Chapter Text
Letter to my father
My Dearest Father,
I find myself writing to you with a rather heavy heart. As the end of my studies here approaches, I discover that the occasion brings me far less satisfaction than I had once imagined. It is a curious sort of melancholy, made all the more difficult by certain recent troubles which I shall explain more fully when next we meet.
These past years have been a long and often exhausting trial. There have, of course, been moments of genuine interest—indeed, a few I might even call remarkable—but I fear they have been outweighed by burdens I was not quite prepared to carry.
I must admit something to you now, though it gives me little pleasure to do so: you were right from the beginning.
You saw something in this place that I, in my youthful stubbornness, refused to acknowledge. I believed perseverance alone would justify the decision to come here. Yet I confess there have been many evenings when I have found myself gazing out of the dormitory window toward the south, imagining the quiet streets of Birmingham and the comfort of our home.
I have missed the ordinary kindness of your company more than I can properly express.
There are moments when I cannot help but wonder if my coming here was a mistake. The events of these past weeks have only made that thought more persistent.
Still, I wish you to know how deeply grateful I am for your patience with me. You supported my decision even when you doubted it, and that generosity of spirit has been a comfort to me on more occasions than I care to admit.
If nothing else, I hope I shall soon return home a wiser man than the boy who left it.
Your loving son,
Darren
June 3rd, 1891
The air in the Undercroft has taken on a curious heaviness of late. It is not unpleasant exactly, but it lingers in a way that makes one aware of it—like the still air in a workshop before the machines are set in motion.
My pocket watch, a solid piece of London craftsmanship, has become oddly prominent in the silence. Its ticking seems louder here than anywhere else in the castle, as though it were the only object entirely unconcerned with the strange mood that has settled over this place.
It has now been precisely two weeks since the events at the final repository .
The school, in its remarkable ability to forget uncomfortable matters, has resumed its ordinary rhythms. Students quarrel over trivialities, charms are miscast in corridors, and Professor Ronen spent the better part of this morning reprimanding two third-years who attempted to enchant a suit of armor to bow repeatedly to passing girls.
It is strange how quickly the world returns to normal.
Yet something about it feels slightly altered to me, as though I am observing it from a short but undeniable distance.
To Sebastian, magic is a prize to be seized. To Ominis, it is a shadow to be navigated. To me, it has become something rather less romantic.
I spent the better part of the afternoon watching the great clock in the hospital wing. There is a peculiar comfort in its certainty. The pendulum does not hesitate, nor does it wonder if it ought to swing at all. It simply moves, obedient to its design.
I confess I envied it.
Meanwhile, the Ancient Magic continues to make itself known in ways I find difficult to describe. At times it resembles a distant vibration, a faint hum somewhere behind the ribs, as though something within me were quietly attempting to announce its presence.
Whether this is power or merely exhaustion masquerading as such, I cannot yet say.
I have taken to wearing my father’s silver signet ring again. Its weight upon my hand is reassuring, though I suspect the comfort it provides is entirely of my own invention.
The torches burned low when I left the Undercroft this evening. One near the far wall flickered stubbornly despite the absence of any draft. I found myself watching it longer than was sensible before finally extinguishing it.
The hour grows late. I shall attempt sleep.
June 4th, 1891
The castle has grown quieter since the final conflict, though it would be inaccurate to describe the atmosphere as peaceful.
It feels instead like the uneasy calm that follows a violent storm. The thunder has passed, yet the air still carries a faint bitterness, as though the world itself has not entirely decided whether the danger is truly over.
Students behave as though nothing remarkable has occurred. The corridors were lively this morning; someone had attempted a color-changing charm on the suits of armor outside the Charms classroom, with mixed success. Professor Ronen appeared distinctly unimpressed.
Life continues, it seems.
Sebastian, however, is the greatest cause for concern.
Since the incident with his uncle and the catastrophe in the catacombs, he has acquired a restless energy that borders on alarming. This evening he paced the Undercroft for nearly an hour without once sitting down.
At one point he knocked over a chair and did not appear to notice.
Ominis righted it quietly after Sebastian left.
He is haunted—not by ghosts, for we are well accustomed to those—but by the weight of his own decisions. The Ministry’s gaze is narrowing, and the school whispers with the particular enthusiasm that always accompanies scandal.
If he remains here much longer, I fear the quiet of the Highlands will only amplify whatever storm is presently raging in his mind.
The magical solution he sought for his grief has failed him, and without that hope he appears dangerously adrift.
I do not know how to help him.
My watch seemed unusually loud tonight as I wrote this entry. I find the sound rather difficult to ignore.
I believe I shall stop writing now.
June 7th, 1891
There is a Slytherin student whom I have observed about the castle on several occasions, though until today I had never had cause to speak with him directly.
He is a tall fellow with dark hair and a rather severe expression, and possesses the sort of reputation that tends to arrive in a room several minutes before the man himself. His name, I have gathered from overheard conversation, is Gaunt—though the school seems to pronounce it with a certain caution, as though the word itself carries an unpleasant history.
I have seen him often in the company of Professor Black, or at least hovering nearby in the manner of a particularly attentive hound. The Headmaster appears to tolerate him with a patience he seldom affords the rest of us.
Students speak of the Gaunt family in low voices.
Their stories vary in detail, though they share a common tone. The family is said to be ancient, proud of it to an unhealthy degree, and rather inclined toward the belief that ancestry alone compensates for a variety of personal deficiencies. Several Slytherins have implied that the Gaunts place an extraordinary emphasis on the purity of their lineage, a practice which—if the rumors are to be believed—has not always produced the most agreeable results.
Whether these stories are exaggerated I cannot yet say. I will only note that the young Mr. Gaunt has a somewhat peculiar manner of speaking to others, as though he were addressing servants who have not yet been informed of their position.
It was therefore with some mild interest that I heard the door of the Undercroft open this afternoon and observed this same student entering the room.
He was accompanied by three others who remained near the entrance, evidently expecting some form of entertainment.
Sebastian and I had been seated at the table while Ominis occupied his usual chair nearby.
The visitor surveyed the room slowly before speaking.
“Little brother,” he said.
The word hung in the air for a moment.
Only then did I realize whom we were dealing with.
Ominis did not appear surprised.
“That is unfortunate,” he said calmly. “I had hoped the day might pass without family visits.”
The resemblance between the two became immediately apparent once one knew to look for it. The structure of the face is nearly identical, though Marvolo’s features possess a harsher quality, as though the same design had been executed with considerably less care.
One of the boys behind him laughed.
Marvolo began walking slowly about the Undercroft, inspecting the room with the air of a man who has discovered something faintly amusing.
“So this is where you spend your time,” he said. “Father suspected you had taken to hiding.”
Sebastian leaned back in his chair.
“If you’ve come merely to admire the stonework,” he said, “I assure you it looks the same from the doorway.”
Marvolo paused behind him.
“And you must be Sallow.”
Sebastian did not answer.
Marvolo’s gaze moved next toward me.
“And this,” he continued thoughtfully, “must be the quiet one people keep mentioning.”
I closed my watch and regarded him.
“I fear the rumors may have exaggerated my importance,” I said.
He studied me for a moment as though deciding whether the remark amused him.
Meanwhile Ominis remained perfectly still.
“Father has heard some very curious things about you lately,” Marvolo said to him.
“I imagine Father hears many things,” Ominis replied.
“Indeed.”
The tone of the conversation had begun to shift by then, though Marvolo himself appeared entirely at ease.
Sebastian rose abruptly.
“You’ve said your piece,” he said. “You can leave.”
Marvolo stepped a little closer.
“And what precisely do you intend to do about it?”
For a moment the situation threatened to deteriorate rather quickly.
I stood at that point and addressed him before Sebastian could act.
“Mr. Gaunt,” I said, “if your purpose was merely to verify the accuracy of certain schoolyard stories, I believe the experiment may be considered complete.”
Marvolo looked at me again.
After a short pause he laughed quietly.
“Well,” he said, “perhaps the stories about this little group are not entirely dull after all.”
He turned toward the door but stopped before leaving.
“Oh—and Ominis?”
Ominis did not respond.
“Father expects a letter.”
With that he departed, his companions following him out with an enthusiasm that suggested they had received exactly the entertainment they came for.
Sebastian remained standing for several seconds after the door closed.
“I was very close to hexing him,” he said.
“I noticed,” I replied.
Ominis said nothing for some time.
When he finally spoke, his voice was unusually quiet.
“My family has a remarkable talent for appearing precisely where they are least wanted.”
The torches crackled faintly along the walls.
I wound my watch again, though it had not yet stopped.
For reasons I cannot entirely explain, the Undercroft felt rather less comfortable after that encounter.
June 9th, 1891
Sebastian, Ominis, and I were summoned to the Headmaster’s office this morning.
The message arrived during breakfast, carried by a particularly officious owl that seemed determined to stare at me until the envelope had been opened. The seal bore the school crest, though the handwriting upon it was unfamiliar.
Sebastian read the note over my shoulder.
“Well,” he said at last, “that cannot possibly be good.”
The walk to the Headmaster’s office was conducted in a silence that suggested we were each entertaining similar thoughts.
Professor Black’s office is an imposing chamber even on ordinary occasions. The tall windows overlook the grounds at an angle that allows one to see nearly the entire approach to the castle. The room itself contains an excess of polished wood, dark leather, and portraits of individuals who appear to have shared the Headmaster’s talent for disapproval.
On this occasion we discovered that Professor Black was not alone.
Two officials from the Ministry were present.
One was a tall witch with a severe expression and a stack of documents clutched beneath one arm. The other, a thin wizard with iron-grey hair, occupied a chair near the desk and watched us with the polite attentiveness of a man who has already formed his conclusions.
Neither of them introduced themselves immediately.
Professor Black did that instead.
“Ah,” he said, in the tone of a man inconvenienced by a delayed train. “Our students of interest have arrived.”
Sebastian shifted slightly beside me. The Ministry wizard rose from his chair.
His manner was not unfriendly, though there was something about the way he studied us that made the word inspection seem more appropriate than greeting.
“You are Mr. Sallow, Mr. Gaunt, and Mr. Watts,” he said.
It was not a question.
Sebastian gave a brief nod.
The witch opened her documents and began leafing through them with brisk efficiency.
Professor Black clasped his hands behind his back.
“You will forgive the formality,” he said, “but recent… disturbances have drawn the Ministry’s attention to certain matters at the school.”
Sebastian spoke first.
“What sort of disturbances?”
The Ministry wizard’s expression did not change.
“The sort that involve goblin rebellions, criminal activity, and the rather extraordinary destruction of several locations across the Highlands.”
The witch continued reading.
“Victor Rookwood,” she said, glancing up briefly, “appears to have had multiple interactions with students of this institution.”
Sebastian’s jaw tightened slightly.
“Rookwood is dead,” he said.
“Yes,” the wizard replied calmly. “We are aware.”
The witch turned another page.
“Miss Sweeting and Miss Onai have already provided statements regarding their involvement in the matter.”
At the mention of their names, Sebastian glanced briefly toward me.
The wizard continued.
“And Mr. Amit Thakkar.”
Amit’s name lingered in the room slightly longer than the others.
“It appears,” the wizard said carefully, “that Mr. Thakkar encountered the goblin leader's brother during the course of these events.”
No one spoke for a moment.
The wizard folded his hands.
“Which brings us to the three of you.”
Professor Black cleared his throat.
“The Ministry has taken an interest in the circumstances surrounding Professor Fig’s death,” he said.
His tone was so neutral that one might have thought he was discussing the weather.
Sebastian’s expression hardened immediately.
Ominis remained perfectly still.
The Ministry wizard studied each of us in turn before finally speaking again.
“We would like to ask Mr. Watts a few additional questions.”
Sebastian frowned.
“Why him?”
The wizard’s answer was brief.
“Because the accounts we have received suggest that Mr. Watts played a rather… significant role in the events under discussion.”
Professor Black nodded.
“Yes. Mr. Sallow and Mr. Gaunt may return to their classes.”
Sebastian did not move.
“We were called here together,” he said.
Professor Black’s patience appeared to thin slightly.
“And now you are dismissed together.”
Ominis placed a hand lightly on Sebastian’s sleeve.
After a moment, Sebastian relented.
Neither of them looked pleased as they left the room.
The door closed with a soft but decisive sound.
The Ministry wizard resumed his seat.
The witch continued reviewing her documents.
Professor Black took position beside his desk as though preparing to observe the proceedings rather than participate in them.
The wizard regarded me thoughtfully.
“Mr. Watts,” he said, “we have encountered a curious pattern in the statements we have collected.”
I said nothing.
“In several accounts,” he continued, “your name appears at the center of events which others describe only partially.”
The witch glanced up again.
“Professor Fig, in particular, appears to have taken a personal interest in your studies.”
Professor Black spoke then.
“Yes,” he said dryly. “A regrettable misallocation of faculty attention.”
The remark struck me as unnecessarily cold.
The wizard, however, ignored it.
“Would you care to explain the nature of your work with Professor Fig?”
The question was asked politely.
Nevertheless, I could not escape the impression that the answer was already expected.
I gave them the most careful explanation I could manage.
It was received with the sort of quiet attention that makes one aware every word is being weighed.
Eventually the witch closed her folder.
“That will be sufficient for today,” she said.
The wizard rose once more.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Watts.”
He paused before adding one final remark.
“The Ministry will continue its review of recent events.”
There was something in his tone that suggested the matter was far from concluded.
Professor Black dismissed me shortly afterward with minimal ceremony.
As I reached the door, he added one final comment.
“Do try to avoid attracting further attention, Mr. Watts.”
It was the closest thing to advice he offered.
Sebastian and Ominis were waiting in the corridor when I emerged.
Sebastian spoke immediately.
“Well?”
I considered my answer.
“The Ministry,” I said, “appears to be very interested in recent history.”
Sebastian frowned.
“That’s not reassuring.”
“No,” I agreed.
It is not.
June 10th, 1891
Sebastian, Ominis, and I spoke for a long time tonight.
The discussion began, as most of our recent conversations do, with speculation about the Ministry’s intentions. It concluded somewhere else entirely.
There are too many eyes upon us now.
Between Sebastian’s unfortunate situation, the lingering consequences of the Goblin rebellion, and matters which cannot safely be written in this book, the castle has begun to feel less like a school and more like a stage upon which everyone is waiting for the next act of some very tiresome drama.
Sebastian proposed leaving.
At first I assumed he meant only for a few days, perhaps a trip to Hogsmeade or the countryside. That assumption proved optimistic.
His suggestion was more ambitious.
Ominis did not reject the idea.
We spoke until well past midnight.
The torches burned low before we reached any kind of agreement.
June 11th, 1891
It is an odd thing to plan one’s temporary disappearance while sitting beneath the very institution one intends to disappear from.
Yet that is precisely what we have done.
The decision, once spoken aloud, seemed strangely reasonable.
A short absence would serve many purposes. It would allow certain matters to settle. It would grant Sebastian time to escape the more immediate consequences of recent events. And, if I am honest, it might provide all of us with a necessary distance from dark magic itself.
There are moments lately when the entire subject feels exhausting.
I suggested that we might stay for a time at my family’s estate.
Neither Sebastian nor Ominis objected.
Sebastian appeared relieved by the prospect of leaving the Highlands for a while. Ominis, meanwhile, simply nodded in that quiet way of his which suggests he has already considered the matter from several angles, and realived that he would not spend more time with his family for the summer.
The practical details remain to be arranged.
I cannot yet say whether this decision is wise.
But it feels inevitable.
June 12th, 1891
My watch stopped sometime during the night.
I did not notice until this morning.
It required only a small adjustment to set it moving again, yet the silence it left behind was strangely noticeable while it lasted.
Sebastian spent most of the afternoon pacing the Undercroft again.
Ominis sat nearby, listening, as he often does.
Neither of them spoke for quite some time.
There is a curious feeling in the air tonight, as though something has quietly begun moving in a direction none of us can quite see yet.
I suspect our departure will come sooner than expected.