There are places in the world that do not wish to be found.
They are older than maps, deeper than memory, and held together not by stone or spell but by silence.
The Grove of Names was such a place.
No professor at Hogwarts had spoken of it in over a century. There were no books in the library that mentioned it directly, only brief footnotes in ancient texts—warnings wrapped in metaphor. "Do not speak among the white trees," one book said. "They listen." Another noted, cryptically, "The serpent sowed its seeds in shadow. The forest remembers."
But the journal remembered.
And it was calling Albus to the grove.
The Forest Walks with Them
They set out at dusk.
The sky behind the castle blazed violet and gold, but the shadows beneath the Forbidden Forest were already thick and cold. Even before they passed the tree line, the world felt quieter—muted, like someone had drawn a veil over sound itself.
Albus led the way, the journal tucked beneath his robes. The silver ink had shimmered again that morning, curling across the page in serpentine patterns:
"Go to where the roots drink deepest.""Where stone forgets and trees remember.""The Third waits beneath the Grove of Names."
They hadn't spoken much after reading it. What was there to say? The lake had nearly killed them. The gate had opened anyway. The voice of something ancient—Salazar Slytherin himself—was whispering through time and ink.
Still, they walked.
Fiona's wand emitted a soft violet glow, casting long shadows on the mossy ground. Scorpius, unusually quiet, kept pace beside them, fidgeting with his sleeves and looking back more often than forward.
"This forest hates people," he muttered after nearly thirty minutes of trudging. "The trees want us dead. The birds are gone. I'm convinced the fog is sentient."
"Keep your voice down," Fiona whispered. "We're being followed."
Albus turned sharply. "What?"
She pointed her wand to a tree.
In the bark, deep and clawed, was a single rune.
Not written.
Scratched.
Albus leaned closer.
It was a variant of the rune for listening—but distorted. Twisted.
The forest wasn't just following them.
It was remembering them.
The Grove Appears
They found it not by sight, but by absence.
One moment, they were pushing through a tangle of thorned underbrush. The next, the forest opened—no transition, no path—just sudden, perfect silence.
They stood in a wide glade bathed in silver moonlight. The trees here were stark white, their trunks smooth and gleaming like bone. Their leaves rustled without wind. The branches bent inward, as though eavesdropping.
The Grove of Names.
Dozens of trees, maybe hundreds, each with a single name carved into its trunk. Some were ancient and nearly worn away. Others were crisp and new. The light here didn't move naturally—it bent around the grove, circling like memory itself.
Fiona stepped forward, whispering. "Each tree is bound to a soul. The deeper the cut, the deeper the memory. Most names here are forgotten."
Scorpius ran a hand along a tree that bore the name Elias Flint. "These aren't just people. They're bloodlines."
Fiona nodded. "And not just any. These are descendants of Salazar Slytherin. His line. His legacy."
Albus's stomach twisted.
Then he saw one.
A tree near the edge. The bark still bleeding sap.
"Delphi."
His breath caught. "That can't be."
Fiona was beside him in a second. "It's fresh. Weeks, maybe days old."
"Delphi's gone," Scorpius whispered. "She vanished after we stopped her."
But Albus knew.
Delphi hadn't vanished.
The grove had claimed her.
The Center and the Circle
They moved deeper, the silence around them growing more absolute with each step. The trees bent inward. Not menacing—but watchful. Judging.
At the grove's center was a stone circle, cracked and covered in creeping moss. The remains of ancient standing stones surrounded it—four intact, one shattered. Roots snaked across the floor like veins beneath skin.
Albus approached.
The journal burned in his cloak pocket.
He opened it. Silver ink bloomed across the parchment in frantic, spiraling lines:
"Speak the name forgotten."
He stepped into the circle and placed his palm on the moss-covered stone.
The words left him before he knew he was speaking:
"Salazar."
The roots surged.
The ground trembled.
The trees groaned.
A great noise, like a breath held for centuries finally exhaled, rolled through the grove. The stone cracked down the center, splitting open to reveal a narrow, spiraling staircase descending into utter blackness.
Fiona lit her wand.
Scorpius looked at the broken fifth stone and muttered, "Four intact. One shattered. Five gates. One already broken."
"Come on," Albus said. "Before it seals again."
And they descended.
Vault of Roots
The stairwell was tight and old, hewn directly into the earth. Carvings lined the walls—snakes with wings, moons inside circles, a single open eye. The deeper they went, the colder it became.
When they reached the bottom, they found themselves in a low-ceilinged vault. Roots twisted through the stone like veins. A strange, earthy light pulsed from them—green, amber, deep violet.
At the center stood the Third Gate.
It was more intact than the first two. Its arch was whole, carved of black wood fused with iron. Living vines coiled up the sides, throbbing faintly like arteries. The interior of the arch shimmered—not with water, but mist. Gold and white, swirling like smoke from a dying fire.
Albus approached.
But this time, the gate did not react.
Fiona examined the runes etched in the wood. "This one is different. It needs… something more."
"Another phrase?" Scorpius asked.
"No," she said. "A memory."
Albus blinked. "A memory?"
Fiona nodded. "Not spoken. Given. Impressed into the gate like a seal."
Albus stepped forward and closed his eyes.
And let the memory rise.
The Memory That Opens
He saw himself—ten years old, small and awkward, standing in the doorway to his father's study. Harry looked up from old papers, surprised.
Albus asked, "Do you ever regret naming me after him?"
There had been silence.
Then a careful, too-careful answer: "No. I just hope you don't carry it too heavily."
Albus remembered nodding. Smiling. But inside, he hadn't believed it.
The mark on his wrist flared.
And the gate opened.
Light spilled outward—golden, soft, and sad. Mist formed into a shape. A young man in green robes, kneeling beneath a tree, carving his own name into the bark.
Salazar.
He whispered something:
"I never meant to leave them behind."
Then he turned—and vanished.
The Founder Speaks
The air crackled.
A voice echoed, deep and slow.
"You who awaken what should sleep… listen."
"Five doors. Five seals. Each one placed to bind, not protect."
"Beyond the Fifth lies that which predates the Founders. A magic that cannot be named."
"If it wakes… the blood of magic itself will burn."
Albus staggered back.
"Do not open the Fifth."
Then silence.
Back in the Grove
They rose in silence.
No one spoke until they had passed the white trees once more.
Scorpius glanced back. "One of the stones was broken."
Fiona nodded. "One of the seals already failed. We just don't know which."
Albus didn't answer.
He was thinking of the last line the journal had written.
"One among you walks in shadow."
The Bleeding Journal
That night, the journal pulsed with frantic energy.
New lines scratched themselves into the parchment, quivering:
"Three of five.""The cracks deepen.""The roots remember.""The traitor is known."
And at the bottom, a final warning:
"The Fifth shall fall to blood."
Albus looked at his friends—one studying, one asleep.
He didn't know who the traitor was.
But the gate had opened.
And something had seen them.