Chapter Text
The air in the South Wing shimmered faintly as Diana Hartwell wandered past a row of arched windows. A quiet hush had settled — not the chill of winter or silence of sleep, but that peculiar kind of quiet only found near ghosts.
She wasn’t alone.
A faint, translucent glow floated beside her — The Grey Lady, her ever-elegant movements tracing through the fading light like a melody no one else could hear. Diana had asked about a hidden passage. But the ghost's answer veered elsewhere.
“You ask me about doors, but child… have you ever thought to ask the room itself?”
Diana blinked. “The room?”
The Grey Lady tilted her head, her eyes far away now. “Do you know about the unseen ghost?”
“The unseen ghost?” Diana echoed softly.
“Yes,” the ghost whispered, her voice lower, almost reverent. “It is not one of us — not like Nearly Headless Nick or the Fat Friar. The unseen ghost is older than any specter, bound not to the soul… but to place.”
She glided a few inches forward, casting no shadow, yet her presence loomed deeply.
“Every room, every corridor, every alcove, every building… holds the unseen ghost,” she said. “It is not the spirit of a person — it is the memory of the place itself.”
Diana’s heart stirred. Her wand pulsed faintly in her robe.
“Unlike a Pensieve,” the Grey Lady continued, “which shows memory colored by emotion, trimmed by belief, even altered by will… the unseen ghost records truth.”
Her eyes met Diana’s, more focused now — intense.
“When a room is born — when stone is laid, when magic fuses space into existence — that place gains a witness. An echo stitched into its bones. The unseen ghost never leaves. It watches every step, every whisper, every heartbreak.”
A chill traced Diana’s spine. “And… it can show the memory?”
“Rarely,” the Grey Lady whispered. “Only to those the room trusts. Or those… who belong to many lifetimes.”
Diana stilled.
“Even the Pensieve can lie,” the ghost said, her voice almost sorrowful. “But the unseen ghost cannot. It is the purest form of memory. But beware… pure memory does not comfort. It does not flatter. It remembers.”
The Gryffindor common room flickered with the golden hue of hearthlight and the low murmur of voices layered like old quilts. Diana was nestled between Garreth and Corvin on the longest couch, a teacup warm in her hands. Ominis had claimed the armchair beside her, one leg elegantly crossed, his wand idly twirling slow protection sigils in the air. Ciel and Laziel sat at the rug’s edge, lazily leaning against opposite sides of the coffee table like solemn sentries of the snack pile.
The rest of the squad — Natsai, Poppy, Amit, Nellie, Imelda, Zenobia, and Leander — were scattered across beanbags and low poufs. Everyone looked half-tamed by the warmth and exhaustion.
Until…
“I’m sure I followed the recipe exactly in Sharp’s class,” Zenobia snapped.
Heads turned.
Zenobia slumped dramatically into her beanbag and crossed her arms. Her curls were still faintly frizzed from a mild cauldron mishap. “But when I came back from the toilet, I swear… someone snuck a weird ingredient into my cauldron.”
Leander winced. “Weird like… your eyebrows nearly vanished again, or weird like what?”
“Weird like the potion started giggling.” Zenobia shot him a glare. “Like, actually giggling. Like it thought it was clever.”
Diana blinked. Garreth stiffened. Then he cough-laughed into his mug.
“…Garreth,” Ominis said slowly, not even looking up from his wandwork, “tell me you didn’t.”
“I didn’t!” Garreth said, indignant. Then a beat. “I mean, not directly!”
Everyone stared.
“I just may have been testing a new giggle root hybrid on the next table. It wasn’t supposed to drift into hers!” (Garreth)
“Did you label it?” Corvin asked gently.
“Technically no,” Garreth muttered.
Poppy covered her mouth, trying not to giggle herself. “What did the potion do, Zen?”
Zenobia groaned. “It winked at me. Winked! Then it started singing an off-key sea shanty. Professor Sharp docked ten points because I ‘encouraged inappropriate emotional response in an inanimate liquid.’”
Nellie was now howling with laughter. “WAS IT THE ONE THAT SANG—‘THEEERE ONCE WAS A WITCH WITH A HAZELNUT HEART—’?”
Zenobia pointed a dramatic finger at her. “YES. THAT WAS MY CAULDRON.”
Diana had to cover her mouth with both hands now. Even Laziel smirked faintly from where he leaned against the table, his golden eyes narrowed in dry amusement.
“I can brew you a new batch,” Garreth offered sheepishly. “A silent one.”
“You owe me chocolate frogs for the rest of the week,” Zenobia replied darkly.
Meanwhile at the Fiancé reaction table, since mischief had clearly returned to their doorstep…
Sebastian, lounging half on a pouf near Diana’s legs, murmured with a grin, “That’s why I never leave my potion alone. You never know who’s brewing mischief into your brew.”
Ominis muttered, “And this is why I preemptively cast a trace charm on my cauldron. Sharp calls it ‘wise paranoia.’ I call it survival.”
Corvin tilted his head, eyes distant. “A potion that sings about witches’ hearts… I wonder if it’s an echo-brew. Or perhaps memory-touched?”
Garreth muttered, “...It was supposed to hum, not sing. I clearly misjudged the sea shanty influence of the eel extract—”
Ciel, with a crooked, sleepily amused grin: “Does it count as sabotage if the potion simply caught a vibe?”
Laziel, sipping silently from his teacup: “I admire a potion that sings better than some students.”
Squad commentary continued.
Amit was now holding his notes up protectively. “I knew I heard sea music. I thought I was hexed.”
Natsai was trying to re-braid her hair but kept pausing from laughter. “Zenobia, if it happens again, you must let me record it.”
Imelda rolled her eyes. “Honestly, if your potion starts singing, join the chorus and earn extra credit.”
Nellie, pulling out a quill: “I’m sending this to the Whisperer. ‘Secret Love Potion Sings Witches’ Names.’ Headline!”
Zenobia groaned louder.
The bell above Madam Celestine’s Boutique of Practical Charms and Parisian Cloaks jingled softly as Diana stepped out, a folded bundle of tailored mentorship robes in her arms — dark navy with golden vine embroidery stitched in quietly defiant spirals. Ciel walked beside her, holding a small enchanted box of charm-fasteners, still warm with stitched magic.
The winter hush had not yet lifted fully from Hogsmeade. The snow crunched under their boots. Steam curled from the chimney of the Three Broomsticks nearby. It might’ve been a perfect morning until Diana paused, her steps halting like a bowstring tightening.
Across the lane near the side of Honeydukes, a Hogwarts student — tall, Slytherin scarf wound loosely around his neck — loomed over a small boy. The boy looked no older than six, cheeks red from crying, clutching a bundled infant to his chest with trembling arms. His clothes were threadbare. There were torn mittens and a stain of spilled treacle on the infant’s wrap.
The older student sneered, wand loosely pointed at the child’s satchel. The boy tried to shield his sibling, but magic flicked his bag into the snow.
“I said it’s mine now, street brat. Or do you want to watch me hex your little howler?”
“Hey.” Diana’s voice cut through the morning like a quill snapping.
She had already crossed half the street before she realized her feet had moved. Her robes swayed behind her, half-buttoned against the cold. Ciel’s footsteps followed, slower — calm, but growing charged.
“Pick an opponent your own age,” Diana said, her voice low but unmistakably cutting. “Coward.”
The Slytherin boy — a sixth-year she vaguely recognized but had never spoken to — turned around slowly. His smirk curled like old parchment at the edge of fire.
“Boohoo,” he mocked, one hand clapping once, slow and theatrical. “Diana Hartwell, Gryffindor’s golden guilt. Come to defend a parentless rat in the snow?”
Ciel’s breath caught behind her.
“You going to use your fancy little magic, Hartwell?” the boy continued, stepping closer, eyes gleaming with something cruel. “Don’t you dare interfere. I found this sniveling bastard in my alley. And last I checked, stray kids aren’t protected by school policy.”
“Neither are stray bullies,” Diana said coldly.
But the boy grinned wider, inching his wand up, magic sparking faintly. The infant in the child’s arms whimpered — not from pain, but sensing fear.
“What’s the matter?” he sneered. “Afraid your little magic paintings won’t save you here?”
“Don’t.” Ciel’s voice cut in — soft, but layered with the tension of held-back thunder.
“Oh? Montrose,” the boy said, snorting, “Didn’t see you there behind her robes. Is she taking you on a pity walk, or do you also collect orphans in your spare time?”
“Say another word like that,” Ciel murmured, stepping forward now, “and I promise, the snow beneath you will no longer remember how to hold your weight.”
The boy laughed — sharp, dismissive. “Empty threat.”
Diana had already lowered her hand to her wand holster.
The younger child looked up at her now — the six-year-old’s eyes huge, wet, terrified — yet clinging to his baby sibling with both arms. He didn’t plead. He simply stood there, as if bracing for pain he had already learned to expect.
And that… was what made Diana’s pulse begin to rise.
“You know,” she said, her voice suddenly quieter, “some ghosts are born not from death, but from cowardice left too long in a place. Keep speaking like that… and the alley might remember you wrong, forever.”
The snow under the bully’s boots creaked — not from weight, but from a sudden soft tremor. Wind brushed past the corner. Something unseen — ancient, ambient — stirred with her rising intent.
The wind paused.
The bully’s mouth curled into another sneer, one cruel syllable away from pushing too far—
“I said— don’t interfere—”
CRACK.
His words never finished. Because in the next breath — before even Ciel could react — Diana moved.
Fast. Controlled. Righteous.
She surged forward, robes flaring like a banner of judgment, her leg arcing high — a blur of grace and fury — and in one beautifully honed motion…
HIGH. KICKED. HIS. FACE.
The impact smacked like a spell misfire, heel slamming across the side of his jaw with surgical precision. His head jerked sideways with a grunt and a thud, body stumbling backward into the snow, wand flying from his hand as he collapsed with a stunned wheeze.
“You dare call yourself a wizard,” Diana spat, standing above him, “but you target children who can’t fight back? You’re not even worth my magic.”
The alley fell completely silent. Even the wind held its breath.
The little boy behind her stared wide-eyed — cheeks flushed, mouth trembling — but still shielding the infant tucked in his arms.
“You—” the bully coughed from the ground, dazed, a bruise blooming on his cheekbone. “You kicked me—”
“Correct,” Ciel said dryly, stepping beside Diana with a flash of silent approval in his sapphire eyes. “That’s called consequence.”
“Y-You’ll get reported for—!”
“By all means,” Diana said, voice steady, “report that you tried to hex a child while he protected his baby sibling in the snow. I’m sure the professors — and the Daily Prophet — will be thrilled.”
Ciel casually flicked his wand, summoning the boy’s discarded satchel from the snow and repairing its broken strap with a whispered "Reparo." He gently offered it back to the small boy, who was now crying — not from fear, but relief.
“What’s your name, little one?” Ciel asked gently, kneeling slightly to his level.
“…A-Aury,” the boy whispered. “And she’s… she’s Eline. My baby sister.”
Diana’s face softened instantly. “You’re both safe now, Aury. I promise.”
“Are you…” the boy blinked at her, voice trembling, “an Auror?”
Diana smiled, reaching out to gently tuck his scarf around him better. “Not yet. But close enough today.”
Behind them, the bully groaned again in the snow — but he didn’t dare rise.
Hogsmeade crowd emerges. Several witches and wizards had begun to gather at the alley’s mouth, murmuring with growing interest and indignation. One elderly shopkeeper with cinnamon-tinted robes gave Diana a slow, approving nod.
Another whispered. “That’s the Hartwell girl, isn’t it? The spellwright one?”
“Kicked him like a bloody knight of old—”
“Serves the brat right.”
Ciel handed Diana a folded handkerchief, whispering with a crooked grin:
“Your kick had form. Remind me never to anger you near cobblestone.”
“Only if you try to hex a baby,” she whispered back with a soft laugh, heart still pounding.
Lower Hogsmeade, narrow lane behind the apothecary
Aury’s small boots dragged through the snow, careful not to jostle the bundled weight of Eline in his arms. Diana walked close on his left, subtly adjusting her pace to match his short steps, while Ciel stayed on the right — not touching, but present in the way only someone vigilant could be.
The house appeared at the end of the lane.
Shabby. Crooked. Two stories, stone chipped and tired, with one shutter hanging loose like a broken wing. No lights burned inside. The door bore scratches — old ones — as if something had once tried to get out… or in.
Aury stopped.
“This is our home,” he said quietly.
Before Diana could respond, a voice called from the neighboring doorstep.
“Oh… oh Merlin’s beard…”
An older witch stepped forward, wrapped in a patched shawl, worry etched deep into her face.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly to Diana and Ciel. “Thank you very much for escorting Aury and little Eline safely. Poor children. Truly. After all that’s happened.”
Ciel inclined his head politely. Diana watched the woman closely.
“Their parents,” the neighbor continued, shaking her head, “they abandoned them. Slipped out at dawn, they say. Left the poor things behind.”
Aury stiffened.
“No!” he shouted suddenly, voice cracking sharp and loud in the quiet lane. His grip tightened protectively around his sister.
“No! They didn’t abandon us!” His eyes burned with something too old for a child. “They were killed. Some people came at night — masked people — with magic. I saw them. I hid. I saw everything!”
The neighbor froze. The snow seemed to hush even further.
Diana lowered herself slowly to Aury’s level, her expression gentle but unyielding.
“You’re sure?” she asked softly. “You saw them with your own eyes?”
Aury nodded fiercely. “They wore masks. White and dark. Their magic was loud. Our house screamed.”
Ciel’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Diana straightened and turned back to the neighbor.
“Do you have proof,” she asked calmly, “that the parents abandoned these children?”
The woman hesitated — then reached into her shawl. She withdrew a small crystal vial, faintly swirling with silver strands.
“This,” the neighbor said, voice uneasy, “is a memory extraction. From another neighbor here. He swore he saw the parents leave the house at dawn. Walking. Alive.” She held it out with trembling fingers. “That’s all we have. The constables said it was enough.”
Diana did not take the vial immediately. Her eyes lingered on the house behind Aury — the stone, the doorframe, the threshold.
A place that remembered. A place that had an unseen ghost.
Finally, she accepted the vial. “Thank you,” Diana said quietly. “We’ll take care of the rest.”
Ciel glanced at her then, reading the shift in her posture — the stillness before something deeper. Because Diana already knew. Human memories could lie. But the house could not. And somewhere within those stones, the truth was waiting — unaltered, unburied, and very much awake.
The neighbor shuffled away with her shawl drawn tight, murmuring something about curfews and neighborhood safety. Silence returned to the narrow lane like a veil — snow curling in soft drifts beneath the eaves of the children’s shabby home.
Aury stood still, cradling Eline, but his small shoulders trembled.
“Why…” he murmured, voice cracking like a snapped wand core. “Why does no one believe me…”
Diana turned quickly — just as the tear slipped down his cheek. It clung to the tip of his chin like a raindrop from a dying leaf.
Ciel knelt beside him instantly. His hands, usually elegant and reserved, now moved gently — smoothing the boy’s hair, checking Eline’s blanket, and lowering his voice like a sheltering breeze.
“They doubt,” Ciel said softly, “because truth is harder to carry than ignorance. But it’s not your burden to convince them. It’s ours now.”
Diana had already drawn her wand. She stepped to the doorway — one hand still holding the memory vial, the other moving in a swift arc.
“Revelio.”
The incantation murmured through the air like a bell struck too softly. A shimmer of magic rippled along the stone, the lintel, the threshold. Blue-glow pulses tried to cling — but no resonance held.
Nothing. No aura trace. No spell fragment. No curse residue. It was as if the place had been cleaned.
Her brows furrowed. She turned slowly.
Aury was watching her — with the wide, wet eyes of someone who had screamed truth into too many silences.
She lowered her wand, stepped back toward him… and leaned down. Then she kissed his temple. Soft. Steady. A promise made flesh.
“I believe you,” Diana whispered. “And I swear, we will reveal the truth.”
Aury’s lip quivered, and he nodded once — just once — as if anchoring to her vow like a lantern in a storm
And then…
“A rather dramatic promise, don’t you think?”
The alley chilled. The snowflake in mid-air hesitated.
Diana didn’t flinch. She simply exhaled.
“Come on out, Immortality.”
There was no visual form — only that hushed velvet of breath brushing her ear, voice coiled in smirk.
“Reveal the truth,” it mused, theatrical. “Darling, even I have trouble doing that, and I’ve been whispering to stones since before staircases had opinions.”
Ciel glanced toward Diana, sensing the shift, his fingers subtly adjusting his wand grip.
“But by all means,” Immortality continued, amused, “chase the unseen ghost in a house that’s been cleansed like a guilty conscience. How poetic.”
“You think truth is buried?” Diana asked in her mind, quietly firm.
“No, no,” came the whisper, slithering in her spine. “I think truth is disguised. Someone didn’t erase the scene — they rewrote it. Fabricated memories, remember? Pensieve lies are easy. But if the place was scrubbed clean… someone feared more than guilt.”
“Feared what?” (Diana)
“Revelation. Fear that this house remembers. And you, my dear, are getting close enough to knock on memory’s door.”