HP: DnD Chapter 31

Chapter 31: Hidden Secrets, Hidden Plots

[Morning, Hogwarts Staff Dormitory]

Hogwarts, like any renowned magical school, was a boarding school. And like all prestigious institutions of its kind, it boasted excellent facilities and comfortable dormitories—at least for the professors.

Which, of course, made sense.

The professors at Hogwarts endured grueling schedules. Their days began before dawn and stretched well past midnight, leaving them with little time to catch their breath. Lesson plans, disciplinary matters, and other responsibilities filled their every waking hour, making rest a luxury they could rarely afford.

The pay? Decent enough, but nowhere near adequate for the relentless demands of the job. The real perks came in simpler forms: hearty meals and warm beds. Even those, however, often went underappreciated amidst the chaos of their lives.

This morning, Professor Minerva McGonagall—Head of Gryffindor House and esteemed Transfiguration instructor—was bracing herself for yet another busy day. As she pulled her robes over her shoulders, she felt an unusual weariness clinging to her like a second skin. Yesterday's toil had left a weight behind, heavier than usual.

Her days were never easy, but this persistent exhaustion gnawed at her resolve. It was no wonder that the relentless grind often left even the most patient professors irritable, their tempers fraying during lessons.

“Healus.”

McGonagall murmured the basic healing charm, her wand moving swiftly as she attempted to dispel what she assumed was the onset of a fever. A cold shiver ran down her spine even under her layered robes.

‘Strange’, she thought, pressing her hand to her forehead. ‘The spell should have worked.’

But it hadn’t. She still felt feverish, cold, and weak. Frowning, she cast the spell again.

“Healus.”

Nothing.

She lowered herself into the chair by her desk, her hand trembling slightly as she massaged her temples. Her thoughts swirled, unfocused. Her head was heavy, her body aching, and her stomach…

A sharp cramp interrupted her musings, followed by a queasy churn. She clutched her abdomen as realization dawned with grim certainty: she was likely in for a bout of stomach trouble.

‘Loose motions and a fever’, she thought bitterly. ‘Just what I needed.’

Even so, she pushed herself upright, unwilling to let illness keep her from her duties. But as she stepped toward the door, her legs buckled beneath her. She stumbled, gripping the frame for support.

“I…” she gasped, steadying herself. “Healus!”

Once more, the spell failed.

This wasn’t an ordinary fever. Her instincts whispered of something darker—perhaps a curse. But the haze clouding her mind made it impossible to think clearly.

‘The matron, Madame Pomfrey. She’ll know what to do.’

Determined but faltering, McGonagall began the arduous journey to the hospital wing. Each step was a struggle, her vision swimming, her fever spiking. By the time she reached the matron’s office, she knew two things: she wouldn’t be teaching today, and this was no normal illness.

It was a ghost-caused fever.

Meanwhile, in a shadowed staircase nearby, Damien lingered, watching the professor’s retreating form. Beside him floated a ghost, her translucent figure radiating mischief.

“So,” the ghost said with a sly grin, “think she’ll miss her first class now?”

Damien shifted uncomfortably, guilt creeping into his chest. “Was that really necessary?” he asked, his voice uncertain as he recalled how the professor had staggered away moments earlier.

The ghost only laughed, an airy, lilting sound. “Isn’t that what you wanted? To avoid your first class?”

“Yes, but—” Damien hesitated. Arguing with a ghost was rarely wise. With a sigh, he let the matter drop, allowing her to continue.

“Good. It’s settled,” she said with a smile, her ethereal face gleaming. “You’ve bought yourself time, and I have a reward for the help you gave me and the Bloody Baron.”

Despite himself, Damien’s interest piqued. He did enjoy gifts, even if they came with a price. For now, he held his tongue as the Grey Lady led him deeper into a dim corridor, far from prying eyes.

“What kind of reward?” he finally ventured, a trace of nervousness creeping into his voice.

The Grey Lady’s expression grew solemn. “As a ghost, I cannot offer material treasures—gold, jewels, or anything of physical value. What I offer is knowledge.”

Damien frowned, puzzled. “Knowledge?”

She nodded. “Information, Damien. It can be the greatest of gifts or the gravest of curses. What you do with it is entirely up to you.”

He remained skeptical but intrigued. “I’m not sure I follow, Lady Helena.”

Her soft smile returned. “What I am about to tell you may not mean much now, but in time, it could prove invaluable. It is a tale of power, betrayal, and ambition… and it begins with one of Hogwarts’ most coveted treasures.”

Damien’s heart quickened. “A Hogwarts relic?”

“Indeed. Tell me, Damien—what are the lost relics of the Founders that wizards and witches still seek to this day?”

He thought for a moment, then rattled off the list. “Salazar’s wand and locket. Godric’s sword and coat. Helga’s cup and ring. Rowena’s pendant and…” He trailed off, realization dawning. “Her diadem.”

Helena smiled, her translucent form glowing faintly. “Exactly. And where is the Diadem, Damien?”

He stared at her, the pieces falling into place. “You hid it.”

“I did. But someone, deceitful and cruel, discovered its location and took it from me.”

Her voice wavered, the pain of the memory evident. “He was a boy then, but the darkness within him was already apparent. He lied, manipulated, and stole what was not his to take.”

Damien remained silent, sensing her reluctance to name the thief.

“Years later,” she continued, “I discovered where he had hidden it. I cannot give you the exact location, but I can tell you this: the Diadem remains within Hogwarts.”

“Hogwarts?” Damien echoed, stunned.

Helena nodded. “Yes. It is closer than you think, and yet, far from reach. Should you choose to seek it, the journey will test you.”

Damien’s mind raced with possibilities. The prospect of uncovering such a treasure was exhilarating, yet daunting.

And so, as the Grey Lady floated away, her words lingered, heavy with promise and peril.

…

…

[Same Time — Slytherin Students Dormitory]

Sitting at the edge of the oakwood table, a certain blonde-haired boy idly dragged his quill across a parchment, slashing crude lines over a stick figure he had drawn. His movements were sharp and deliberate, as if venting some deep frustration.

"Are you sure it’s a good idea to skip class, Draco?" asked Crabbe, one of Draco’s most loyal, albeit dim-witted, followers.

"Shut up, Crabbe," Draco snapped, not bothering to look up. "If you’re so desperate to go to class, then leave the room."

Crabbe hesitated, fidgeting awkwardly. Recently, he and Goyle—who, notably, had already gone to class—had started noticing a change in Draco’s demeanor.

Draco was no stranger to sour moods; his sharp tongue and brooding aura were practically trademarks. But lately, the bitterness hanging over him had become almost suffocating—too much for even Crabbe and Goyle to endure.

"That's not…" Crabbe hesitated, his voice uncharacteristically timid despite his bulky, intimidating presence—at least when he was around Draco. "Not what I meant, Draco."

He understood all too well the unspoken rules of their world. Blood purity mattered, yes, but even within the pureblood elite, there were hierarchies. And in that hierarchy, the Malfoys were perched far above the Crabbe family.

If not in ancient times, then certainly now—Lucius Malfoy had most of the pureblood families firmly under his thumb.

"Potter, Butler, Potter, Butler…" Draco's voice was a venomous hiss, his frustration simmering dangerously. "It's always those two. Always stealing the spotlight, making everything about them, always ruining my life!"

With a sudden, violent motion, Draco smeared black paint across the parchment in front of him, obliterating whatever image had been there.

"If only they didn't exist!" he snarled, his tone sharp and feverish. "If only I could just get rid of them!"

"No, no, no…" The boy's hands trembled as he crumpled the paper and hurled it away, his voice low and frantic. "I can't let this happen again. I can't let Father be disappointed—not again."

Lucius' sharp, cutting words echoed relentlessly in his mind, each syllable like a dagger: demeaning him, insulting him, tearing into every shred of his pride. He could still feel the sting of his father’s disdain, all because of two names that haunted him—Damien Butler and Harry James Potter.

Two boys he had once merely disliked but now hated with a searing, all-consuming fury.

"No," he muttered darkly, his features twisting into a wild, unhinged expression that made even Crabbe take a cautious step back. "I’ll get rid of them. I’ll make sure Father never hears their names again."

He was willing to do anything to remove those two boys from his path—anything. It didn’t matter how unwizardly or revolting the method, as long as it worked.

The thought alone sent a dark thrill coursing through him. With a crazed glint in his eye, Draco made up his mind.

"I’ll get rid of them," he hissed, his voice dripping with malice. "I’ll make sure they never set foot in this school again."

A vicious grin spread across his face as the plan began to take shape. "I’ll have them… expelled."