Cain wouldn't say things hadn't gone as he'd imagined.
Months had passed since his arrival in this world, and in that time, Hogwarts had become… familiar. Not comfortable, he doubted it ever would but livable. The days followed a simple pattern. Breakfast in the Great Hall. Classes that demanded focus rather than survival. Lunch then classes again if not then studying in the library. And finally evenings in the Slytherin common room.
You could say he had adapted. That thought sometimes unsettled him.
The dreams still came, of course. Not every night anymore, but often enough that he'd stopped pretending they were coincidence. Rain without clouds. A light that promised rest and delivered nothing. A voice that never raised itself, never demanded only waited for him.
And the image he saw in the Mirror of Erised.
Cain didn't like to think about that.
He told himself it was stress. Lingering trauma. The mind trying to reconcile two lives that didn't fit together. PTSD was a convenient word, neat, clinical, easy to hide behind.
So he hid.
And for the most part, it worked.
Hogwarts moved toward summer without break. Homework piled up. Exams loomed like a distant threat rather than an immediate danger. Students talked more about Quidditch scores and upcoming holidays than anything.
Cain noticed he listened less to people now.
Instead, he listened to the castle.
It wasn't something he could explain not without sounding mad but he was increasingly aware of things. Conversations stopping hastily. Portraits going silent when he rounded a corner, only to resume the moment he passed.
Once, he stopped walking entirely.
A group of painted witches froze mid-laughter, eyes flicking toward him. One of them blinked slowly then coughed and turned back to the others as if nothing had happened.
Cain resumed walking and didn't look back.
---
"You know what the problem with Gryffindors is?" Draco demanded, pacing in front of the fireplace like he was addressing an invisible audience. "They think recklessness is bravery."
Cain sat on one of the low couches, flipping through a book he wasn't really reading. "That's not really a problem. It's more of a lifestyle choice for them."
"You know Potter nearly burned the school down."
That got Cain's attention. "How so?"
Draco scoffed. "He had a dragon."
Cain closed the book. "He had a what."
"A baby dragon," Draco said smugly. "Illegal. Highly illegal. Kept it in that stupid hut like some sort of lunatic."
Cain stared at him for a moment, then nodded. "That's reckless."
"And you reported it," Cain said.
Draco smirked. "Of course I did."
"And got yourself in Detention too."
It was true.
Detention was the word that followed Draco like a shadow for days. He pretended it didn't bother him, but Cain noticed the tension in his shoulders, the way he snapped more easily. Because of what he had witnessed Draco was scared.
After all...
"The Forest," Draco said quietly, staring into the green flames. "They sent us into the Forest."
Cain's fingers stilled. "At night?"
Draco nodded. "With that half-giant."
Cain didn't comment. He'd seen the Forest from a distance. It wasn't a place meant for children.
"There was something out there," Draco continued. "Not an animal. Not like the others."
Cain looked at him. "What kind of something?"
Draco hesitated.
"It was like a ghost," he said finally. "But heavier. Like it pressed on you just by being there."
"And Potter?" he asked.
Draco's jaw tightened. "He froze. Completely useless. Ran the moment it moved."
Cain said nothing.
Draco continued. "I had to pull him away. If I hadn't—"
"I believe you," Cain said calmly.
Draco blinked. He hadn't expected that.
Cain wasn't lying—not exactly. He believed Draco believed his own version now. The scared kid had formed a barrier of lies to protect himself of the image of the wraith haunting his mind, by playing the hero he was in controll of the situation.
---
Cain stood out of it.
He didn't warn Potter. Didn't ask questions or thought about the storyline's progress.
He had learned, not too long ago, that being seen was dangerous.
The end-of-year air felt heavy.
Not oppressive exactly but anticipatory.
Cain noticed it in the way teachers lingered after class. In how McGonagall studied him longer when handing back an assignment. In the way Snape's gaze slid past him, then returned, sharp and assessing.
Dumbledore watched everyone but his gaze lingered on him quite a bit now.
On a Thursday evening.
Cain was walking alone, cutting through a corridor he usually took. The castle was quiet, too quiet for the hour. His footsteps echoed softly against stone.
He slowed.
One of the portraits ahead of him shifted.
Not turned. Not blinked or glitched but Shifted.
The figure inside leaned closer to the edge of the frame as if coming out of it, eyes fixing directly on Cain.
Cain stopped.
The painted wizard looked… old. Older than most. His robes were faded, his expression unreadable.
"Ah," the portrait said softly. "There you are."
Cain felt a chill run down his spine.
"Do I know you?" he asked.
The portrait smiled creeply.
"No," it said. "But the castle does."
Cain's hand twitched at his side, instinct searching for a weapon that wasn't there.
"What do you want," he asked evenly.
The portrait's gaze flicked down the corridor, then back to him.
"It's almost time," it said. "And you're still pretending you can hide."
The torchlight dimmed.
Cain swallowed. "Time for what."
The portrait leaned closer, its painted features blurring slightly, like wet ink.
"To choose."
The corridor lights went out.
Cain rubbed his eyes and let out a slow breath.
'Another hallucination,' he told himself. 'That's all.'
The corridor was lit again. The portrait was silent, frozen in place like any other. No voice. No movement. Just paint and frame and stone.
Cain stood there a moment, listening.
Nothing answered.
He shook his head once and continued walking, forcing his steps to remain even. Fear fed things real or imagined. Whatever that had been, he refused to give it weight.
The end of the year was close.
He could afford to ignore distractions.
Exams took over Hogwarts the way storms took over Limgrave—slow at first, then all at once.
Cain buried himself in revision. Transfiguration theory. Potion recipes. Wand movements he already knew but refined anyway. He slept less, dreamed less. When the rain returned in his sleep, it was distant, muted, easy to dismiss.
The simple self created routine was his shield now.
The Golden Trio faded further into the background of his life. He noticed them only in passing.
They were chasing something.
Cain didn't ask what. He already knew the answer anyways.
A morning, the truth about something hidden from everyone but some was everywhere.
"So it wasn't Snape."
"It was Quirrell," Someone added, their voice sharp with disbelief. "Quirrell. Can you imagine?"
Cain sat with his arms folded, listening.
"So Potter was right," Someone said reluctantly. "About something, at least."
"He nearly got himself killed."
Cain glanced toward the window. 'That never seems to stop him.'
The end-of-year feast was louder than usual for Slytherins.
The Great Hall was filled with celebration and the desperate need to forget how close things had come to going very wrong. Cain sat with the Slytherins, watching as Dumbledore rose from his seat, eyes twinkling as always.
He already knew what was coming.
"And now," Dumbledore said cheerfully, "we must award a few last-minute points."
The Hall leaned in as one.
Cain watched without expression as points were handed out—to Potter, to Granger, to Weasley. To Neville Longbottom, of all people.
The Gryffindor table erupted.
Cain felt no resentment. No anger.
Just distance from it all.
Stories always ended like this. With heroes being crowned and truths being simplified.
---
Packing for home was quiet.
Trunks closed. Owls returned. Goodbyes exchanged with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Cain packed efficiently, folding his robes, wand tucked safely.
He was almost done when a prefect appeared at the dormitory entrance.
"Cain Riven?"
Cain looked up. "Yes."
"You're wanted in the Headmaster's office."
The room went silent.
Draco frowned. "What for?"
The prefect shook their head. "Didn't say."
Cain stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "I'll catch up."
Draco watched him go, unease flickering across his face. "That's… weird timing."
Cain offered a small shrug and stepped into the corridor.
---
The castle felt different now. Not watchful but simply aware of things which were about to happen.
The staircase shifted smoothly beneath his feet as if guiding him. Portraits tracked his movement openly, no longer pretending indifference. When he reached the gargoyle, it stepped aside without needing a password.
That alone sent a chill through him.
The spiral staircase carried him upward.
The door opened.
Dumbledore stood by the window, hands folded behind his back, gazing out over the grounds.
"Ah," he said gently. "Mr. Riven. Thank you for coming."
Cain stepped inside, the door closing softly behind him.
"Yes, Headmaster?"
Dumbledore turned, blue eyes sharp beneath their warmth.
"I was hoping," he said calmly, "we could talk about a few… things you've been very careful not to ask."
Cain felt the air in the room shift.
And for the first time since arriving at Hogwarts—
He wasn't sure routine would be enough.
---
"I was hoping," Dumbledore said calmly, "we could talk about a few… things you've been very careful not to ask. And a few things I am very curious about."
Cain frowned slightly. "I don't understand, Headmaster."
Dumbledore did not answer right away. Instead, he turned and retrieved a large, weathered book from a shelf behind his desk. Its leather cover was cracked with age, the pages yellowed and thick. He placed it gently on the desk in front of Cain.
"This, Mr. Riven," Dumbledore said, "is the Book of Acceptance. Alongside it works the Quill of Acceptance. Together, they record the name of every child who may one day attend Hogwarts—magical or otherwise."
Cain nodded slowly, listening.
"The quill writes a name the moment it senses magical potential," Dumbledore continued. "The book records it. Simple. Elegant. Very old magic."
He opened the book and flipped through several pages with deliberate care, stopping at one marked corner. Dumbledore turned the book so Cain could see.
His name was there.
Cain Riven.
And it was crossed out.
Cain stared at it, confusion tightening in his chest. He glanced up. "Can you guess why your name is crossed out, Mr. Riven?" Dumbledore asked gently.
Cain hesitated. "Is it because… I was accepted?" he ventured. His voice sounded distant to his own ears. The names above his were untouched. Clean. Whole.
Dumbledore shook his head slowly.
"Not quite," he said. "You see, Mr. Riven, the Quill of Acceptance crosses out a child's name for only one reason."
Dumbledore met his eyes.
"If—and only if—the child dies before accepting or rejecting their Hogwarts letter."
The room went very quiet.
Cain's breath caught.
Arise now, ye Tarnished.
Ye dead, who yet live.
The words echoed in his mind with sudden, merciless clarity.
Cain swallowed. "That's… not possible," he said quietly. "I'm right here."
"Yes," Dumbledore agreed softly. "That is precisely what makes this… unusual."
Cain looked back down at the book. At the line through his name. Not scribbled. Not erased. But crossed with certainty.
"When the quill crossed out your name," Dumbledore continued, "it did so with complete certainty. There was no hesitation. No need for correction. It recorded your death."
Dumbledore closed the book.
"And yet," he said, folding his hands atop it, "you arrived at Hogwarts weeks later. Alive. Magical. Fully present."
Cain's fingers curled slowly into his palms.
"So," Dumbledore said, his voice still kind—but now unmistakably sharp beneath it—
"I must ask, Mr. Riven…"
The candles flickered.
"What, exactly, returned in your place?"