Chapter 57 – Shadows and Snowfall
The weeks following Halloween passed in a strange blur of routine, secrecy, and rising anticipation.
Thomas fell into a rhythm—days filled with classes, corridors echoing with laughter and whispers, and nights wrapped in silence and magic. Every evening, just before curfew, he returned to the familiar corridor on the fifth floor. It had become his ritual. Not just for training, though he still did that—meticulously practicing wand movements and refining his silent casting—but for something else.
The shadow in the dark.
The anomaly he had confirmed weeks ago.
He wasn't guessing anymore—he knew who it was now. Not by name, perhaps, but by enough. A boy from Slytherin, older by several years. Probably sixth year. Tall, composed, always alert. There was something too precise, too careful about how he moved through the castle when he thought no one was watching.
Each time Thomas cast Echo in that specific hallway, the same peculiar ripple returned to him. Faint. Fleeting. But unmistakable. And on more than one occasion, he had nearly caught a full image through the spatial distortion—always that same figure in Slytherin robes, short-cropped black hair, a slight limp in his left step, and eyes that scanned the shadows like someone who expected to be hunted.
Thomas never confronted him directly.
He could have. Blink would've gotten him close enough. Flash might've startled the boy into revealing something.
But he held back.
This wasn't just a game of tag. It was information warfare. He didn't want to show his cards—especially not to someone that cautious. If a sixth-year Slytherin was skulking around off-limits corridors night after night, there was a reason. And if he noticed Thomas's interest, the whole dynamic could shift.
Better to observe.
To understand.
To prepare.
So Thomas trained instead.
He improved in silence. His Echo had reached a point where he could hold it stable for nearly a full minute now, filtering its feedback even while walking. He added subtle motion to his gestures—twitches of the wrist, casual flexes of the fingers—small enough to pass as nervous habits.
And while the mystery in the shadows tugged at his thoughts every night, life at Hogwarts marched forward, as vivid and loud as ever.
November brought wind and damp cold. The lake darkened. Trees shed their last autumn leaves. The chatter in the common room shifted from Halloween treats to Quidditch anticipation.
The big match.
Gryffindor versus Slytherin.
Even Thomas, who never followed Quidditch before Hogwarts, found himself drawn in. The air was electric for weeks. Fred and George were impossible—they even tried to enchant their breakfast sausages to fly in formation at one point, nearly taking out a passing Ravenclaw in the process. Charlie Weasley, Gryffindor's Seeker and unofficial team captain, had a quiet fire in him. Calm. Focused. And strong.
"He's brilliant," George said one night, eyes shining. "He could spot a Snitch from a mile away."
"And he will," Fred added. "And then we'll crush them."
But Slytherin had their own tricks.
When match day arrived, the sky was slate gray, but the stands were packed. Scarves waved. Faces were painted. Banners floated midair with animated mascots—Gryffindor's lion roaring fire, Slytherin's serpent coiling with green mist.
Thomas sat with Cedric and a few others from Hufflepuff, not far from the Weasley twins. The moment the whistle blew, the game exploded into motion.
And it was explosive.
Slytherin played dirty. Blatant elbowing. 'Accidental' broom bumps. One of their Beaters even swung at Fred's broom instead of the Bludger, claiming it was a "misjudged angle." Madam Hooch blew her whistle so many times Thomas wondered if she would lose her voice.
But Gryffindor was relentless. They matched every dirty trick with skill and fire.
Still, the match ended in heartbreak. The Snitch was spotted—first by Charlie—but the Slytherin Seeker, a lanky boy named Thorne, leaned into a terrifying dive and caught it a full two seconds before him. The game ended 190–170. A win by a breath.
Fred ranted about it for days.
Thomas, oddly, didn't feel the sting of loss the others did. He had cheered and shouted and groaned with them all. But in the end, what stayed with him wasn't the score. It was the feeling. The wind in their faces. The collective gasp when two players nearly collided midair. The thrill of magic in motion, unrestrained and wild.
It felt alive.
Real.
Almost like his old world.
But even that excitement faded as December approached. The castle grew colder, and the air smelled of frost and pine. Snow began to fall lightly some mornings, gathering on windowsills and along the edges of the courtyards. Students pulled out their thick cloaks and enchanted scarves.
And slowly, the whispers changed again.
"Going home for the holidays?"
"I heard the feast is magnificent—roast goose, dancing pudding, enchanted snowflakes falling from the ceiling..."
"I'm staying. Mum says it's too expensive to come back and forth twice in one year."
Thomas didn't hesitate.
He would go back.
Back to St. Theresia's. Back to the scent of cinnamon in the common room. To Sister Mary's scolding voice that always softened with a smile. To Johnny's chatter. To Daisy's too-tight hugs. And to sister mary kind smile.
He had missed them more than he realized.
On the last week of term, Thomas packed early. He carefully folded his robes, sealed his trunk, and double-checked his notebook of spells—his real one, the one he kept hidden inside the false bottom of his luggage.
That night, as he walked once more down the fifth-floor corridor, he cast Echo with practiced ease.
And again, it returned—disturbance. Subtle. Just at the edge of his range.
This time he didn't even pretend to chase. He only stood still, arms crossed, listening to the silence after the spell faded.
"I'll wait," he whispered under his breath. "Sooner or later, you'll show yourself."
But not yet.
That night, snow fell more heavily. It blanketed the castle grounds in white silence, muffling the world like a spell of its own.
And as the train pulled away from the station two days later, Thomas sat by the window, watching the frost patterns dance on the glass, heart swelling with something warm.
He was going home.
To the only real home he had known in this world.
To be continued...