Across the staff table, heads turned in various degrees of confusion and tension. McGonagall had risen halfway from her seat, her expression tight with suspicion. Flitwick looked as though he were trying to recall some ancient protocol from memory. Snape's eyes narrowed, flicking from ghost to ghost, assessing.
Dumbledore alone remained still. His hands rested lightly on the table, and his face was neutral, but his blue eyes were locked onto the Grey Lady with intensity. He said nothing.
A low vibration thrummed through the stones beneath their feet—felt more than heard. The temperature dipped again. Then, all at once, the ghosts turned inward, facing each other in a silent circle at the center of the Great Hall.
And they spoke—not aloud, but in a unified, eerie resonance that seemed to move through the very walls of Hogwarts.
The enchanted ceiling flickered.
The floating candles dimmed.
Somewhere deep in the castle, doors slammed shut of their own accord.
Gasps echoed through the room.
The sense of something vast and unseen turning its attention inward was unmistakable. Like the castle had stopped what it was doing... and was now listening.
Then, Helena Ravenclaw, the Grey Lady, floated a step forward.
Her voice, soft and smooth as a river under moonlight, finally pierced the silence.
"Tomorrow morning, after breakfast," she said, her words ringing with a chill that reached even the furthest corners of the room, "all students are to gather at the castle gates. No exceptions. Classes are canceled."
A beat of stunned silence.
Whispers burst like popcorn—rising, overlapping, urgent.
"What gates?"
"She means the front—"
"Why?"
"Since when can ghosts cancel class?"
"Are we under attack?"
"This is a joke, right?"
The teachers rose. McGonagall was the first to step forward, but before she could speak, the Grey Lady turned, and with her, the other ghosts began to fade, slipping back into stone, shadow, and nothingness.
The only one left was Nearly Headless Nick, who offered a solemn glance toward Dumbledore... and gave a faint, almost apologetic bow before vanishing as well.
The Great Hall sat in stunned silence.
And then, high above, the Sorting Hat, left forgotten on its stool, suddenly stirred.
Its brim curled downward—not into a smile, but something else entirely.
And it sang, slowly and deliberately:
"A castle sealed by will and past,
Where echoes walk and shadows last.
A legacy of stone and flame,
Awaits the bearer of the name..."
Then the hat fell silent again.
No one moved.
Even Umbridge, for once, had no insult to offer.
The feast was well and truly over.
The heavy stillness shattered when Dumbledore rose.
With a measured flick of his wand, the candles reignited. The Great Hall blinked back into its usual warmth, though the cold clung to the corners like a memory.
"Prefects," Dumbledore called, voice calm but firm, "lead your Houses back to your common rooms. I ask that all students remain indoors tonight. There is no cause for alarm—but caution is never wasted."
It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't the truth either.
Chairs scraped against stone. Cloaks rustled. The buzz of questions swelled around the Hall like a gathering storm.
"She said the gates—what does that mean?" "Cancelled class? On the first day?" "Are the ghosts planning something?" "Did anyone else feel the floor move?"
Harry, following the Gryffindors, kept close to Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, his ears tuned to every stray word. Even Peeves hadn't returned. That alone made Harry feel worse.
"Why didn't Dumbledore stop them?" Hermione whispered, eyes flicking back toward the dais."Because," Ron muttered, "he's as confused as we are."
The last echo of students' footsteps had barely faded when the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall shut behind them. Dumbledore remained standing at the head table for several seconds longer than necessary, his gaze on the space where the Grey Lady had last hovered. The other professors waited in tense silence.
"Minerva, please see to the staircases," he said at last. "Ensure the dormitory routes remain stable. I suspect the castle may be... active tonight."
"Of course, Albus." McGonagall swept out with her usual precision, though her lips were pressed thin with concern.
The rest followed Dumbledore as he made his way to the Headmaster's Tower.
Once the swirling stone staircase deposited them at the top, the air in the circular office was almost humming — as if the very walls were eavesdropping.
The fireplace was already lit, casting warm flickers across the many enchanted devices that clicked and spun in perpetual mystery. The portraits of former headmasters were wide awake.
Armando Dippet rubbed his chin thoughtfully, lounging in a high-backed chair. Dilys Derwent was already in whispered conversation with Phineas Nigellus Black, who looked as smug as ever.
"Back so soon from the first feast?" Phineas asked the professors, voice thick with amusement. "What did the dead say this time?"
"They told the castle to seal itself," Professor Sprout said plainly. "And it did."
A murmur of laughter rose from several paintings.
"Oh, it listens when it wants to," muttered Everard, peering over his spectacles. "Always did have a mind of its own. Tricky thing, Hogwarts."
"That wasn't a casual haunting," McGonagall said sharply, rejoining them. "They weren't acting as spirits. They were acting with authority."
"Then perhaps," said Professor Flitwick, perched on a velvet stool, "we ought to ask what authority they think they have."
All heads turned to the battered Sorting Hat, perched on its usual shelf. It twitched.
"Don't everyone jump at once," it croaked. "You haven't asked me a proper question yet."
McGonagall's eyes narrowed. "What did you mean by that song? The return? Is this about a student?"
"I don't write the lyrics," the Hat said airily. "I just receive them. And occasionally... jazz them up."
"You suggested the castle was anticipating something," Flitwick pressed. "Was that your own reading, or—"
"The castle," the Sorting Hat said with dramatic flair, "whispers in riddles. I only sing what I hear. And what I heard tonight was less prophecy... and more prelude."
"Enough games," Professor Burbage cut in, folding her arms. "If this is a threat to the school—"
"Oh, I never said 'threat,'" the Hat interrupted brightly. "You lot always assume doom when you hear something mysterious. Maybe it's not doom. Maybe it's destiny."
Dumbledore had remained quiet throughout, standing by the window. His fingers, steepled before him, tapped once against his chin.
"And what of the Grey Lady?" he asked softly. "What role does she play in this?"
"Ah," the Hat mused, "you should know better than to ask a hat about a lady's secrets."
Across the room, Phineas Nigellus let out a bark of laughter.
"Delightful," he said. "Truly, I missed these panic meetings."
"We're not here for entertainment," McGonagall snapped.
"No, no," said Dexter Fortescue, another portrait. "You're here to learn something you already fear. That's the difference."
A chorus of vague chuckles followed, and then Dilys Derwent leaned forward in her frame.
"She did not act alone," she said cryptically.
"Did who not act alone?" Sprout asked.
Dilys tilted her head. "Oh, I've said too much."
Phineas looked utterly pleased. "I do love when things get theatrical."
Flitwick turned from the portraits with a soft sigh. "The students won't rest easy after tonight."
"They were never meant to," the Hat said.
"What is that supposed to mean?" McGonagall barked.
"Oh come now, Minerva," the Hat grinned in folds of dusty fabric, "you know how this works. You want facts, but magic isn't a report — it's a rhythm. Something's changed in the beat."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Finally, Dumbledore stepped away from the window and addressed the room.
"Let the castle remain sealed for tonight. No one in or out. No patrols, no detentions. I will speak with the Grey Lady tomorrow."
"What if she doesn't appear again?" Sprout asked.
"Then we wait," Dumbledore said.
"And if it is a threat?" McGonagall added.
"Then we prepare," he replied, with finality.
The portraits quieted. The Sorting Hat gave a soft hum that might've been a chuckle, or something older.
As the fire crackled on, the old room seemed to inhale — like the deep breath before something ancient wakes up.