The soft morning light streamed through the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, casting a warm glow across the rows of tables. Soya sat at the Thylacea table, absently pushing scrambled eggs around his plate with a fork. Around him, the hum of students chatting and laughing filled the air, but his mind was elsewhere, still turning over the events of the past few days.

Davonte, seated across from him, glanced up from a particularly large stack of pancakes. “You’re brooding again, mate,” he said, his tone light but pointed.

“I’m not brooding,” Soya replied, though his lack of conviction betrayed him. He stabbed at a piece of sausage and took a half-hearted bite.

“You are,” Davonte insisted, gesturing with his fork. “I know the look. It’s the same one you had when we nearly got caught in the Archives. Or when Spellchecker gave that speech last night. Which, by the way, was pure theatrical brilliance.”

Soya managed a faint smile. “I’m just... thinking.”

“Dangerous habit, that,” Davonte quipped, taking another bite of pancake. “What’s on your mind? Eliza? The Archives? Or are you mentally preparing yourself to survive Blackthorn’s Potions class? Because, mate, I’ve got bad news—no amount of preparation can save us from his mood swings.”

Soya shook his head, setting his fork down. “It’s everything, really. The ministry officials, Eliza, the Archives... It’s like everything’s piling up, and I can’t make sense of any of it.”

Davonte leaned forward, his silver eyes sharp. “Well, here’s a thought—stop trying to make sense of it all at once. One thing at a time. First, eat something. You’re going to need your strength if we’re dealing with cauldron explosions before lunch.”

Soya raised an eyebrow. “You think Blackthorn’s in one of those moods today?”

“Absolutely,” Davonte said with a grin. “I saw him in the corridor yesterday—he was muttering about first-years ruining his pristine workspace. I’d say we’re in for a long lesson.”

Before Soya could reply, a tawny owl swooped down, dropping a letter in front of a student further down the table. The sight of the owl brought a pang of unease to Soya’s chest—a reminder of how quickly things could change with just a single piece of parchment.

“Morning mail’s always so dramatic,” Davonte remarked, following Soya’s gaze. “Bet you half the letters are just parents complaining about how much their kids are spending at Fernwick.”

The comment drew a small laugh from Soya, easing the knot of tension in his chest. “You’re probably right.”

“Of course I am,” Davonte said, leaning back with an air of mock confidence. “But seriously, mate, you’ve got to loosen up. Stressing isn’t going to solve anything.”

Soya nodded, though the weight of his thoughts lingered. He glanced around the Great Hall, taking in the familiar sights—the banners of the four houses swaying gently, the professors chatting at the head table, and the occasional burst of laughter from nearby groups of students. It was comforting, in a way, to see that life at Austramore carried on, even when everything felt uncertain.

As breakfast wound down, Davonte stretched and stood, tossing an apple into the air before catching it with a flourish. “Alright, let’s face the day. Blackthorn’s first, right?”

“Yeah,” Soya said, rising to his feet and grabbing his bag. He glanced at the Thylacea banner one last time before following Davonte toward the exit. “Let’s just hope he’s not testing antidotes again. Last time was bad enough.”

Davonte grinned over his shoulder. “Oh, he will. And when he does, you’d better volunteer, mate. I’m counting on you to save me from drinking something that turns my skin blue.

The potions classroom was as foreboding as ever. The cold, stone walls were lined with shelves containing jars of unidentifiable ingredients, their contents suspended in viscous liquids that glimmered faintly in the dim light. Professor Blackthorn’s voice boomed as he paced at the front of the room, his long, dark robes swirling behind him like a storm.

“Today,” he announced, his tone clipped, “we will begin work on a Petrification Potion. While its practical uses are limited, its properties are a vital study in understanding advanced potion-making.”

Soya and Davonte exchanged a glance. Davonte muttered, “Limited uses? Sounds like he’s had personal experience.”

“Eyes forward, Mr. Evander,” Blackthorn snapped without looking, his sharp hearing catching the whisper. Davonte straightened immediately, stifling a grin as Soya suppressed a laugh.

“Now,” Blackthorn continued, his sharp gaze sweeping over the class, “this potion is highly delicate. One misstep, and your brew will be entirely ineffective—or worse, dangerous. Follow my instructions exactly, and we might make it through this lesson without a catastrophic failure.”

The instructions appeared on the board in Blackthorn’s elegant handwriting, detailing a complex process involving crushed mandrake root, powdered moonstone, and a handful of basilisk scales. The class buzzed with quiet murmurs as students gathered their ingredients and set to work.

Soya measured his ingredients carefully, his hands steady despite the rising tension in the room. Beside him, Davonte was decidedly less focused, muttering under his breath as he struggled to crush the mandrake root into a fine enough powder.

“This stuff’s harder than it looks,” Davonte whispered, his pestle slipping slightly in the mortar.

“Let me help,” Soya said, taking the mortar and expertly grinding the root into the desired consistency. “There. Just keep stirring clockwise when you add it, or it’ll ruin the potion.”

Davonte gave him an exaggerated look of relief. “Thanks, mate. I’d say I owe you, but let’s face it—you’d have done this anyway.”

“Focus, gentlemen!” Blackthorn’s sharp voice cut through the room, making both boys snap back to their cauldrons. The professor stood at the front, his arms crossed and his piercing eyes darting over the students’ progress. “And remember, the moonstone powder must be added slowly—too quickly, and you risk destabilizing the entire mixture.”

Soya carefully followed the instructions, feeling a small surge of satisfaction as his potion began to shimmer with the faint silver glow Blackthorn had described. Davonte’s potion, however, was a dull gray, and he was frantically stirring to no avail.

“Uh, Soya? A little help here?” Davonte muttered, shooting his friend a pleading look.

Before Soya could respond, the classroom door creaked open, and Professor Wickham stepped inside. Her presence was a stark contrast to Blackthorn’s dark and imposing demeanor—tall, composed, and calm, with a sharpness in her eyes that rivaled his.

“Blackthorn,” she said, her voice low but urgent. “A word.”

The potions professor’s expression darkened, but he nodded curtly. “Class, continue with your work. I will return shortly.”

The room buzzed with unease as Blackthorn and Wickham stepped into the corridor, their voices muffled but clearly tense. Soya glanced at Davonte, who shrugged and returned to stirring his gray potion with renewed determination.

The minutes dragged on, and the tension in the classroom grew. Whispers spread among the students, speculation ranging from a dangerous experiment gone wrong to another incident involving the ministry officials.

When Blackthorn returned, his expression was unreadable, but there was an undeniable urgency in his movements. He strode to the front of the room and clapped his hands, silencing the chatter instantly.

“Class is dismissed early today,” he announced, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Leave your cauldrons untouched. Your potions will be evaluated at the beginning of the next lesson.”

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The students hesitated, exchanging glances, but Blackthorn’s piercing gaze left no room for protest. They began gathering their things, the usual post-class chatter muted by curiosity and unease.

As Soya packed his bag, he caught sight of Davonte’s furrowed brow. “Think it’s about the ministry?” Soya asked quietly.

“Could be,” Davonte replied, his voice low. “Or something worse.”

They filed out with the rest of the students, the air thick with unanswered questions. Whatever had drawn Blackthorn away, it was clear that something important—and possibly dangerous—was unfolding within the castle walls.

The courtyard was quiet, its cobblestone paths dappled with the late-morning sunlight filtering through the towering eucalyptus trees. This particular section of the courtyard was rarely used, its isolation making it a favored spot for students seeking solitude—or, in Soya and Davonte’s case, secrecy.

“This place is perfect,” Davonte said, dropping his bag onto the ground and pulling out his wand. “No nosy prefects, no ministry goons, and no Blackthorn breathing down our necks.”

Soya glanced around nervously, his fingers brushing the edge of his sketchbook. “Are you sure we should be practicing spells out here? If someone catches us—”

“Relax,” Davonte interrupted, grinning. “We’re not doing anything illegal. Just brushing up on some basics. Besides, if we’re going to figure out what’s going on, we need to be prepared.”

Soya hesitated but nodded, drawing his own wand. He couldn’t deny that Davonte had a point. The events of the past weeks had left him feeling helpless, and if practicing a few spells could help him regain some sense of control, it was worth the risk.

“What spell are we starting with?” Soya asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Let’s warm up with Umbra Conjuris,” Davonte suggested, twirling his wand. “You got the hang of it last time, but it wouldn’t hurt to make it more solid.”

Soya nodded, taking a deep breath as he focused on his wand. The memory of his successful attempt in Defense Against the Dark Arts gave him a small boost of confidence. He pictured the shadowy decoy in his mind, dark and fluid but strong.

“Umbra Conjuris,” he said firmly, his wand pointed downward.

A shadow erupted from his feet, swirling upward and taking the vague shape of a person. It wasn’t perfect—the edges were still a little blurred—but it held its form for several moments before dissipating.

“Nice!” Davonte said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Getting better already.”

Before Soya could respond, Davonte raised his wand. “Alright, my turn. Umbra Conjuris!”

The shadow that emerged was far more erratic, its edges flickering like smoke in a strong wind. It lasted only a few seconds before collapsing into nothingness. Davonte frowned, tilting his head.

“Well, that’s embarrassing,” he muttered. “Guess I need more practice.”

Soya managed a small laugh, but his amusement was short-lived. A faint sound—a low, distant rumble—reached his ears, sending a chill down his spine.

“Did you hear that?” he asked, lowering his wand.

Davonte paused, his brow furrowing. “Hear what?”

Before Soya could answer, the rumble came again, louder this time. It wasn’t the sound of thunder or wind, but something heavier—like stone shifting under immense weight. The boys exchanged a glance, their wands instinctively raised.

“Let’s check it out,” Davonte said, his voice hushed but excited.

“Are you serious?” Soya hissed, his nerves on edge. “What if it’s something dangerous?”

“Then it’s something we need to know about,” Davonte replied, already moving toward the sound. “Come on, don’t be a coward.”

Soya gritted his teeth, clutching his wand tightly as he followed. The sound grew louder with each step, drawing them toward the far end of the courtyard where the castle wall met the edge of the surrounding forest. The air seemed heavier here, the usual chatter of birds and rustling leaves conspicuously absent.

And then they saw it.

A massive hole gaped in the castle wall, jagged edges of stone jutting out like broken teeth. The opening was large enough for a grown man to walk through without ducking, and beyond it, the dense shadows of the forest loomed.

Davonte let out a low whistle, his usual humor replaced by genuine awe. “Well, that’s... not normal.”

Soya stared at the hole, his mind racing. The castle walls were enchanted, reinforced with layers of protective magic. Something—or someone—had broken through, and it wasn’t a small feat.

“What could have done this?” Soya whispered, his voice barely audible.

“I don’t know,” Davonte said, stepping closer to examine the edges of the hole. “But whatever it was, it wasn’t subtle.”

Soya’s eyes darted around the courtyard, half-expecting something to emerge from the shadows. “We should tell someone,” he said, his voice shaky. “The headmaster, or—”

“Wait,” Davonte interrupted, crouching near the base of the hole. He pointed to the ground, where faint marks were etched into the dirt—long, claw-like gouges that trailed off into the forest. “Look at this.”

Soya knelt beside him, his breath catching as he studied the marks. They were deep and uneven, as if something massive had dragged itself—or been dragged—through the opening.

“Those look like claw marks,” Soya said, his voice trembling. “What kind of creature could do this?”

Davonte’s expression darkened, the usual lightness in his eyes replaced by a seriousness Soya rarely saw. “I don’t know. But if this thing got into the castle...”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. The implications were clear enough.

Soya’s grip on his wand tightened, his mind swirling with questions and fears. The hole in the wall was more than just a mystery—it was a threat. And whatever had caused it was still out there.

“Come on,” Davonte said, standing and brushing the dirt off his hands. “We need to figure out what we’re dealing with before anyone else gets hurt.”

Soya nodded reluctantly, the weight of the discovery settling heavily on his shoulders. As they turned to leave, he cast one last glance at the hole, its dark edges seeming to whisper promises of danger yet to come.

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the corridors as the announcement spread like wildfire. Students clustered together in nervous groups, their voices hushed but tinged with fear. The towering stone walls of Austramore, usually a symbol of safety, now felt oppressively close.

Soya and Davonte stood frozen in the courtyard, the image of the massive hole in the wall still fresh in their minds. The sudden, urgent toll of the castle’s enchanted bells shattered their thoughts, the deep chime reverberating through the air.

“That’s not good,” Davonte muttered, his usual bravado slipping.

A prefect, her face pale but composed, appeared at the entrance to the courtyard. “You two!” she barked, her voice sharp. “Get to your common room immediately. The school is going into lockdown.”

“What’s going on?” Soya asked, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to appear calm.

The prefect hesitated, her gaze flickering toward the forest beyond the courtyard. “No questions. Just move.”

Soya exchanged a nervous glance with Davonte before nodding. They joined the stream of students being shepherded through the halls, the air thick with unspoken fear. The prefects and professors guided them with firm but calm instructions, their wands drawn but held low to avoid drawing too much attention.

In the Great Hall, Headmaster Spellchecker stood at the staff table, his presence commanding even in the midst of chaos. As students filtered in, his voice amplified over the noise, cutting through the tension like a blade.

“Students, please remain calm,” he said, his tone steady but leaving no room for argument. “You are to return to your common rooms immediately, where you will be supervised by your prefects and house heads. No student is to leave their dormitory under any circumstances until further notice.”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the hall, but Spellchecker raised a hand, silencing them.

“This is a precautionary measure,” he continued, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd. “The situation is under control, and there is no need for panic. Trust in your professors to ensure your safety.”

Soya couldn’t help but notice the subtle tension in Spellchecker’s posture, the way his wand remained in his hand even as he spoke. Whatever was happening, it was serious.

The students were divided into groups by house, each escorted by a professor or a prefect. As the Thylacea students gathered near their designated prefect, Soya felt the weight of the situation settle heavily on his chest. He glanced at Davonte, who had gone uncharacteristically quiet, his usual smirk replaced with a tight-lipped frown.

The journey to the common room was tense, the usual chatter of students replaced with hushed whispers. Soya’s mind raced with questions. Was this connected to the hole in the wall? To the claw marks they’d seen? And why had the headmaster avoided giving them a direct explanation?

When they finally reached the entrance to the Thylacea common room, the prefect muttered the password, and the wooden door creaked open. Inside, the usually warm and inviting space felt stifling. The younger students huddled together on the couches, their wide eyes reflecting the fear they couldn’t voice. The older students, though calmer, wore expressions of unease.

Davonte sank into one of the armchairs by the fire, rubbing his temples. “This isn’t just a precaution,” he muttered, low enough that only Soya could hear. “Something’s down there.”

Soya sat beside him, his fingers clutching his sketchbook tightly. “A basilisk,” he whispered, the word feeling heavy and forbidden. “It has to be.”

Davonte nodded grimly. “And if it’s in the lower levels... it’s only a matter of time before it finds its way up here.”

Soya’s stomach twisted at the thought. The image of the hole in the wall flashed in his mind, along with the claw marks leading into the forest. As his thoughts churned, something didn’t add up.

“But if it is a basilisk,” Soya said slowly, “it couldn’t have made those claw marks. Basilisks don’t have claws.”

Davonte’s eyes widened slightly, his brows knitting together. “You’re right. Those marks were deep—like something big dragged itself through the wall. Something with claws.”

“Which means...” Soya hesitated, the words catching in his throat. “There’s something else. Something bigger.”

The realization hit them both like a punch to the gut. If a basilisk was loose in the castle and something else had created the damage, then whatever was happening wasn’t just dangerous—it was catastrophic.

Davonte leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his voice low and serious. “So we’ve got a basilisk, something with claws, and a hole in the wall that no one’s talking about. Whatever this is, it’s not just a random attack.”

“And if the professors can’t stop it?” Soya asked, his voice trembling.

Davonte didn’t answer immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than usual. “Then we’re all in serious trouble.”

The flickering firelight cast long shadows on the walls, amplifying the tension in the room. Soya stared into the flames, his mind racing. For now, all they could do was wait—and hope the walls of Austramore were strong enough to hold against whatever was coming.