Hogwarts was a castle of secrets.
Albus had known that before he ever stepped foot inside its stone halls. Everyone did. Tales of hidden passageways, rooms that only appeared when needed, and staircases that changed their minds were told in every wizarding home. But knowing a story and living it were two very different things.
And lately, Albus had the distinct sense that the castle wasn't just full of secrets—it was watching him.
The Unmarked Map
The morning after the crack appeared on the floor before the sealed door, Albus barely spoke during breakfast. Scorpius noticed, of course.
"You didn't sleep," he said flatly, slicing a banana with aggressive precision.
"No."
"You look like you haven't slept."
Albus didn't respond.
Scorpius leaned in. "What happened?"
Albus glanced around. The Great Hall was buzzing as usual—students eating, chattering, owls flapping overhead—but he felt strangely apart from it all. Like a shadow in a place of light.
He lowered his voice.
"The mark reacted again. I didn't just dream this time—I went there. In the middle of the night. I touched the door, and the carvings shifted. The floor cracked."
Scorpius nearly dropped his fork. "The floor cracked?"
"Only a little."
"Do you normally minimize ancient magical seismic activity?"
"I didn't do it on purpose."
Scorpius nodded slowly. "Alright. So… you're sleepwalking to cursed magical gates now. Anything else I should know? Start craving raw moonstone? Speaking Parseltongue in your sleep?"
"I don't—wait. What?"
"Joking. Mostly."
Albus sighed.
Fiona joined them at the table a moment later, dropping a leather-bound book on the bench with a heavy thud. "I think I've found something."
Scorpius looked up. "If that's about how to reseal an ancient magical prison, I am all ears."
"It's not," Fiona said. "But it might explain who put it there in the first place."
She opened the book—Founders and Forgotten Arts, gold-lettered and fraying at the edges—and flipped to a chapter marked with three colored ribbons.
"This section details obscure magical practices used during the founding of Hogwarts. Mostly things the founders didn't want in the curriculum."
Albus leaned in.
"Salazar Slytherin was known for two things," Fiona said. "Blood purity—and hidden magic. He believed knowledge should be protected. Hoarded. Only shared with those worthy."
"That part sounds familiar," Scorpius muttered.
"Some scholars think he created private rituals designed to test magical character—gates that would only open for someone with specific magical traits. Not just power. Lineage."
Albus felt something in his chest go tight.
"Are you saying the door is one of those gates?"
Fiona nodded. "I think it's one of five. Like keys to a larger magical structure. And they don't just open for anyone."
She looked straight at Albus.
"They open for someone tied to the old blood."
The Founder's Blood
They spent most of that afternoon in the library, poring over dusty genealogy scrolls and founder-era references. Most were incomplete—water-stained or partially burned—but Fiona was relentless.
Albus watched her work, half in awe, half in dread. She flipped pages with ink-stained fingers and squinted through old-glass lenses as though she were deciphering a curse. Scorpius leaned back in his chair, occasionally muttering things like "well this one definitely died weird" and "does vampirism count as a bloodline?"
Finally, Fiona exhaled sharply.
"Here."
She tapped the page with a trembling finger.
Albus and Scorpius leaned in.
The page was a tattered parchment chart, yellowed with age, listing names in vertical columns with family sigils beside them.
One column was headed 'S. Gaunt'.
Albus's eyes locked onto the name halfway down the list.
Alba Gaunt — married Harfang Potter, 1817.
Fiona's voice was hushed. "The Potters are distantly related to the Gaunt line. And the Gaunts were the last known direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin."
Albus didn't speak.
Scorpius stared at him. "Wait. You're a Slytherin by blood?"
Albus sat back slowly. "I… didn't know."
Fiona nodded. "Most wouldn't. The Gaunts were buried in disgrace. Their name erased from most records after the last of them—Merope—vanished. But the blood stayed."
Scorpius looked between them. "So the mark… the door… the dreams… they're all connected to that bloodline?"
Fiona hesitated. "I think the magic recognized you."
A New Enemy
They were halfway back to the dungeons that evening when they ran into trouble.
Albus rounded a corner and nearly crashed into a tall figure standing directly in the center of the corridor.
A sixth-year boy. Robes pristine. Prefect badge gleaming.
His hair was pale gold, his eyes glacial blue. His wand already drawn.
"Potter," he said. "I've been looking for you."
Albus took a cautious step back.
Scorpius immediately positioned himself beside him. "That's William Travers," he whispered. "Head of Slytherin's Prefect Council. Total prat."
Travers looked them over with the kind of disdain one usually reserved for goblin tax collectors.
"You've been poking around in places you shouldn't," he said. "Some of the older wards are flaring. Headmistress is on edge. You want to ruin your reputation, that's fine. But don't drag the rest of Slytherin with you."
"I haven't done anything wrong," Albus said evenly.
Travers sneered. "That door is sealed for a reason, Potter. Don't think you're the first to hear its whispers."
Albus's stomach dropped. "You've heard them too?"
Travers stepped closer.
"I ignored them. Because I have sense. And if you don't stop now, someone will make you."
Scorpius stiffened. "Is that a threat?"
"It's a warning," Travers said. Then he turned on his heel and vanished down the hallway, his footsteps echoing behind him.
Fiona's voice was small. "He knew about the door."
Albus nodded slowly. "That means others might too."
The Second Dream
That night, the dream came again.
But this time, he was not alone.
He stood in a vast circular chamber—stone walls curved high above, torches burning with green fire, casting shadows that twisted like serpents. The floor beneath his feet was cracked, lined with ancient symbols that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Across the room stood a figure.
Tall. Hooded. Faceless.
They raised one hand, and the torches flared.
"You are the blood," the figure said, voice deep and layered, like echoes in a well. "You are the gate. When the five seals break, the House will awaken."
Albus tried to speak, but no sound left his mouth.
"You cannot stop it," the voice continued. "You are it."
Then the ground beneath him crumbled, and he fell into shadow.
The Black Journal
He woke gasping.
Not just from the dream.
But because there was something in his hand.
He sat up, heart racing. The dormitory was quiet. Scorpius snored softly. The lake pressed against the windows.
Albus looked down.
A small black notebook lay in his palm. Bound in cracked leather, sealed with a silver clasp.
He hadn't seen it before. Hadn't taken it from the library. Hadn't picked it up from his bedside.
But there it was.
He opened it slowly.
Inside were only five words, written in jagged silver ink:
"The First Gate Has Stirred."
The rest of the pages were blank.
Or… not quite.
As he turned the pages, ink began to bleed across the parchment. Slowly. Like veins filling with shadow. More words forming.
And they were in his own handwriting.