
Shya drummed her fingers lightly against her cup, her expression narrowing in thought. "What if it was that notebook? The one Dumbledore handed Potter in front of everyone?"
Padma frowned. "It can't just be blank. Dumbledore wouldn't have made such a spectacle of returning it if it didn't matter."
Talora looked up sharply, her tone hushed. "You think that's why someone broke in? To take it back?"
"Would explain why they went straight for him," Roman said, lowering his voice. "They didn't touch anything else."
Cassian's eyes stayed on his plate, but his tone was steady, calculating. "Whoever did it wasn't looking for gold or glory. They wanted something very specific. That means it wasn't random."
Lisa glanced between them, her nervousness plain. "But what if it wasn't just a theft?"
Padma hesitated, then spoke quietly. "You mean… what if whoever took it was the Heir?"
The words dropped like a stone into the air.
The table went still. Around them, the Great Hall was loud and ordinary — laughter, clinking plates, snippets of gossip — but their little circle had gone silent, the weight of that thought pressing down.
Talora swallowed. "If it's true," she said softly, "then it means the Heir's not just clever — they're close. Close enough to walk through the dorms in daylight and take whatever they want."
"Close enough," Shya murmured, "to make the castle let them in."
Cassian finally looked up, eyes dark and thoughtful. "Then Dumbledore's not the only one who knows where that book came from."
The silence that followed was almost tangible — the kind that made even the roosters outside sound uneasy.
The sound of rain filled Dumbledore's office, soft and rhythmic against the tall windows. A faint haze of candlelight glowed over the polished brass instruments scattered across the room — all of them humming quietly, as though in uneasy conversation.
The Heads of House stood around the long table, each bearing the exhaustion of too many sleepless nights. Snape's arms were folded, his expression carved from stone. McGonagall's lips were pressed thin, her quill tapping softly against her notes. Flitwick sat perched on a pile of books, his usually bright eyes shadowed. Professor Sprout wrung her hands, dirt still faintly staining her fingertips.
At the head of the table, Dumbledore read from a parchment — a report from the McGonagall "No signs of forced entry. No footprints. No magic residue. Whatever — or whoever — took that notebook left no trace at all."
Snape's voice cut through the quiet like a blade. "Then we're dealing with someone far beyond a prankster. A student could not have bypassed both house wards and the Headmaster's private seal without help."
Flitwick looked up sharply. "You're suggesting staff involvement?"
"I'm suggesting nothing," Snape replied coldly. "Only that this castle is full of secrets — and those secrets do not vanish on their own."
McGonagall shot him a look. "You think Potter's involved again, don't you?"
Snape didn't flinch. "I think it would be foolish not to consider it. Wherever chaos brews, Potter stands suspiciously near the cauldron."
Sprout sighed, rubbing her temples. "And yet he's a child, Severus. A child who looks like he hasn't slept in weeks."
"Children can be manipulated," Snape said quietly.
"Enough," Dumbledore said softly. It was not loud, but it ended the argument.
He set the parchment down and steepled his fingers, eyes far away. "We cannot allow fear to rule this castle. The wards are strong, but morale is fragile. If we continue to smother the students under these restrictions, they will turn suspicion inward — and toward one another."
There was a moment of stillness. Then Flitwick spoke, tentative but firm. "Then perhaps we ease the tension a little. A gradual return to normalcy. Start with Quidditch. It's public, it's supervised, and it will remind them that life goes on."
Sprout nodded slowly. "And it might help the younger years. The constant patrols — the roosters — it's all becoming oppressive."
McGonagall frowned. "And if we relax too soon? If the Heir is still active?"
Dumbledore's eyes gleamed faintly behind his half-moon spectacles. "Then perhaps the Heir will believe we've grown complacent."
Snape's gaze flicked toward him, unreadable. "You intend to use the students as bait."
Dumbledore didn't answer directly. "I intend," he said quietly, "to give the castle something worth watching."
No one replied.
Outside, thunder rolled faintly across the mountains, and for a moment the candles flickered — the faint pulse of ancient magic brushing the air, listening.