Hogwarts at midnight looked like a sleeping dragon carved against the moonlight.
The silver raven shimmered for a split second, revealing the faint outline of a slender woman in ancient robes—a ghost. Pyxis Black. The very first "Guardian," the Black family specter who had helped the four founders build Hogwarts.
Pyxis stayed silent for a long time. As the original Guardian, she understood the Stargate better than anyone.
It could be a doorway. It could be treasure. But really, it was a mirror—reflecting the deepest desires and fears of whoever opened it.
And that decided where it led.
"That notebook," she said at last, "isn't just a Horcrux. When Tom created it, he accidentally copied some of the Stargate's properties. It can preserve a soul, devour memories, and even…"
Every portrait in the office stared at her. Even Fawkes tilted his head, waiting.
"…communicate with other worlds."
"Communicate with other worlds?" The room erupted in whispers.
"Not enough to replace the true key," Pyxis continued, "but it can still…"
She changed direction. "That's why I stopped him back then. He must have guessed who I was from some clue. I not only prevented more killings—I ripped that specific memory out of Tom Riddle's mind."
"I'm only a ghost. Even in Animagus form I'm just a raven specter. I couldn't kill him."
"But that memory fragment… part of it may still linger inside the soul piece."
"Then why are you waiting, Dumbledore?" demanded the portrait of plump, red-nosed Dexter Fortescue (probably an ancestor of the Diagon Alley ice-cream man). "Why not destroy it right now?"
"I agree with you for once, Fortescue," Phineas Nigellus added from his frame.
"Of course, of course," Dumbledore said mildly. "Everyone, rest easy. The notebook will be dealt with at the proper time."
"The problem," Dumbledore's voice dropped to a sigh, "is that Caelum Julien Black has now discovered its secret."
"He could have handed it to a professor. He could have never opened it again. Instead… he chose to talk."
"Talk?" Phineas sounded stunned. "With Tom Riddle?"
A portrait of a long-haired witch—Dilys Derwent—spoke up. "If the Black bloodline is the key to the Stargate, why make a Black the Guardian at all? Wouldn't it be safest if the line died out? Sorry, Phineas."
"There never was a 'Guardian' in the way you think," Pyxis sighed softly. "The Black bloodline was chosen by the Stargate itself—reason unknown. Whether a Black becomes the actual Guardian… that's their own choice."
"I thought the bloodline had already ended," Dumbledore added with a sigh. "Who could have guessed that this non-pure-blood Black—Julien—would have magic that resonates with the Stargate better than anyone in a thousand years."
"He's the closest match yet," Pyxis finished. "If anyone can truly open the Stargate… it's him."
---
"Julien, you look like a pumpkin pie that got stepped on by a troll." Casen tossed his golden Snitch model into the air and barely caught it. "What's with the zombie face?"
"We've got that Potions quiz in a bit and we're all counting on you," Edgar said, sliding a cup of coffee across the table.
"Thanks, guys. Didn't sleep much." Julien forced a smile, his eyes flicking unconsciously toward the black notebook on his desk.
"Come on, we can't be late for Snape," Casen grabbed his arm and dragged him out.
On the desk, Voldemort's Horcrux lay perfectly still—like a slab of sleeping black ice.
As the three boys passed through the common room, a few older students were reading in the corner. "Morning, Penelope," Casen called. They hurried on.
None of them noticed that Penelope Clearwater—the calm, collected Ravenclaw prefect—didn't answer.
Her eyes were glassy, pupils glowing with an unnatural dark light, as if someone had lit a black lantern behind them.
Her fingers kept stroking the signed copy of Break with a Banshee that Lockhart had lent her.
The elegant handwriting felt strangely familiar… like a voice whispering from inside her own mind.
---
At lunch the boys devoured slices of pizza while complaining about the Potions quiz.
"Snape's test was brutal today," Casen mumbled through a mouthful. "Half the questions were way beyond the syllabus."
"Tell me about it," Julien said, starving—he'd skipped breakfast. "That essay on comparing the Hellfire Draught and the Draught of Living Death—flame control differences, why mixing them is catastrophic. I filled five inches of parchment and my hand was cramping."
"Five inches?!" Edgar dropped his apple. "I only managed two. I'm doomed."
Terry Boot wandered over with a tray of untouched food, looking shell-shocked. "At least the written part let you put words down. The practical… was a disaster."
"How'd yours go, Terry?" Casen asked. "I was too nervous to watch anyone else."
"I don't even remember the result. I just remember turning the flame up too high and my stabilizer turning bright pink—like an angry pufferfish exploding. Snape said my Pepperup Potion was better suited for de-furring trolls."
"At least it had a use, right?" Julien's attempt at comfort didn't help much.
"Oh no!" Padma Patil came sprinting into the Great Hall, breathless. "Penelope! Penelope Clearwater's been petrified!"
"What?!"
Half an hour earlier, in the second-floor girls' bathroom.
Penelope Clearwater stood on the damp tiles.
Water dripped from the faucets, echoing in the empty room. Myrtle's sobbing drifted from one stall, strangely muffled, like something was pressing it down.
"Throw it in," the voice whispered straight into her brain—no longer ink on paper, but a vibration in her nerves. "Get rid of the notebook."
Penelope's hand shook as she lifted it.
Sunlight slanted through the high window, lighting the dreamy haze on her face. On the first page she saw elegant writing—Lockhart's handwriting: "Dear Penelope, please destroy this. It contains scandalous lies that could ruin my career…"
She hurled the notebook again. It sailed straight through Myrtle's head.
"Oh, whatever! Myrtle can't feel pain anyway—throw whatever you want at her!" Myrtle's wail grew louder.
A soft hiss came from behind her—the sound of scales scraping across porcelain.
Penelope slowly raised her head.
In the broken mirror she saw two glowing yellow slits in the gap under a stall door. Not lights—vertical pupils. Huge. Cold. Full of killing hunger.
"No—"
"Harry, Ron, hurry up!" Hermione called over her shoulder. "See? I told you—no one's here except Myrtle. Perfect spot for the Polyjuice Potion."
Myrtle exploded out of her toilet with a shriek that could shatter glass. "Murder! It's happening again! Just like fifty years ago!"