You creep closer to the door, every step measured on the cold stone. The pale light beneath it flickers once, then steadies, as if someone inside has just moved a hand over a flame. Your scar prickles sharply, and the portraits behind you seem to watch in uneasy silence. You raise your wand, listening to the faintest scrape of movement beyond the wood.

The handle is icy beneath your fingers, and the room beyond feels oddly large for the narrow corridor. A thin line of whispering drifts out with the light, too soft to make out but full of urgency. Whatever waits inside is not meant to be found by morning students or wandering prefects. You take a breath and prepare to open it, knowing this choice may change the shape of your day.