CHAPTER 17 WHISPERS IN THE WALLS

Detention: Scourges and Scars

Autumn had draped Hogwarts in a cloak of gold and crimson, but the castle's halls felt colder than ever. Ezzy's detention with Madam Pomphrey began at dawn in the hospital wing, where the scent of dittany and dragonhide gloves hung thick in the air.

"Sterilize these instruments," Pomphrey ordered, pointing to a tray of scalpels and bone-saws that gleamed like cursed silver. "And don't touch the Skele-Gro."

Ezzy obeyed, scrubbing diligently while sneaking glances at her notes. Advanced curse scars: resistant to essence of murtlap…

Nearby, Harry and Ron scraped enchanted gum off the moving staircases under Filch's gleeful supervision.

"This is worse than Aunt Petunia's spring cleaning," Harry muttered, prying a wad of gum shaped like a screaming face from a stone gargoyle.

"At least it's not the Forbidden Forest," Ron said, though his eyes kept darting to the third-floor corridor.

Hermione, sentenced to reorganize the Restricted Section, vanished into the library with a stack of books taller than herself. "Someone has to fix the cataloging system," she huffed, though her fingers lingered on a tome titled Tomb Guardians of the Ancient World.

The Twisted Sisters

History of Magic class was a dirge of dates and droning, but today, something shifted. Professor Binns paused mid-lecture on the Goblin Rebellion as the door creaked open.

Two girls slipped inside—pale as moonlight, with hair like spilled ink and eyes that glinted like polished onyx. They moved in eerie synchrony, their robes emblazoned with Slytherin's serpent.

"Ah, the Carrow twins," Binns intoned. "Sit. We're discussing the strategic use of dragonfire in the 1612 rebellion."

The twins—Astra and Luna (though they insisted on being addressed as a single entity: "We are AstraLuna")—took seats beside Ezzy. Their presence was a chill, a shadow.

"Your mother's journal," Astra(?) whispered, her voice a rasp of dry leaves. "It sings."

Luna(?) nodded, her fingers tracing the edge of Ezzy's parchment. "Secrets hum in old ink. We hear them."

Ezzy stiffened, "How do you know about—?"

"The walls whisper," they said in unison, "Hogwarts has no secrets from those who listen."

Ron leaned over, eyebrows raised. "Are they… always like this?"

"Only on Tuesdays," AstraLuna replied, their smiles sharp as broken glass.

Halloween's Hollowed Light

The Great Hall glowed with floating jack-o'-lanterns, their carved faces leering as enchanted bats swooped overhead. Ezzy picked at his treacle tart, his mother's journal hidden beneath the table.

"Look!" Suhi gasped, pointing to the ceiling. The enchanted sky swirled with auroras of orange and black, a celestial homage to the season.

But Ezzy barely noticed. His fingers brushed a page in the journal that rippled, the ink rearranging into a spidery script:

Tharion sleeps where shadows weep,

Beneath the roots, where guardians keep.

Seek the stag where moonlight dies,

Where stone weeps blood and truth lies.

"Harry," Ezzy murmured, sliding the journal over. "Look."

Hermione squinted. "It's a riddle. Beneath the roots—could mean the Whomping Willow. Stone weeps blood… the Bloody Baron's haunt?"

Jane snorted pumpkin juice. "Or Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Everything weeps there."

"No," Ezzy said, tracing the words. "Where moonlight dies. The Astronomy Tower's shadow points due west at midnight. It'd align with…"

"The Founders' Crypts," AstraLuna hissed, appearing suddenly behind them. "Forgotten. Sealed. But not to us."

The group froze.

"We'll help," Luna(?) said, her voice softer. "For a price."

"What price?" Harry asked warily.

Astra's smile widened. "A secret. Your secret."

The Forgotten Crypt

Midnight found them in the abandoned East Wing, where tapestries hung in tatters and portraits glared from under layers of dust. AstraLuna led the way, their wands casting pallid light.

"Hogwarts' bones are buried here," Astra whispered. "Laid by the Founders' hands."

The corridor ended at a wall etched with runes. Luna pressed her palm to the stone, murmuring in Parseltongue. The wall shuddered, grinding open to reveal a staircase spiraling into darkness.

"How'd you know to do that?" Ron breathed.

"We listen," they said simply.

The crypt below was a cathedral of shadows. Pillars carved with serpents and badgers loomed overhead, and the air tasted of iron and rot. At its center stood a sarcophagus, its lid cracked, chains of dark metal coiled around it like vipers.

Ezzy stepped forward, his mother's journal trembling in his hands. "Tharion's tomb."

A low laugh echoed through the chamber.

They turned.

A figure emerged from the shadows, cloaked in tattered velvet, the obsidian dagger glowing in his grip. His face was obscured, but his voice was a blade.

"Hello, children. I've been expecting you."

The Shadow's Face

The dagger pulsed, casting jagged light over the figure's features. His skin was corpse-pale, his eyes voids of hunger.

"Tom Riddle," Ezzy breathed.

"A name I once wore," the figure said. "Now, I am more."

Harry's scar burned white-hot. "You're the one controlling the curse!"

Riddle—or what remained of him—smiled. "Tharion's power is mine. The forest, the creatures, even Quirrell's pathetic flesh… all fuel for the feast."

Hermione raised her wand. "You're mad!"

"Mad?" Riddle hissed. "No. Ascendant."

The dagger flared, and the crypt's walls began to bleed.