Shadow of Legacy

The wispered Return

As I turned from the courtyard and made my way back towards the Great Hall, the night seemed unnaturally still. The distant sounds of the ball—the music, the laughter, the clinking of glasses—faded behind me as I walked. The flickering candlelight from the Great Hall seemed a distant memory, now replaced by the cool, creeping shadows of the castle. The whispers—soft at first, like the rustling of silk—drifted down the passage, curling in the air around me.

I stopped.

There was no one there, and yet I felt it—the pull, the quiet tug that beckoned me onward.

I had wandered these halls countless times, but tonight, they seemed different. The walls, lined with old tapestries and suits of armor, now seemed to shift, to stretch in strange ways, as though the very stones were alive and breathing. The flickering torches on the walls cast elongated, wavering shadows that seemed to slither across the floor, chasing me in the stillness. The whispers grew louder, more distinct, but still too faint to make out. They seemed to echo, twisting and turning through the empty halls, beckoning me into the depths of the castle. My footsteps echoed in the silence, hollow against the stone floor. Turning a corner, I found myself in an unfamiliar part of Hogwarts—one I had never noticed before. The passage was longer than it should have been, the ceiling stretching higher than was natural. The stone here was colder, darker, and there was a peculiar weight in the air, like the oppressive calm before a storm.

And then, I saw it.

The doorway appeared as if it had always been there, hidden behind layers of dust and forgotten memories. It was not a door, but an archway—arched stone that seemed to melt into the very fabric of the castle itself. The shadows around it twisted like smoke, and as I stepped through, I was immediately enveloped in a thick, unnatural stillness.

The room stretched before me, vast and cavernous, yet there was no sense of distance. The space seemed endless. The ceiling soared high above, its stone ribs disappearing into a darkness so complete it swallowed the light entirely. There were no windows, no torches. The only light came from an eerie, silver-blue glow that seemed to radiate from the center of the room. In the center, standing alone on the cold stone floor, was the mirror.

It was enormous—tall, wide, and framed in dark silver, twisted with intricate, ancient runes that pulsed with a faint, otherworldly energy. The frame looked as though it had been made of some ancient metal, tarnished and dull, but the darkness that surrounded it seemed to shimmer and twist, like the mirror itself was alive. The glass was smooth, but it shimmered strangely, its surface undulating like water disturbed by a stone. It reflected nothing—nothing of the room, nothing of me. The glass seemed to pull the light into itself, absorbing it, leaving the room darker with each passing second. I stepped closer, compelled by some unseen force. The cold stone beneath my feet seemed to hum with energy, and as I neared the mirror, I felt the air around me change. The whispers grew louder again, sharper, more insistent. They seemed to be coming from the mirror itself, swirling around the edges of the glass. For a moment, I thought I heard words, but they were muffled, distorted, as though spoken through a veil.

And then, as if the glass had become a portal to another world, the image in the mirror began to change. At first, it was just a ripple, a wave of movement across the surface, but then, clearer than I had ever imagined, the reflection of a face emerged. A face pale and drawn, with skin like marble and eyes that glowed a piercing red. The figure in the mirror seemed to shimmer into focus, its presence growing darker, heavier with every passing second.

The figure's face was thin—too thin—and its features were sharp, inhumanly so. There was no warmth to its expression, only a cold, predatory hunger. His eyes—those eyes—glowed with a malice that chilled me to my very core. They were red. Blood-red. For a moment, I thought I might scream, but my voice caught in my throat. The reflection—no, the thing in the mirror—stared at me, its lips curling into something like a smile. "Alvira..." The name slithered out, not from the lips, but from the very air around me, as though it had been whispered in a thousand voices, all at once.

The voice that followed was low, venomous, and unmistakable. It was his. Voldemort. The cold in the room deepened, as though the shadows themselves had become thick enough to choke on. The mirror seemed to ripple again, drawing me in with its weight, its gravity. The air hummed with a strange, dark energy, pressing down on me.

"Come closer, child," Voldemort's voice commanded, the words vibrating through the very floor beneath me. I took a step back. My pulse raced, my feet unsteady as the mirror's reflection warped, contorting into something even darker, more unnatural. The reflection flickered once more, and I saw his face clearer, his features shifting in the glass. His eyes locked onto mine, and the sensation was like being caught in the grip of something cold, something ancient. The smile widened, a terrible, haunting thing that seemed to promise nothing but suffering.

"You will come to me," the voice echoed, growing colder, more demanding. "Soon. You will join me, just as you were meant to."The room seemed to contract, the walls closing in around me. The whispers, now loud and almost tangible, filled the space, like a chant. They were no longer just words—they were commands. Orders that I had no choice but to obey.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the mirror fell still. The face of Voldemort dissolved into the glass, leaving only the rippling surface. I backed away from the mirror, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. The whispers had stopped, but they still clung to the air, lingering like an unseen presence. The room, now cold and empty, seemed to pulse with the dark magic of the mirror.

And yet, the sense of dread did not leave. Voldemort's presence still hung in the air, palpable, suffocating. I could still hear the echoes of his voice in my mind, feel the weight of his words pressing down on me. As I turned to leave, I felt the darkness close in, like something that was not yet finished with me. The room behind me seemed to close off, as though it had never been there. The whispers were gone, but the chill remained, and I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched.

And somewhere in the deepest shadows of the castle, the cold laughter of Voldemort still echoed.