THREE.    Is the House Haunted?

Did it not occur to you that as an organism existing within a greater organism, your intrusion would be felt? And still you harrass. And now, like the wayward spider who witlessly settled on sleeper's tongue, you will be swallowed. Because the truth is this. When a house is both hungry and awake, every room becomes a mouth.

— Anatomy, Kitty Horrorshow

CODEX OF THE CRESCENT

The Vow of The Crescent

𝔗he marrow of the keeper binds the seal, forged not for glory but for duty unchosen. The keeper's line shall not betray, lets the crescent burn red and the halls remember. It is written, bound in blood and whispered across the ages: the first will mark the way, and the last shall decide the fate of the house. Blood binds, but blood also betrays, and the crescent will burn again when the vow is forgotten.

The Hall of the Crescent may only be entered by the one who carries the vow. The key lies not in what is seen but in the whispers of what was—of the one who first bound the seal, whose name is lost to time but whose vow still echoes. Seek the chamber beneath the crescent's shadow, where stone meets stone, and the past is held in the hollow of silence.

The Hall of the Crescent may only be entered by the one who carries the vow. The key lies not in what is seen but in the whispers of what was—of the one who first bound the seal, whose name is lost to time but whose vow still echoes. Seek the chamber beneath the crescent's shadow, where stone meets stone, and the past is held in the hollow of silence.

The sentinels watch over the vessel; they protect until called upon.

The eye sees the vessel, the vessel opens the chamber.

CODEX OF THE CRESCENT

The Appointed Hour

Let it be known: the crescent's glow marks the appointed hour—the threshold between what was and what will be. The appointed heir shall come, and the choice must be made. The crescent's mark lies beneath the heart of the house; the halls will speak, the walls will witness, and the debt shall be claimed.

The text ended abruptly, torn off, leaving a jagged edge, and beneath it was a hurried scrawl:

Only those bound by the crescent may enter unbroken.

The halls of Hogwarts were empty, and Celine moved with a pace that betrayed her restlessness. Her fingertips traced the cold stone absently, her mind teetering between a dozen fleeting thoughts. Was Filch prowling nearby, or would Peeves take it upon himself to be a nuisance tonight? Her eyes were heavy with exhaustion, but stopping wasn't an option. She wasn't out for some grand revelation from the book; she was simply trying to shake the buzz of energy that had her pacing her dorm only hours earlier when thinking she may have stumbled upon something. Each step was deliberate, a grounding repetition. There was a flicker of dry amusement on her lips—she must look ridiculous, prowling the castle like this, but at least it was her choice.

His grey eyes widened, a flicker of something real slipping through—curiosity, recognition, whatever it was, it vanished as quickly as it came. The smirk returned, deliberate and sharp, pulling at the edge of his jaw like it was molded there. He had that kind of practiced recklessness, the kind that made you want to see what he would do next just to prove to yourself it wasn't an act. His hair fell in messy waves, just on the edge of careless and intentional, like he'd perfected the art of looking like he couldn't care less. He leaned against the wall as if the whole place belonged to him, dark eyes catching the dim light, like he thrived in moments that others would shy away from.

His dark hair, just long enough to fall past his brow, framed his features with an almost artful negligence, while his posture, leaning casually against the wall, spoke of reckless ease and a confidence that bordered on arrogance, effectively blocking her way past unless she walked around him.

He leaned against the wall with an insolence that suggested he belonged anywhere he decided to stop. The hallway seemed to bend around him, his presence re-shaping it until he commanded the space without effort. He made it feel like she was intruding, like he was challenging her to either step aside or confront him outright. "I'm starting to think you're seeking me out."

Celine's expression remained neutral, though there was a spark of something sharp in her gaze. Her voice was calm but pointed as she said, "Not everyone thrives on being the center of attention."

He tilted his head, scrutinizing her face in the dim light, his gaze just heavy enough to make her want to shift her weight. "You think I'm the center of attention?" he murmured, tilting his head, the question almost lazy but with an edge that made her stomach tighten. 

His gaze seemed to peel back her layers, probing for a reaction.

She scoffed, turning her head slightly, breaking eye contact as irritation flared beneath her otherwise calm demeanor. "Don't flatter yourself, Black," she snapped, her voice coated in disdain, each word like a match struck in the cold air.

The smirk widened, a flicker of teeth visible in the half-light. "Every time you talk to me instead of hexing me, I consider it flattery," he said, his voice light, almost playful, but there was a sharpness underneath that always existed when he talked to her. 

Celine let out a sharp scoff, her expression one of pure exasperation. "Flattering you is the last thing on my mind, Black," she said, her voice dry, tinged with annoyance.

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk not faltering. "Well, you keep saying that, but here we are. Midnight, empty corridor, and you're still talking." There was a teasing bite to his words, just enough to imply that he enjoyed pressing her buttons.

Her patience thinned visibly. She stepped to the side, molding her body language into a clear statement of dismissal. "If I had any other option, I'd take it," she said, her patience frayed, words snapping like a taut thread ready to break.

Sirius chuckled, finally moving just enough to let her pass. "I'll take what I can get," he shot back, his tone airy, but his eyes sharp, following her as she walked away.

Celine didn't dignify him with a response, her steps brisk as she moved past. But the sound of his soft laughter lingered behind her, curling in the quiet of the corridor long after she was out of sight.

Celine never considered herself the luckiest person or anything close to it, and she assumed she was right to do so when Slughorn, hardly six hours after her run-in with Sirius Black, decided to pair her up with him.

She glanced at the chalkboard where Slughorn's list of partners was scrawled in his neat, looping handwriting. Her name right beside his—it was almost laughable. The weight of the irony wasn't lost on her, and she let out a quiet sigh, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. The smell of potions ingredients filled the dungeon classroom, a mixture of dried herbs, something metallic, and a hint of sulfur.

"Tough luck, Cely," Eira Lestrange called out, a teasing grin on her lips as she nudged Lucian Nott. "Bet you wish you could switch with me."

Celine shot her a dry look, the corners of her mouth twitching. "You think I have it bad? You're stuck with Potter."

Before Eira could respond, a voice from across the room cut in. "I heard that, Faelthorne," James called out, his tone mock-offended as he gave Celine a smirk. "I promise to be on my best behavior."

Eira shared a bored look with Celine, mouthing, "Lucky me."

Lucian's lips curved into a smile as he noticed the name next to his: Lily Evans.

"At least I'm paired with a Gryffindor who probably knows what she's doing," he said.

As Celine walked past him to Sirius's desk, she heard a deep grumble coming from the back of James's throat as he shot daggers with his eyes at Lucian.

Sirius, for his part, looked equally unimpressed as her. He shot her a look from across the room, his lips curving into that familiar, infuriating smirk as he strolled over, his hands in his pockets. "Well, Faelthorne," he drawled, stopping in front of their shared table. "Seems like fate keeps on bringing us together."

Celine rolled her eyes, setting her bag down with a soft thud. "Believe me, Black, the feeling is mutual. Let's just get this over with."

He raised an eyebrow, pulled out a stool, and sat down, his movements almost deliberately slow. "No small talk? Not even a 'how's your day going, Sirius'?"

"I think I'll pass," she replied dryly, taking out her potions book and flipping it open to the correct page. The parchment was slightly crinkled at the edges, the ink faded in places from being handled too often. She focused on the ingredients list, her finger running down the page as she mentally checked off what they needed.

Sirius watched her for a moment before leaning over (not too close, but it bordered on discomforting because it was him), his voice dropping slightly, more teasing than serious. "You know, we might as well try not to kill each other. It's just one potion."

Celine snorted, not looking up. "Debatable." She reached for the jar of belladonna on the table, the glass cool and smooth beneath her fingers. She could feel his gaze on her, a weight she was trying her best to ignore.

"Come on," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "We could at least try to make it... tolerable."

She finally looked up, meeting his eyes. There was something almost earnest in his expression, buried beneath the usual arrogance. It threw her off for just a moment, enough that her retort softened. "Tolerable, huh? You think you can manage that?"

He grinned, a flash of mischief in his eyes. "For you, Faelthorne? I'll try my best."

She shook her head, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips despite herself. "Just don't mess up the potion, Black. I'm not failing because of you."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender before reaching for the knife to start chopping the roots. The sound of the blade against the chopping board filled the space between them, a rhythmic slice that somehow made the silence feel less heavy.

Celine focused on measuring out the powdered bicorn horn, the grains slipping through her fingers like fine sand. She could feel Sirius glancing at her every so often, like he was waiting for her to snap at him again. But she didn't. Not this time.

Instead, she let the quiet settle, the weight of the earlier tension easing just a little. The scent of dried rosemary and crushed belladonna hung in the air, blending with the metallic tang of simmering cauldrons. The steady, methodical work of slicing, stirring, and measuring had a strange way of grounding her, the rhythmic clinking of glass vials and the soft scrape of metal against stone almost meditative. Sirius's chopping had slowed to a steady pace, the sound of the knife against the board syncing with her own movements. For a brief moment, it felt almost... normal. Like they were just two students, surrounded by the warmth of flickering candlelight and the comforting clutter of potion ingredients—working together because they had to, no more and no less. She could feel the rough texture of powdered bicorn horn against her fingertips, the grains slipping away like fine sand.

"Pass me the valerian sprigs," she said, her voice quieter now, the edge gone from her tone.

Sirius complied without a word, handing her the bundle of dried herbs, his fingers brushing against hers for the briefest second. Neither of them acknowledged it, and the moment passed as quickly as it had come, swallowed up by the dim light of the dungeon and the bubbling of cauldrons around them.

But then things started to go wrong.

Celine was focused on adding the next ingredient, her eyes scanning the instructions as she stirred counterclockwise. Sirius, in his attempt to chop the roots quickly, ended up slicing them unevenly. He frowned, his movements getting a little careless.

"Those pieces are too thick," Celine muttered, glancing over.

"Relax," Sirius shot back, his tone still laced with that hint of amusement. "It's fine."

"No, it's not," she insisted, her voice tightening. "If they're too thick, it's going to—"

Before she could finish, the potion in their cauldron began to bubble violently, the surface turning an alarming, sickly shade of dark green, almost like tarnished metal. The frothy liquid sloshed against the sides, emitting a sulfuric stench that made Celine's nose wrinkle. Her eyes widened, and she quickly reached for her wand, her fingers brushing over the worn wood, still faintly stained with ink from a recent study session. She tried to calm the mixture, her movements precise despite the tension coiling in her chest, but it was too late. The liquid hissed as it bubbled over, splattering onto the stone tabletop, leaving tiny, dark stains like burns on the surface.

Evan, who was behind her working with Remus, leaned over to Celine, her voice barely above a whisper, "Too bright, too fast?" 

Celine shot him a glare, her lips pressed into a thin line. 

She coughed, her eyes watering slightly as she glared at Sirius. "I told you they were too thick."

Sirius shrugged, though there was a flicker of annoyance in his expression. "Maybe the instructions should be clearer."

Slughorn sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Thank you, Mr. Black. I'll keep that in mind," he drawled. "It seems you two need to learn a bit more about teamwork." He paused, his gaze stern as he looked between them. "Detention. Both of you. Tomorrow evening."

Celine groaned inwardly, her shoulders slumping. Sirius just smirked, though it lacked his usual confidence. "Great," he muttered under his breath. 

Slughorn gave them a disappointed look, before focusing his eyes on Celine and saying, "This is disappointing coming from you, Mr. Faelthorne."

Celine turned back to the ruined potion, her jaw tight.

"This is your fault," she said, her voice low.

Sirius rolled his eyes, leaning back on his stool. "Oh, come on. It's just a detention. You'll survive."

Celine shot him a glare, her frustration simmering just beneath the surface. "Just stay out of my way, Black."

He raised his hands in mock surrender, a hint of that infuriating grin returning. "Whatever you say."