THE WATCHFUL FLAME

The corridors of Hogwarts were quieter than usual, save for the occasional flicker of torchlight and the faint creak of ancient floorboards. The castle, though alive with magic, seemed to hold its breath.

In the depths of the dungeons, Professor Severus Snape stood before his desk, his black robes billowing faintly in the still air. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, were locked onto the rows of small vials lined precisely on a shelf. Behind him, the soft bubbling of a cauldron provided the only sound.

He wasn't brewing anything particularly complicated—just a calming draught—but his mind was elsewhere. Always elsewhere these days.

He had seen the signs before the others. The whispers in the hallway. The flickers of guilt and fear in Harry Potter's face. The long silences from Draco Malfoy. He wasn't foolish enough to believe such things were unconnected.

Snape closed the vial tightly and walked across the room to a small, magically locked cabinet. As he opened it with a quiet incantation, his gaze fell on an old book—a personal journal of sorts. Not written in, not for years, but still kept close.

It held memories. Mistakes. Warnings.

Footsteps in the hallway pulled him from his thoughts.

He turned sharply, robes snapping behind him, and pushed the cabinet shut.

A knock.

"Enter," Snape said.

The door creaked open and Harry Potter stood there, hair tousled, eyes guarded.

Snape's eyebrow rose. "Potter. This is not the part of the castle you're typically allowed to wander."

Harry hesitated. "I… wanted to ask you something. About the voices."

Snape stiffened.

He didn't speak, just motioned Harry inside and warded the room with a flick of his wand.

"Tell me everything."

Harry recounted what he could—the voice in the walls, the cold feeling when it came, and the writing on the corridor wall.

Snape didn't interrupt. He simply listened, nodding occasionally, expression unreadable.

When Harry finished, Snape stepped back and turned toward the shelves.

"You heard a voice when no one else did. And you say it sounded… cold? Hissing?"

Harry nodded slowly. "Almost like it wasn't meant to be heard by people."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "You need to be careful, Potter. There are ancient magics in this school—older than even Dumbledore's tenure. If something has awakened them…"

He trailed off, then turned back, expression unreadable.

"You will report to me directly the next time this happens. Not your friends. Not another teacher. Me."

Harry blinked. "Why?"

Snape's voice was sharp. "Because unlike most of this school, I know what I'm dealing with. And so, I suspect, do you."

Harry opened his mouth to argue—but stopped.

Because for once, he wasn't sure he disagreed.

---

Elsewhere in the Castle

Draco sat alone in the common room, staring at the fire. His books were open but untouched.

He hadn't spoken to Harry since the last Quidditch practice. The silence between them had grown again—not cold, just complicated. He didn't know what to say anymore.

And every time he saw Snape, the man's eyes seemed to cut straight through him.

He wasn't used to being seen.

---

Late That Night

Snape walked the halls alone. He did it often—most thought it was habit. In truth, it was vigilance.

He paused outside the same corridor Harry had mentioned. He stared at the wall, clean now, and pressed his hand to the stone.

There was something underneath.

Something stirring.

"So it begins again," Snape whispered to himself. His expression darkened.

"But this time, I will not be caught unprepared."