II
II
The shrill ringing of the alarm clock tore through the early morning stillness, jolting her from a restless slumber. Blinking blearily, she propped herself up on her elbows and took in the chaos around her. Quills, scraps of parchment, and heavy tomes were strewn haphazardly across her bed, remnants of the late-night struggle to finish her potions essay. One inkpot had tipped over, mercifully empty, but the dark stains on her fingers betrayed how close she had been to catastrophe.
Groaning softly, she stretched and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The moment her bare feet touched the icy wooden floor, she gasped and recoiled, pulling them back up in shock. The cold seemed to pierce straight to the bone, and she bit back a curse. Bracing herself, she gingerly tiptoed across the floor, every step a jarring reminder of the chill that had seeped into the room during the night.
Reaching the washbasin, she froze at the sight before her. A delicate layer of ice shimmered across the surface of the water, intricate swirling patterns catching the dim light filtering through the frost-covered window. She stared at it for a moment, disbelief mixing with exasperation. With a sigh, she grabbed the coarse soap bar from its dish and brought it down with a sharp crack, breaking through the fragile ice. Shards splintered across the basin, leaving jagged edges that bobbed as she cupped the icy water in her hands.
The first splash against her face was a shock, the freezing water biting into her skin and sending a shiver rippling down her spine. She scrubbed quickly, her fingers growing numb as she worked. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably, and she caught sight of her reflection in the cracked mirror above the basin—cheeks flushed from the cold, lips tinged with an alarming shade of blue.
"Wonderful," she muttered through chattering teeth, grabbing a threadbare towel and patting her face dry. Reaching her battered wardrobe, she flung open the creaking doors, revealing her neatly hung uniform amidst a sparse collection of clothes. The sight of it didn’t bring comfort; the stiff fabric and plain colors seemed to emphasize the chill that lingered in her small room. She hastily dressed, tugging the wool jumper over her head and pulling it snugly against her frame, hoping it's coarse warmth would fend off the worst of the cold. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of her shirt, still stiff from the frigid water she’d used to wash.
Satisfied, or at least resigned, she grabbed her battered school bag and stepped into the corridor. The old house groaned faintly as the wind pressed against its walls, a sound that had grown so familiar it barely registered. The threadbare carpet underfoot was mottled and faded with age, and patches of mold crept along the corners where the damp was most persistent. In some spots, the wall coverings had peeled back entirely, exposing cracked plaster and tufts of insulation spilling out like wounds on the house’s decaying body.
Her steps quickened as she reached the ground floor, her breath puffing out in visible clouds. In the kitchen, she rummaged through the cupboards with practiced efficiency, finally unearthing a tin of oats tucked behind a stack of chipped plates. She stared at it for a moment, sighing. There was only one portion left, but it would have to do. She would have to grab a piece of toast when she got to school. With the ease of routine, she stirred together a steaming bowl of porridge and sprinkled a scant teaspoon of sugar on top, the crystals glinting like tiny treasures.
Balancing the bowl carefully, she made her way to the study door at the far end of the hall. Her grandfather's sanctum was always slightly ajar, though she never entered unbidden. The heavy oak panel bore the scars of age—scratches, gouges, and a splintered corner where the wood had been struck hard at some point. She knocked firmly, three brisk raps that echoed faintly in the quiet house.
"Grandfather?" she called, her voice soft but steady. She waited, listening for the familiar shuffle of his chair or the low rumble of acknowledgment that would grant her permission to step inside.
"Enter," came the raspy, clipped command from within. The precision of his English accent grated against the rough, uncaring tone, as if politeness were an unnecessary indulgence.
She shouldered the heavy door open, the hinges creaking in protest. Straightening her back instinctively, she crossed the threshold with measured steps, her heels clicking softly on the polished wood floor of the study. The contrast to the rest of the house was stark and infuriating. The room was warm—almost oppressively so—thanks to the roaring fire in the grand stone hearth. The rich scent of burning wood mixed with the faint mustiness of old books and pipe tobacco, a familiar combination she had never grown fond of.
Her eyes flicked to her grandfather, seated behind his imposing mahogany desk. His hunched figure was partially obscured by the wide expanse of the morning newspaper he held up before him. A meticulously pressed wool suit adorned his wiry frame, and the glint of his gold-rimmed spectacles peeked over the edge of the paper as he briefly glanced at her, then returned his attention to the print.
Anger bubbled beneath her practiced composure as she noted the absurd comfort of his quarters compared to the rest of the house, which could have doubled as an icebox. He had the luxury of a fire, thick carpets, and plush chairs, while she had spent the morning shivering through frost and tiptoeing across frozen floors. It wasn’t new, but today, the injustice stung more than usual.
Silently, she placed the steaming bowl of porridge on the edge of the desk, careful not to spill a drop. It was a routine gesture, one expected of her but never acknowledged. She stepped back, clasping her hands in front of her and waiting for some word of acknowledgment, though she knew better than to expect one.
Her grandfather remained as he was, absorbed in the newspaper, his gnarled fingers turning the pages with slow, deliberate movements. His silence was more cutting than words, his disinterest a statement in itself. The tension in the room thickened as the fire crackled in the hearth, filling the void where conversation might have been.
She bit back the urge to say something sharp. Instead, she stood still, her eyes fixed on a corner of the desk where a faint scratch marred the polished surface, willing herself to remain composed.
"You may leave. Tardiness will not mar the Winterbourne name," her grandfather said, his clipped words cold and unyielding, his gaze still firmly fixed on the newspaper in front of him. The crackling fire provided the only warmth in the room, but none of it reached his tone.
"Yes, Grandfather," she replied evenly, bowing her head out of habit more than respect. "I just wanted to remind you that I'll be staying at school tonight. There's a practical astronomy lesson scheduled."
He finally deigned to acknowledge her words, his eyes narrowing as he turned a page with deliberate precision. "You will meet your curfew tomorrow, then. Dinner will be at 6:30 sharp, and I expect you to be there."
"Of course," she said with a polite nod, her voice steady, though her insides churned. She knew better than to falter under his scrutiny, even if he seemed barely interested.
But before she could take her leave, his hand slammed down on the desk, rattling the inkwell and papers atop it. His temper erupted like a sudden storm. "Learn to address me properly, girl!" he bellowed, the sound filling the room and reverberating off the walls. In one violent motion, he snatched up the newspaper and hurled it into the hearth. Flames eagerly consumed the pages, curling and blackening them into ash as the acrid smell of burning ink filled the air.
She froze, her breath catching in her throat as his hulking form rose to its full height. Despite his advancing years, his presence remained intimidating, his shadow stretching long in the firelight. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the desk, his body trembling with barely restrained rage.
"Sorry, Sir!" she cried, her voice shaking as she instinctively stepped back, her hands clasping each other tightly. "Of course, I'll be back in time for curfew, Sir."
"Good," he growled, his voice like a venomous hiss before erupting once more. "Now get out!"
As if to punctuate his command, his hand shot out, striking the bowl of porridge she had placed on his desk. It flew across the room, shattering against the far wall. The thick, sticky contents splattered and began to slide down in sluggish rivulets, leaving streaks of pale oats against the dark wood paneling. The crash echoed in the suffocating silence that followed.
Her heart pounded in her chest as she swallowed hard, her lips pressing into a thin line to keep herself from reacting further. Without another word, she turned and hurried from the study, the door groaning shut behind her. As she stepped back into the frigid corridor, the warmth of the study was replaced by the house’s biting cold, and she wrapped her arms around herself to ward off more than just the chill.
Fighting back the tears that threatened to spill, she snatched her bag and robe from the chair, the familiar weight of them only adding to the oppressive weight in her chest. Without a second thought, she bolted from the house, her footsteps echoing through the cold, empty halls. The icy wind bit at her face as she passed through the door, but she didn’t slow. The chill felt like a balm against the fire of her anger and humiliation. Each step carried her farther from the house, from her grandfather’s wrath, and the suffocating air of his presence.
She didn’t care about the cold, the ache in her legs, or the rapid pounding of her heart. She ran as if the very act of moving would keep her from falling apart. The rhythm of her breathing, the steady beat of her feet on the path, became her anchor. The intrusive thoughts—of his fury, of the insult, of the ever-present weight of expectation—faded with every stride. All she could focus on was the next step, the breath in her lungs, the path stretching ahead. She ran until her legs burned, until the world around her seemed to dissolve into a blur of movement and effort.
By the time she reached the school gates, her pulse was racing, her body flushed with the exertion, but the storm inside her had calmed. The familiar grounds of the school, the towering spires and ancient stone walls, felt like a relief, a space where she could exist without the heavy shadow of her grandfather looming over her every move.
She skidded to a stop in the entrance hall, breathless and flushed from the run. Her feet barely managed to slow her momentum as she skidded across the stone floor, the echo of her shoes loud in the otherwise quiet hall. She quickly ran a hand through her wild hair, trying to tame the unruly strands that had escaped their usual neatness.
Taking a moment to collect herself, she straightened her robe, wiped her damp palms on her skirt, and inhaled deeply, forcing her composure back into place. The school was here, and it was a sanctuary for now. There would be time to face the inevitable later. For now, she could breathe again.
Before heading to her first class—Herbology—she took a brief detour to the Great Hall, her stomach growling in protest. There, amidst the bustling students, she grabbed a piece of warm toast, the golden-brown surface slathered generously with jam. She barely registered the chatter around her as she took a quick bite, the sweet tang of fruit filling her mouth and offering a fleeting comfort. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to stave off the lingering edge of hunger.
After finishing her hastily eaten breakfast, she slipped out of the Great Hall and made her way down the stone path toward the greenhouses. The cool October air was crisp and refreshing, the kind of autumn chill that made you feel awake and alive. The sun, pale but determined, shone, its rays just warm enough to ward off the early morning cold. The light filtered through the canopy of trees lining the grounds, casting shifting patterns of shadow and sunlight on the gravel path beneath her feet. She tilted her head slightly, closing her eyes for a moment to absorb the peaceful stillness of the morning. For the first time that day, she allowed herself a deep breath, feeling the cool air fill her lungs and calm the knots in her chest.
As she approached the greenhouses, the earthy smell of plants and damp soil wafted toward her, the scent of life and growth. The rows of windows glinted in the sunlight, the glass a patchwork of warmth and shadow, offering glimpses of the lush greenery within. The sound of voices and laughter drifted from inside as students gathered for the first class of the day.
"Good morning, Miss Winterbourne," Professor Sprout called, her voice warm and welcoming as she looked up from the potting table. The sight of the portly woman always brought a sense of comfort. Professor Sprout's round face was marked with a multitude of lines, etched from years of smiling merrily at her students and tending to the plants she so loved. Her rosy cheeks were already streaked with dirt, a testament to her hands-on approach to teaching, and her usual brown robes were dotted with patches of fertilizer, evidence of her constant work in the greenhouses. Despite the chaotic start to her morning, the sight of Professor Sprout’s jovial and unbothered demeanor created a sense of calm. Everything felt brighter and more manageable outside of that house.
Professor Sprout wiped her hands on her robes, leaving streaks of soil behind, and gave her a nod, urging her to join the class already gathered by the tables. The students were already getting to work, eager to dive into the day's lesson.
"Don’t stand there like a statue, dear. Grab a pair of gloves and get to work," Professor Sprout said, her voice brimming with the kind of cheer that only someone who truly loved their work could muster. With a quick smile and a grateful nod, she moved to the side table where the gloves were neatly arranged.
The lesson and the rest of the day seemed to melt away in a blur. In Herbology, the rhythm of planting and tending to the vibrant green plants had calmed her nerves, and the rest of the day followed with a sense of routine that helped to push aside the stormy thoughts of her grandfather. At lunch, she finished the last of her Potions essay, the ink flowing steadily as she jotted down the final details about the effects of moonstone in transmutations. By dinner, she'd buried herself in a book on the purification of base metals, its complex theories intriguing her—she couldn't help but wonder if the same principles could be applied to substandard potion ingredients to improve their potency.
The hours passed quietly. Around her, students came and went, their voices a faint murmur that blended into the background. She was so absorbed in the text that she didn’t notice how late it had gotten until she heard the unmistakable sound of a throat being cleared behind her. It was a sound that instantly made her spine stiffen, a warning she had learned to heed over the past few months.
"Miss Winterbourne," a sickly sweet voice drawled, too pleasant for the sharp edge it carried. "It is fast approaching curfew. Is there a reason you are loitering in the Great Hall?"
She froze, her blood going cold as she turned to face the speaker. Of course, it would be her. Standing there, her bulbous eyes wide and her lips stretched into a smile that could only be described as malicious, was Professor Umbridge.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had arrived at the beginning of the year, and ever since, she'd made her presence known in the most distasteful of ways. Her sweet, honeyed voice was always at odds with the iron fist she wielded in the name of “discipline.” Her rules were nonsensical, her methods cruel, and her obsession with power and control overbearing. She was a constant source of dread for most of the students, and right now, her very presence was enough to sour the quiet peace of the evening.
"Professor Umbridge," she said, her voice betraying none of the anxiety coiling in her chest. She straightened in her seat, trying to exude calmness, but it was hard to ignore the chill that ran down her spine. "I didn’t realize how late it had gotten. I was just finishing a bit of reading."
Umbridge's smile never wavered, but her eyes narrowed, the glittering cruelty behind them making it clear she wasn’t buying the excuse. "I see," she purred, her voice sugar-sweet but laced with venom. "You do realize, Miss Winterbourne, that the rules regarding curfew apply to everyone—regardless of whether or not they're ‘just finishing some reading.’"
There was a long, pregnant pause, and the weight of her disapproval seemed to hang in the air like a storm cloud. "You should make sure to follow the rules more closely in the future," Umbridge continued, her tone now colder, the threat implied clear. "The last thing the school needs is more… loitering after hours."
Her fingers tightened around the edge of her book, fighting the urge to snap back. There were so many things she could say, things that could give her satisfaction, but she knew better than to provoke Umbridge. The woman thrived on creating chaos and instilling fear.
Before she could come up with a biting retort or a half-hearted excuse, another voice—stiff with formality and thick with a Scottish accent—cut through the tension like a sharp blade.
"Ah, there you are, Miss Winterbourne," Professor McGonagall said, her voice filled with an edge of concern, but with the usual poise and precision that marked her every word. She glanced between the toad-like woman and young girl, her sharp eyes assessing the situation with the practiced calm of a seasoned teacher. "I am terribly sorry to have kept you waiting; I was just dealing with some unruly behaviour from members of my own house," she continued, her tone cooling as she addressed the other professor, "Can I help you, Dolores?"
Professor Umbridge’s expression twisted with the usual sickly sweetness, though now it was accompanied by an obvious disdain for McGonagall. Huffing with what could only be described as a barely contained disgust, she glanced between the two women before turning on her heel and teetering off down the hall with a slight, self-important wobble. The click of her heels on the stone floor echoed, but this time it was a sound of retreat, not power.
The young girl watched her leave, an uncomfortable knot still lodged in her chest. Only once the last of Umbridge’s pink robes disappeared around the corner did Professor McGonagall turn to her with a smile that, while not entirely warm, was far more genuine than anything Umbridge ever offered.
"Professor Sprout mentioned that you were staying this evening due to an Astronomy lesson?" McGonagall asked, her eyes now softer as she regarded the girl.
"Yes, ma'am," Thalia replied, a quiet relief washing over her at the older professor’s presence. McGonagall had a way of making things feel more manageable, like the world could right itself with a little logic and control.
Professor McGonagall didn’t speak right away but instead pulled a small, dainty gold key from her robes. She pressed it firmly into Thalia’s hand, the cool metal a sharp contrast to the warmth of her palm. "I assume you know where to go, then, Miss Winterbourne?"
The girl nodded, curling her fingers around the key. She recognized it immediately, "Yes, ma'am," she confirmed, tucking the key into her pocket and gathering up her belongings. The warmth from McGonagall’s small gesture of kindness was a welcome balm to the coldness that had settled into her bones.
"Good," McGonagall said, her gaze flicking toward the exit as the girl prepared to leave. "Be safe, Miss Winterbourne."
The girl turned back toward the door, throwing a grateful smile over her shoulder. But just before she exited the Great Hall, McGonagall’s voice rang out one last time, calling her name.
"Thalia!" The sound of her first name, so rarely used in this context, stopped her in her tracks, and she spun on her heel, meeting the older woman’s gaze.
McGonagall paused, her brow furrowing for a moment as she considered her words. "With everything…" she said, gesturing vaguely with her hands, as though unsure how to sum up the complexities of the situation. "With everything how it is at home, take more precautions around Professor Umbridge."
Thalia’s stomach twisted at the implied meaning, a chill running through her. Her heart skipped a beat as she looked at McGonagall, suddenly acutely aware of how much the older professor understood. Umbridge’s presence was already toxic, and Thalia knew that things with the Defense professor could easily escalate. She didn’t need to be told twice. The warning hung heavy in the air between them, the unspoken understanding clear: Umbridge wasn’t someone to be underestimated.
Thalia gave a small, frightened nod of her head, her throat tight. Her grip on the key tightened in her pocket, and she forced a smile, the unease swirling inside her impossible to quell.
"Thank you, Professor," she murmured, her voice soft but resolute. Then, without another word, she turned and left the Great Hall, her footsteps echoing against the stone as she made her way toward the solitude of the night.
As she walked, the weight of McGonagall’s words settled into her mind, a quiet warning against the lurking danger of Professor Umbridge. It was a world of shadows and uncertainty, and Thalia had the growing sense that it was only a matter of time before those shadows would come for her too.
As Thalia made her way down toward the dungeons, she passed the barrels marking the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room, their cheerful placement a stark contrast to the dark, chilly corridors ahead. She couldn’t help but smile faintly as she walked by, imagining the cozy, plant-filled den beyond the hidden entrance. But she didn’t linger. The path ahead demanded her focus, and as she pressed on, the air around her began to shift.
The torches along the walls were fewer and farther between now, their flickering flames casting faint pools of light that only emphasized the creeping shadows between them. The cold seemed to seep from the very stones, wrapping itself around her like an unwelcome cloak. Every step echoed faintly, the sound swallowed quickly by the oppressive quiet of this forgotten part of the castle.
Eventually, she turned down a disused corridor. The air here felt heavier, dustier, as though time itself had forgotten this place. Against the walls, old desks and chairs were piled high, their surfaces scarred and scratched from years of use before being discarded. One corner held a blackboard, its surface still faintly marked with the ghostly outlines of notes from a long-abandoned Charms lesson. A chipped Foe-Glass leaned against the far wall, its surface so clouded and cracked that whatever reflections it once showed were now lost to history.
Thalia paused, taking in the eerie stillness of the place. The rooms along this corridor had long been sealed shut, their heavy wooden doors locked tight. What lay beyond them was a mystery to her, but she had never been brave—or foolish—enough to test the locks. The thought of the forgotten artifacts, the stories of students and professors from centuries past, had tempted her over the years. But something about this corridor, with its lingering chill and oppressive silence, always held her back.
She reached out and touched the edge of one of the desks, her fingers coming away coated with a thin layer of dust. For a brief moment, she considered breaking her streak of restraint, testing one of the doors to see what secrets lay beyond. But the memory of Professor McGonagall’s warning still rang fresh in her mind, and she tightened her grip on the golden key in her pocket instead.
This wasn’t the time for curiosity. With one last glance down the shadowy hall, she adjusted her bag on her shoulder and continued on, carefully picking her way through the corridor making sure not to dislodge anything. Slowly, she made her way deeper into the bowels of the castle.
Thalia stopped in front of the marble statue of Hecate, the goddess of magic and witchcraft, and felt the familiar sense of awe she always did when she saw it. The statue was a masterpiece, almost too intricate for its hidden location. Three women melded seamlessly into a pillar-like structure, their flowing chitons carved with such detail that the folds seemed to ripple in an unseen breeze. Their faces, serene yet commanding, were framed by intricately carved locks of hair, each crowned with a delicate copper headdress that had long since tarnished to a verdant green.
This was her favorite statue in the entire castle, though she was almost certain no one else ever paid it any attention. Hidden deep in the dungeons, it stood in near-total isolation, its grandeur and elegance overlooked by the bustling student body above.
She stepped closer, her fingers brushing the cold marble before reaching behind the central figure's ear. There, hidden within the sculpted detail, was a small, nearly invisible metal keyhole. Thalia retrieved the dainty golden key from her pocket and slid it into the slot. The mechanism gave a satisfying click as she turned it, and with a low rumble, the statue began to sink into the floor, the sound of grinding stone reverberating through the corridor.
Thalia wasted no time. She stepped onto the statue’s head as it descended, steadying herself on one of the copper headdresses as it slowly lowered her into the hidden passage below. The air grew colder still as she descended, the dim light from the corridor above fading until only the faint flicker of her wand light illuminated the space.
When the statue came to a halt, it revealed a splintered wooden door, weathered and warped with age. Its iron hinges were rusted, and cobwebs stretched across the frame like delicate curtains. Thalia glanced up instinctively, though she could no longer make out the corridor from which she had come—the shaft above her was now shrouded in darkness.
Taking a steadying breath, she adjusted her bag and stepped forward. The door creaked ominously as she pushed it open, revealing the secret chamber beyond.
The circular room exuded an understated elegance, its charm tucked away in the castle's deepest recesses. A roaring hearth dominated one side of the room, its warm, flickering light casting long shadows that danced across the walls. Opposite it stood a grand four-poster bed, draped in soft cotton sheets, their crisp white surface inviting and unassuming. The bed was flanked by a small, weathered nightstand, upon which rested a simple brass oil lamp and a well-worn leather-bound journal. On the other side stood an antique wardrobe, its surface scarred by time but polished to a gentle sheen.
Directly across from the door Thalia had entered was another, more modest door, its brass handle dulled from years of use. She knew this led to a private bathroom, its fixtures simple but functional—another rarity for a space this far underground.
The absence of windows was compensated by the enchanting ceiling above. Painted a deep, celestial blue, it shimmered with golden constellations that mirrored the night sky outside. The constellations shifted ever so slowly, following the progression of the heavens above, lending the room an ethereal, ever-changing beauty. Thalia often found herself lying on the bed, tracing the stars with her eyes until her thoughts drifted away.
The walls were lined with tall, overflowing bookcases, their shelves bowed under the weight of ancient tomes and delicate scrolls. Dust motes danced in the firelight, occasionally disturbed as Thalia ran her fingers along the spines of books on topics like alchemy, charms, and forgotten magical practices. Many of the texts were penned by hand long ago, knowledge preserved in looping, elegant script on brittle parchment. It was one of her favorite things about the room—the secrets of centuries past, waiting quietly for her to discover them.
In one corner of the room, tucked away near a stack of mismatched cushions, stood a small wooden desk. Though humble in design, it was where Thalia spent countless hours, bent over scrolls and books, a quill in hand, the scratch of ink on parchment the only sound besides the crackling fire. She loved losing herself here.
This room, hidden away from the world above, was her sanctuary. It was a place where she could forget about the chaos of her life: her grandfather’s harsh words, the darkness and even the looming threat of Umbridge. Here, she could simply be.