Chapter 42
The world felt different now.
Not louder or brighter—just… clearer. Like some invisible veil had been lifted, and I could finally see the threads of magic for what they truly were. Not light or dark. Not good or evil. Just magic. Shaped by intent. Molded by choice.
And right now, it was humming in my bones.
The book still sat between us, its pages stilled, the ink cooling. The last words lingered on the parchment like a challenge.
Two forces—one light, one dark—bound by fate, must return it to balance.
I traced the symbol burned into the center of the page—the perfect circle, split down the middle, radiant gold against inky black. Solara sat quietly now, her glow steady, but there was tension in her posture, like she too understood what this meant.
Draco hadn’t spoken again. He sat a few feet away, his arms crossed, expression unreadable, though his foot tapped once… twice… then stilled.
I closed the book gently.
“We need to find the source of the light,” I said softly, more to myself than to him. “If the Chamber held the shadow, there must be a place in Hogwarts that holds its opposite. A place rooted in light magic—ancient, untouched.”
Draco glanced up, brow arching. “Right. And where exactly would Hogwarts have hidden a beacon of light magic for the past thousand years?”
I chewed my bottom lip, mind racing through every piece of Hogwarts’ history I knew—every room, every hidden passage. Not just hidden places, but forgotten ones. Places tied to emotion, to memory, to truth.
Then, slowly, an idea began to form.
“The Founders,” I whispered.
Draco blinked. “What?”
“I’ve been thinking about it wrong,” I murmured, pushing to my feet, pacing now. “The Chamber of Secrets was Salazar Slytherin’s domain. It makes sense that the shadow was buried in the place he built. But what if each Founder left something behind—not just structures, but anchors. A source of power tied to their legacy.”
“Are you saying one of them stashed away a glowing orb of sunshine somewhere?”
I shot him a look. “I’m saying Helga Hufflepuff might have. Or Rowena. Or even Godric. We need to find the place that holds her opposite.”
Draco frowned. “And how do you know it’s a ‘her’?”
I shrugged. “Because the shadow called you. And Solara chose me. This… balance—it’s not about symmetry. It’s about opposing truths.”
He exhaled slowly, folding his arms again. “Fine. Let’s say you’re right. Where do we even start?”
I moved back to the table, opened the book again, and began flipping pages carefully, searching for a map, a symbol, anything. Solara hopped down beside me, her feathers flaring just once—and when they did, a faint shimmer of gold pulsed beneath the parchment, highlighting a single passage I hadn’t noticed before.
The light lies hidden where truth and sacrifice meet. Seek the hearth where hearts were born.
I stared at it, rereading it three times before the pieces clicked into place.
“The Founders’ Hall,” I breathed. “Or—no—the old kitchens. The original ones. Before the elves took them over. Helga Hufflepuff built them herself. She believed magic and nourishment were one and the same. A hearth… where hearts were born.”
Draco groaned. “Please tell me we’re not sneaking into a centuries-old ruin beneath the school at two in the morning.”
I gave him a thin smile. “Of course we are.”
And in the dim flicker of candlelight, he huffed something that might have been a laugh.
The stone beneath our feet was colder than I remembered.
I kept my wand lit low, just enough to illuminate the corridor ahead, casting golden light along the rough-hewn walls as we made our way toward the oldest part of the castle—beneath the Great Hall, where the original kitchens had once been built.
Draco walked a half-step behind me, quiet but present. He hadn’t spoken since we left the library. But I could feel the tension in him, the way his magic crackled faintly at the edge of mine like a storm just waiting to break.
I didn’t say anything. Not yet.
There was something reverent about the air down here. The halls were lined with faded tapestries and ancient stone arches, their magic old and slow and watching. Hogwarts was always alive, but now, it felt like it was aware of us. Like it knew what we were doing—what we were becoming.
I paused in front of a sealed archway, tracing my fingers along the edge of the stone. The passage had long been sealed, hidden even from the Marauder’s Map, forgotten like so many of the castle’s deeper layers.
But the book had been clear.
Where truth and sacrifice meet. Where the hearth was built before the fire.
“Here,” I whispered.
Draco moved beside me. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes flicked down to where my fingers pressed against the stones.
“You’re sure?”
I nodded once. “Help me look. There has to be a trigger—an enchantment or carving or—”
“Granger.”
He cut me off, and when I looked over, his wand was raised slightly.
The stones beneath my hand had begun to glow.
Not gold.
Not white.
But soft—warm. A pale blue shimmer curling like breath over glass.
“I didn’t cast anything,” I whispered.
“I know,” he murmured. “But your magic did.”
The light from the stones intensified, spreading in lines across the archway like veins of moonlight. Then, with a low, rumbling groan, the stone shifted.
The archway melted open.
A passage waited on the other side, lit only by a faint, pulsating glow deep within—like the flicker of a long-forgotten fire still burning, hidden beneath centuries of dust and silence.
Solara shifted on my shoulder, wings pressed tight to her sides. She was alert now. Aware. Her golden light shimmered faintly against the walls, but she didn’t glow brighter.
She didn’t need to.
The magic here didn’t compete with her.
It welcomed her.
I stepped inside.
The chamber was small, circular, and carved entirely from white stone that shimmered faintly with ancient magic. At its center stood an old hearth—its stones smooth and blackened from age. But no fire burned in it. No ashes. No scent of smoke.
And yet… it was warm.
Like a memory that hadn’t faded.
Draco stepped in behind me, his shadow stretching long and strange against the glowing walls. He didn’t speak.
Neither did I.
Because I felt it.
The pulse of something buried—something waiting to be awakened.
I moved toward the hearth and knelt in front of it. The stone was warm under my palm, humming softly with recognition.
And then I heard it.
A whisper—not in my ears, but in my bones.
Light does not burn. It endures. It remembers.
Solara trilled once, sharp and clear, and something shifted in the air.
Draco flinched.
I turned—and saw it.
The shadows at his feet had stilled again.
But instead of curling, instead of clinging to him like smoke… they drifted forward. Toward the hearth.
Toward me.
“Wait—” Draco started, stepping back.
“No,” I breathed, raising a hand. “It’s not attacking.”
The shadows moved like ink in water—slow, hesitant. And when they reached the hearth, they stopped.
Balanced.
Light and dark, held in stillness.
Like they were waiting for us to do the same.
I rose slowly and reached for Draco’s hand. He tensed, but didn’t pull away. Our magic crackled where our skin touched—sharply at first, then softly, settling into something that felt like… resonance.
I swallowed.
“This is where it begins.”
He didn’t answer, but his grip tightened.
And together, we stepped forward into the light.