The sun filtered through the high, arched windows of the Great Hall with its usual golden warmth, casting long beams across the four house tables. Breakfast had been served — porridge, toast, eggs, pumpkin juice — but for once, no one seemed interested in the food.
Hushed voices replaced the usual clatter of morning chatter. The air felt strained, as though the castle itself was still holding its breath after the events of the night before.
At the Gryffindor table, students clustered close in tight groups, some whispering theories, others nervously casting glances toward the staff table.
"I'm telling you, it's a warning," said Seamus, jabbing a fork into his sausages. "Ghosts don't just show up and shut down the castle unless something's coming."
"They didn't shut it down," corrected Hermione, frowning into her cup of tea. "They... requested something. From the castle. But the castle responded. That's what's strange."
Neville looked queasy. "Can it do that? Just... close itself off?"
"It can," Hermione replied quietly. "The founders built it with all sorts of enchantments — layers of them, and not all of them are understood. But I've never read about the ghosts activating them."
Ron buttered his toast with exaggerated slowness. "Well, maybe the bloody Baron finally snapped. Creepy git always looked like he was one sword short of a duel."
Ginny snorted softly but her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Even Peeves was quiet. That's not a good sign."
Further down the table, first-years sat nervously, casting glances around like they were waiting for another ghost to drift in mid-bite.
At the staff table, the tension was equally thick. Professors were talking, but not idly — the conversations were clipped, focused, and unusually guarded.
McGonagall, rigid-backed and sharp-eyed as ever, was reviewing a scroll with quick strokes of her quill, murmuring something to Professor Sprout, who shook her head, looking deeply concerned.
Flitwick, seated beside Vector, was absently stirring his tea with a wand, lost in thought.
Snape sat stone-faced at the far end, eyes sweeping the student body as though daring someone to speak out of turn. His expression betrayed nothing, but his fingers drummed slowly against the wood of the table.
Only Umbridge seemed unfazed — spooning porridge delicately into her mouth, pink cardigan bright against the muted tension around her. Her smile was intact, placid as ever. But her eyes flicked constantly across the hall, calculating.
Dumbledore had yet to say a word.
He sat at the center, chin resting on his hand, watching the students. His blue eyes — calm, yes, but deeply clouded — had the air of someone assembling a puzzle with too many missing pieces.
Whispers flitted between Ravenclaws like birds. Hufflepuffs were quietly organizing theories, and the Slytherins were mostly silent — their glances cautious, guarded, as though sensing something just out of reach.
A sharp chime echoed from the enchanted clock above the entrance.
The moment had come.
Students began shifting nervously. Forks clinked down. Bags were hoisted onto shoulders. No one moved toward their classes. Everyone remembered the words from the Grey Lady:
"Come to the gates after breakfast. Classes are canceled."
No one knew what would happen. Or who — or what — would be waiting.
The Courtyard – Morning Gathering
The morning sun painted the courtyard in hues of gold and amber, casting long shadows over the stone tiles. Hogwarts students stood clustered by Houses, murmuring in confusion. No one knew why they had been summoned so urgently.
"Did something happen in the Forbidden Forest?" "I heard the Bloody Baron woke everyone in Slytherin Tower." "Why are the ghosts even here?"
Speculation rippled through the gathered crowd. Whispers turned into wild theories as students stole glances toward the castle gates, half-expecting something dramatic.
All the faculty were present — a rare sight in itself. Professor McGonagall stood stern, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Snape loomed nearby, eyes scanning every movement. Professors Sprout, Hooch, Trelawney, Vector, Babbling, Sinistra, and Burbage formed a tense semicircle behind the students. Madam Pomfrey and Madam Pince stood closer to the castle doors, quiet and uncertain. Hagrid shifted awkwardly, his large form still as a statue. Filch hovered at the periphery, eyes narrowed.
Professor Flitwick and Headmaster Dumbledore exchanged hushed words, their expressions unreadable. Both had an air of caution — Dumbledore's eyes twinkled faintly, not with joy, but curiosity. Flitwick occasionally glanced at the sky, furrowing his brow.
"This magic… it's old," Flitwick murmured, barely audible. Dumbledore nodded slowly. "And powerful. But no one here summoned it."
Suddenly, the castle bell began to chime.
The sound echoed — deep, solemn, resonating across the grounds and through the stones of the school. A hush fell instantly. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Above the castle, a spell seal ignited in the sky.
A massive circular symbol of brilliant white and silver light unfolded like a blooming star. Layers of runes and geometric lines spun slowly within the outer ring, each band rotating in opposite directions. Arcs of magic pulsed outward from the seal like ripples in water — graceful, controlled, ancient.
At the center, a five-pointed symbol pulsed, and from it extended interlocking triangles and spell script too complex to decipher. The outermost ring glowed with a protective aura, not threatening — but undeniable in its power.
The students stared, wide-eyed and silent.
"What... what is that?" whispered one Hufflepuff first-year.
"It looks like a protective sigil," Flitwick said quietly, more to himself than anyone else.
Dumbledore stared at the sky, his eyes narrowing just slightly. "No one at this school can create a seal like that. Not anymore."
Still, no one spoke. The only sound was the rhythmic chime of the bell, echoing through the enchanted seal above them.
And far off in the distance, something stirred.