Ron told everyone at breakfast that he had fought a sandwich.
Nobody believed him.
That annoyed him more than it should have.
"I'm serious," he said, stabbing a sausage with unnecessary force. "It looked normal, which was exactly why it was evil."
Fred leaned over from the other side of the table.
"An evil sandwich."
George nodded gravely. "Dangerous breed."
Ron pointed his fork at them.
"You weren't there."
Fred looked at Harry. "Was he there?"
Harry, who had dark circles under his eyes, nodded slowly.
"There was a sandwich."
George turned to Hermione.
"And was it evil?"
Hermione did not look up from her notebook.
"It was bait."
Fred and George looked at each other.
Fred said, "So not evil."
George said, "Just morally complicated."
Ron groaned and dropped his head onto the table.
Theodore sat across from them, drinking tea as if nightmares, ancient doors, and cursed breakfast discussions were all ordinary morning matters.
Hermione had filled six pages before breakfast ended.
That was not a good sign.
"The mark on the door," she said quietly. "What was it?"
Theodore did not answer at once.
Ron lifted his head.
"Please say decorative."
"It was not decorative."
Ron dropped his head again.
Harry leaned forward. "Was it a seal breaking?"
"No. A seal responding."
Hermione's quill stopped.
"That sounds better."
"Not necessarily."
Theodore placed his cup down.
"The thing below the lock tried to reach the surface through dreams. We stopped it from finding a path into the common rooms, but in doing so, the barrier touched its door."
Hermione understood first.
"So it knows the barrier now."
"Yes."
"And the barrier knows it."
"Yes."
Ron lifted his head again.
"I am hearing two yeses and liking neither."
Harry frowned. "Can it use that?"
"Not directly. But next time, it may try a different method."
Ron stared.
"There is a next time?"
Theodore looked at him.
Ron sighed.
"I asked a stupid question."
At the staff table, Dumbledore watched them from behind his half-moon spectacles.
The Headmaster had also slept little.
Fawkes had spent most of the night restless, which was rare. Phoenixes were sensitive to many things: death, rebirth, dark magic, old oaths, and certain kinds of dreams that should not exist.
Last night had touched at least three of those.
Professor McGonagall sat beside him, reading the morning schedule with an expression of deep suspicion.
"Albus."
"Yes?"
"Why does today's timetable say 'ordinary classes resume'?"
"Because they do."
She slowly lowered the parchment.
"After yesterday."
"Especially after yesterday."
McGonagall stared at him.
Dumbledore smiled gently.
"Minerva, if we cancel classes every time Hogwarts reveals an ancient horror, the students' education will suffer."
Flitwick, sitting nearby, choked on his tea.
Snape did not laugh.
He had returned from the hospital wing before breakfast and looked even more unpleasant than usual. That meant he had either slept badly or discovered something he disliked.
Possibly both.
His gaze moved toward Quirrell's empty seat.
Quirrell remained bound in the Headmaster's office.
That was going to become difficult to explain soon.
Snape did not care.
For once, he hoped it remained difficult.
By midmorning, ordinary classes resumed.
Ordinary, in this case, meant everyone pretended not to glance at the windows whenever the Black Lake came into view.
In Charms, Professor Flitwick taught Cushioning Charms.
Half the class listened with unusual seriousness after yesterday's broom incidents.
In Herbology, Professor Sprout introduced a plant that clung to stone.
Several students asked if it could stop cursed sand.
Sprout smiled and said, "With training."
Ron immediately looked interested.
Hermione elbowed him.
In Defence Against the Dark Arts, there was no class.
The official notice said Professor Quirrell was "recovering from tournament-related strain."
Students accepted this easily.
Professor Quirrell recovering from strain was, by now, one of Hogwarts' most believable statements.
Theodore spent the free period in the Room of Requirement.
The miniature valley had changed again.
The small Quidditch pitch at its center now held nine faint nails. Around them, green-gold roots wove through the soil. Above the valley, a thin mist formed the outline of the Black Lake.
And below that mist, a dark door.
The door had not been there yesterday.
It was not fully real.
Not fully illusion either.
The mark from the dream glowed faintly on its surface.
Theodore stood before it with Willow Immortal's projection beside him.
The tree looked larger even inside the room's false world. Its leaves rustled, curious and eager.
"Don't touch it."
The leaves immediately stilled.
Theodore glanced at the tree.
"I mean it."
A small branch drooped, pretending innocence.
Theodore ignored the performance and studied the mark.
It resembled neither a rune nor an array symbol. It was closer to a wound that had learned shape. The outer circle was smooth, but the lines inside bent in ways that made the eye uncomfortable.
A dream symbol.
A hunger symbol.
A keyhole pretending to be a flower.
Theodore raised his hand and let Fuxi Divine Heaven Resonance brush against the mark.
The valley shook.
The door did not open.
Good.
It only responded.
Better.
A thin whisper rose from it.
Not aimed at his fear.
Not his curiosity.
Not his comfort.
It tried a different route this time.
Recognition.
You are not of this world.
Theodore's expression did not change.
The whisper continued.
Neither am I.
Willow Immortal's leaves began trembling.
Theodore placed a hand on its trunk.
"Steady."
The whisper curled around the valley like fog.
Open the door, and you will know why you came here.
Theodore laughed.
"Still wrong."
The mark dimmed slightly.
The whisper paused.
Theodore's voice remained calm.
"I did not come here to find an answer from something locked under a school."
The door fell silent.
Then the mark pulsed once.
The valley sky darkened.
For a breath, Theodore saw another image.
Not the drowned city.
Not the spine tower.
A hall of stone beneath a mountain.
Ancient figures stood before a black door. Some wore wizard robes. Some wore Daoist crowns. Some had faces hidden behind masks of gold and bone.
At the center stood a man with white hair and a broken wand in one hand.
Blood ran from his eyes, but he was smiling.
Behind him, someone carved the same mark onto the door.
Then the image vanished.
Theodore narrowed his eyes.
A broken wand.
Not modern.
Much older.
But the style resembled—
Theodore looked toward Hogwarts.
Dumbledore.
Not him.
His ancestor.
So the dream below the lock was connected not only to Hogwarts, but to Dumbledore's bloodline.
Interesting.
Annoying.
Potentially dangerous.
Theodore turned away from the door.
Willow Immortal rustled in confusion.
"We are not opening it."
The tree seemed relieved.
Then disappointed.
Then relieved again.
Its intelligence was growing too fast.
Theodore pointed toward the nine nails.
"Strengthen the foundation around the common rooms first. Then the pitch. Then the lake layer. The door stays outside the system."
The branches moved in agreement.
Mostly.
Theodore looked at the door one last time.
The mark had dimmed, but not vanished.
It had failed to tempt him.
So it had shown him a clue.
That meant it wanted him curious.
It had chosen a better weapon.
At lunch, Dumbledore found Theodore near an empty corridor overlooking the lake.
"Mr. Snow."
"Professor."
Dumbledore smiled faintly.
"I have discovered that when you stand quietly near windows, something troublesome usually follows."
"That is a useful observation."
"Sadly, not a comforting one."
Theodore looked at him.
"I saw something."
Dumbledore's expression changed.
Theodore described the vision.
The stone hall.
The black door.
The mixed group of ancient wizards and outsiders.
The white-haired man with blood running from his eyes.
Dumbledore did not interrupt.
But his hand tightened slightly around the railing when Theodore mentioned the broken wand.
"You recognized something," Theodore said.
Dumbledore was silent for a while.
Then he spoke softly.
"My family has an old story. Not a famous one. Not even a respectable one."
Theodore waited.
"My great-aunt claimed that the Dumbledores did not originally guard knowledge. We guarded a mistake. She was considered eccentric, even by our standards."
"Now?"
"Now I am reconsidering several family judgments."
Theodore looked at the Black Lake.
"Your bloodline may be tied to the lock."
Dumbledore did not look surprised.
Only tired.
"I wondered."
"That may be why Gatekeeper noticed you."
"And why the dream showed you my ancestor."
"Yes."
Dumbledore's eyes were calm, but the calm had weight.
"If my blood is part of the lock, then Tom may try to use it."
"He may."
"Can he?"
"Not while he is bound."
Dumbledore gave him a sidelong look.
"That sounded carefully phrased again."
"It was."
For a moment, the two stood in silence.
Below them, students crossed the grounds, laughing and arguing in the sunlight.
The Black Lake glittered peacefully.
Peaceful things were becoming less trustworthy lately.
Dumbledore finally said, "Then we must decide what to do with Tom."
Theodore smiled faintly.
"Before he decides for us."
In the Headmaster's office, Quirrell sat bound in the chair.
His eyes were closed.
Voldemort had not spoken since dawn.
That silence had begun to change.
It no longer felt wounded.
It felt like something listening.
Through Quirrell's damaged soul, through the traces of the broken formation, through the dream residue that had touched the castle, Voldemort heard a whisper.
Very faint.
Very far.
Not commanding.
Not offering.
Only asking.
What do you want badly enough to open the lock?
Quirrell whimpered in his sleep.
Voldemort opened his eyes behind the turban.
For the first time since the tournament, he smiled.
Because unlike Theodore Snow, Lord Voldemort had always known the answer.
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