It began with a whisper.
Caelum wasn't even trying to eavesdrop—not that night. He'd just finished his blood elixir and wandered the North Wing under the cover of his Disillusionment Charm, taking advantage of the late hour and the thin shadows between the flickering wall sconces.
It had become almost a nightly ritual—walking alone through the empty, silent corridors of Greystone House, listening to the muffled chatter of staff on the night shift, the soft creak of wood, the distant rustle of trees in the wind.
Strangely enough, it was calming.
Then he heard it.
A soft sound—not the footsteps of patrolling staff or the ward pulses. Not the usual whimpering from some of the restless residents.
This was a voice. A hushed one. Then another. Three total. Low, sharp, urgent.
He froze by the hallway arch.
"We're not waiting another month."
"We need more time. If they suspect—"
"Then we stop hiding and force their hand."
Three silhouettes, just beyond the wall. They vanished behind a half-sealed maintenance corridor that Caelum knew was marked off-limits months ago. No wards, no magical locks, just a rusted handle and an old "Closed for Renovation" sign that no one bothered to enchant.
Caelum followed.
….
The passage was narrow and cold. Dust clung to the air like breath in winter. His bare feet made no sound on the stone, his body weightless in shadow.
Ahead, the voices stopped.
Then came light—low, flickering torchlight—and something more: wards. Fresh ones. Someone had placed magical security here, thin but not precise. Enough to warn of outsiders, but not enough to stop them.
He paused, pulse quickening. Then he slipped through, testing the wards—the magic brushed against his skin like static, a shiver of acknowledgment rather than resistance. So, it was only set for adults. He moved deeper inside.
….
The space beyond opened into what must have been a records chamber—circular, domed, the ceiling sagging under centuries of neglect. Torn banners drooped along the walls, their colors long bled away, ghosts of Greystone's past clinging to the stone.
Three children stood in the center.
He recognized them all.
Talwyn, the lanky boy from the East Wing, thirteen, with skin too pale even for Greystone and a tattoo of a rune burned into his neck. Rumored to have fire magic he couldn't control.
Mara, the wiry red haired girl who spoke to no one and never ate full meals. They said she could pull emotions out of people if they stared too long into her eyes.
And Julian, the sharp-eyed, smirking 14 year old boy who once broke a staff member's wand in half with nothing but a word and a scream. They kept him warded every night.
Julian's voice carried through the stale air, low and feverish. "We don't need to beg for scraps anymore. You've felt it. They're afraid of us—not because we're monsters, but because we don't fit their cages."
Talwyn crossed his arms. "And what? We overthrow Greystone? What does that get us? Sent to Azkaban early?"
Mara said nothing. Her silence carried the weight of agreement—and exhaustion.
Julian's eyes burned. "No. It's not about revolt. It was never about revolt. This place will try to keep us here forever. We're not planning to smash the walls—we're gathering proof: documents, witness statements, anything the outside can't ignore. When one of us walks free with that evidence, they'll make the world listen. Then we come back for the rest."
He exhaled, lowering his voice. "That's why we wait. I heard that next month the Ministry auditors are coming—the annual welfare inspection. For a few days, they'll open the archives. It's the only time the House pretends to be transparent. If we move then, we can pull out some of the old records unnoticed, see if there is something worth using."
A long pause stretched between them.
Mara finally spoke, voice hollow. "We're not soldiers, Julian."
He turned toward her, gaze steady. "No. But we're not children either."
….
Caelum watched, breath low, invisible by the door.
They're organizing.
He hadn't expected that. He'd spent months thinking he was alone in his awareness, his ambition. But here was a circle—a small one, quiet, hidden—but one with teeth.
Not monsters. Not freaks. Just… broken pieces trying to rearrange themselves before the world crushed them completely.
I could step forward now, Caelum thought. Reveal myself. Show them I'm one of them.
But something stopped him.
Julian, again: "We need to find the others. Not all of them are stable, but some… some are ready. The Ministry doesn't like watching the shadows."
He grinned.
"But we are."
…
Caelum stayed until the meeting broke, then slipped out silently and back to his room.
He didn't sleep that night.
They called themselves The Grey Circle—he was sure of it. Not officially, not yet. But in spirit. United not by blood or friendship, but by the simple, terrible truth:
The world had written them off.
And now they were writing themselves back in.