Chapter 51 – The Door of Frost
The third week at Hogwarts began like a song repeating its chorus—familiar but rich with subtle variation. Thomas found himself slipping into the rhythm of castle life. Each morning still began with silent training in space magic before the sun rose. He could now Blink across wide corridors in a heartbeat and had refined his use of Reach and Switch to snatch and move objects with finesse.
The rest of his days were filled with formal lessons. Though they remained wand-light and theory-heavy, Thomas was already outpacing most of his classmates. He had quickly mastered basic spells like Lumos, Nox, Scourgify, Reparo, and Alohomora. Colopurtus gave him a mischievous thrill when used on unsuspecting doors. Wingardium Leviosa had become second nature. Even trickier spells like Incendio, Colovaria, and Revelio came to him faster than most.
Yet despite all that progress, the subject that troubled him most remained stagnant: Defence Against the Dark Arts.
Professor Samber continued to fill their time with theory—no practical spells, no wand work. Thomas didn't understand how a class meant to protect students from magical threats could be so empty of real defense.
He knew he couldn't wait for the syllabus to catch up to his needs.
He needed to practice on his own.
But practicing spells—especially defensive ones—inside the Gryffindor dormitory was impossible. The common room was always full of noise and chatter, and their shared dormitory was too close, too risky. Even empty classrooms on lower floors were too far to reach safely at night—Filch's patrols and Peeves' pranks made long nighttime walks dangerous.
So Thomas waited.
Planned.
And when the night came—moonless and silent—he made his move.
Fred and George were absent, as expected. The twins had their own nighttime adventures, usually involving trick staircases, levitating pies, or enchanted dungbombs. Thomas had overheard enough to know they were planning something big for Halloween and were likely occupied in some distant wing of the castle.
Perfect.
Thomas slipped out of the Gryffindor common room just after midnight, clutching his wand and a folded note in his pocket—the letter he'd written days earlier.
> Dear Sister Mary,
I hope you are well. I don't know if this letter will ever reach you, but I still want to write it. It feels like I'm talking to you this way. Hogwarts is… incredible. The castle is alive in ways I never imagined. There are staircases that vanish, ghosts that argue about poetry, and rooms that appear only when you need them.
I'm doing well. I've made friends. Fred and George, the twins, are a handful, but kind-hearted. Cedric is thoughtful. Emily is sharp. I'm learning quickly. I've already mastered some spells I think you'd like—ones for cleaning and fixing things. I think they'd make your work at the orphanage easier, if only magic worked outside this world.
But more than that, I wanted to say thank you. For everything. For believing in me. For raising me with warmth and discipline. For letting me be curious. I carry that with me every day. I hope I'm making you proud.
With love, Thomas
He'd finally decided to send it.
Down to the Owlery he went, careful and quiet, sticking close to the walls, using every shortcut the twins had ever taught him. The school's owls stirred in their perches when he arrived, sleepy but willing. One snowy owl blinked at him with intelligent golden eyes.
"Can you take this to Sister Mary?" he whispered, tying the letter to its leg. "St. Theresia's Orphanage. London. I don't think she can send a reply… but just getting it there is enough."
The owl tilted its head as if considering the weight of his request. Then it took flight, disappearing into the night sky like a pale arrow.
Thomas stood there for a long moment, staring into the dark. A small knot in his chest finally loosened. Even if she never saw the letter, he had tried. That counted for something.
He turned back and began his true mission for the night—finding a nearby room where he could practice.
The higher floors were quieter, and less patrolled. He focused his search near Gryffindor Tower, trying to avoid long hallways or echo-heavy galleries. He needed a place secluded, but close enough to return quickly if something went wrong.
He wandered through the fifth floor, wand raised low, casting occasional Lumos to guide his way. Tapestries fluttered as he passed. A few sleeping portraits grumbled in their frames but didn't call out.
Then he felt it.
That strange tug—like a thread in space brushing against his awareness.
His breath caught.
It wasn't like his usual magical sense from space manipulation. This was subtler, deeper, like the resonance of a hidden chamber.
He followed it.
The pull led him to a strange alcove tucked behind a crumbling gargoyle and half-collapsed suit of armor. It was a part of the fifth-floor corridor he hadn't seen in any map or mentioned in any book. Just past the vanishing stairs, there was a stretch of wall that felt... wrong.
He reached out with his magic—his Echo—and listened.
Behind the wall, something shifted. Not sound, not movement, but space itself. As if something waited behind the stones.
He pressed a hand to the surface.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then the cold hit him.
His fingers recoiled from the freezing surface—unnaturally cold, as though the stone had never seen sunlight. Frost bloomed across the wall in intricate patterns, like veins of light-blue ice racing over a mirror.
As the frost spread, so did the shimmer of old runes—carved into the stone and glowing faintly. Then, as if unveiled by the magic itself, a tall archway revealed its true form: a sealed door, made entirely of crystalline ice. Smooth, thick, impenetrable. No handle. No lock.
Thomas stepped back, heart pounding.
This was no forgotten broom closet.
The door radiated magic. Old, ancient magic. Cold enough to steal the breath from the air.
Yet it didn't repel him.
It... called to him.
He took another step closer. Frost crackled beneath his shoes, delicate and silent. His hand hovered inches from the icy surface.
What was this place?
He tightened his grip on his wand, unsure whether to cast or flee. The frost pulsed faintly, and for a moment he thought he saw something inside—like a light, or movement, or memory.
No. Not yet.
He wasn't ready.
Not tonight.
But he wouldn't leave it alone, either.
Not now that he'd found it.
Thomas took a deep breath and sat on the stone floor, cross-legged, facing the door.
There was something here. And tomorrow night, he would return.