A dining room was shrouded in an almost oppressive silence, the kind that settled over the students like a heavy woollen cloak. Breakfast had begun as usual, but something in the air made even the clatter of cutlery sound muffled, distant.

A fellow student's voice cut through the quiet like a crack of thunder. Her words echoed faintly through the hall, turning the heads of several professors who heard just enough to frown, but not enough to intervene. She glanced around nervously before leaning in close enough that you could feel her breath tickling your ear.

A newspaper landed squarely in your plate with a wet slap, splattering bits of porridge and toast across the table and onto your robes. "Sorry, that's mine!" came a breathless voice from across the table as a boy reached over to grab the soggy paper. "My owl's hopeless at aiming."

But before he could snatch it away, your eyes caught the headline on the front page:

"DEATH AS TRADITION: Triwizard Tournament Returns a Year After the Koldovstoretz Tragedy""While families still await news of their missing children, Hogwarts becomes the stage for another deadly spectacle.""Despite assurances from the Departments of Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports, parents of the victims demand answers: Why resurrect the Tournament — and why allow you to attend Hogwarts?"

The boy froze as he too registered the headline. His expression faltered, mouth opening as if to offer reassurance, but no words came. He shut it again, reddened, and quickly pretended the whole thing hadn't happened.

More owls swooped overhead, dropping letters and parcels. None landed in front of you. None had for over a week.

Before leaving for Hogwarts, your parents had made you promise you'd write daily. But they stopped replying regularly after only a fortnight.

We're still settling into the new place.Trying to get things in order.So much going on, we'll explain everything soon!

And then, silence.

Though if you're honest with yourself — hadn't they said the same thing when they didn't show up to see you off at King's Cross? When they sent you off on the Hogwarts Express... alone?

After breakfast, before you could reach the Entrance Hall for Potions class, someone called your name.

"Miss, a word if you would."

Professor Dumbledore was walking toward you at his usual unhurried pace, his presence a curious blend of warmth and authority — like a kindly fire crackling in a hearth. "I've asked Professor Snape to excuse your tardiness," he said. "Would you accompany me to my office?"

Dumbledore's office lay at the top of a spiral staircase, hidden behind a stone gargoyle that sprang aside at his murmured password. The circular room was filled floor to ceiling with books and glowing instruments, while portraits of former headmasters either snored or peered discreetly down at you.

"The morning edition was... unpleasant," Dumbledore said mildly as he settled behind his large desk. Fawkes stirred on his golden perch as the Headmaster gestured for you to sit.

"You know, I didn't summon you here to speak of the article," he continued, "but I would be remiss not to ask — how are you feeling?"

He slid a bowl of lemon sherbets toward you before continuing. "The Ministry did not agree to your transfer lightly. They insisted on occasional memory work sessions using this."

He drew a small vial containing shimmering blue liquid from his drawer. "Veritas Revelata. Truth Revealed. I imagine it was used on you before."

The memory surfaces unbidden — a cold courtroom, stone walls pressing in, Anna Ivanova's hand tight on your shoulder as the investigator displayed his authorization permit. "The Supreme Court granted an exception," he'd said. "Special case. Unusual circumstances."

"In someone your age," Dumbledore's voice breaks through the memory, "I think it might do more harm than good. We don't want to cloud the good memories either, do we?"

He smiled wistfully. "So instead, I propose conversations. Just us. On your terms. My office is a safe space. You may speak of anything — memories, dreams, shadows. And perhaps, through talking, we'll find truth or heal a little."