TOM RIDDLE HOUSEFIRE GAME

The moment replayed in Tom’s thoughts exactly as he’d said it: “This is going to be fun,” The words returning to him with the same dry edge, the same steady tone, as the fog shifted around them once more. Around him, every teammate’s face was a different shape of fear— wide eyes, stiff jaws, tense shoulders, breaths held too long. No one spoke. No one dared to. James stepped forward, breaking the frozen silence. “Are we going to sit here forever or actually pass this test?” Their expressions sharpened instantly, fear hardening into focus. James lifted his wand, voice firming. “Let’s clear this cursed mist and be done with it.” They began steadier movements now, the group shifting out of that frozen stillness. The fog pulsed around them, slow and heavy, but this time they didn’t recoil from it. They adjusted their grips on their wands, tightened their cloaks, and braced their shoulders. Lily stepped forward, her eyes sharp despite the haze. “Gather everything you might need,” she said, her voice low but certain. “We don’t know how long this mist could take. It might be hours… or days.” Everyone moved at once. Bags opened. Straps tightened. Cloaks fastened. Wands checked and rechecked. The fog pressed against them like a living wall, but for the first time since it appeared, they looked ready to face it. Far beyond the thick wall of mist, a corner of the valley remained untouched, a silent overlook carved out by magic itself. From there, Fyrebrand watched. His cloak stirred faintly in the still air as he studied the shifting fog below, eyes tracking the faint silhouettes of students swallowed inside it. Each team, each cluster of movement, each flicker of light told him more than words could. “Some will fail earlier than expected,” he murmured, voice low and thoughtful. “But… I still see promise.” His gaze settled briefly on three different groups hidden within the white haze — three teams moving with sharper discipline than the rest, three whose magic carved clearer shapes in the mist. A slow, approving breath left him as he continued observing, the fog pulsing and tightening with every step the students took inside it. James was lost in thought. The images kept coming back—the figures he saw, the one who ripped its clothes, Sameyr spilling blood. He didn’t know what to make of it. He barely noticed the trees or the crunch of leaves under his boots. His wand hand twitched without him realizing. Suddenly, a shadow barreled past him. Lucius, laughing, tried to leap over a fallen branch but tripped instead, crashing shoulder-first into James. The impact shoved him sideways, and he stumbled over a root, nearly hitting the ground. “Oi! Watch it!” James muttered, steadying himself. His thoughts scattered, replaced by the rush of sudden movement. Lucius opened his mouth, probably about to mutter some half-hearted excuse or apology. “Save it,” James snapped, stepping forward, eyes blazing. “I don’t need your excuses. You Slytherins are all the same—cowardly, sneaky, thinking you can get away with anything while the rest of us do the real work. Always clever in your heads, but useless when it matters! Lucius’s smirk wavered, his jaw tightening. “Useless? You Gryffindors think courage makes you better than everyone else, don’t you? All chest-thumping and shouting, and yet half the time you’re running into trouble you can’t handle.” James’s hand tightened, pride and anger flaring. “Keep talking, and I’ll show you what Gryffindor bravery really is!” Lucius mirrored him, wand twitching. “I’d like to see you try,” he said, eyes flashing, the tension building like a spark in dry leaves. Before it could erupt, a streak of light passed through their vision. Both blinked, wands halfway raised. Tom’s small spell had flashed by—harmless, but impossible to ignore. James froze, chest heaving. Lucius’s smirk faltered. Tom’s calm voice cut through the air: “The next one won’t miss.” The forest fell silent again. Both boys stepped back Lily stepped between James and Lucius, hands on her hips. “Does Tom really have to do that before you two get it?” Beatrix frowned, crossing her arms. “Yeah… you guys can’t keep fighting. We’re stuck in this mist.” Samera nodded. “Pride doesn’t matter right now. Gryffindor, Slytherin—it doesn’t help. We need to act like a team.” Lily pointed at them both. “This isn’t a house game. Work together, or we’re done for.” James and Lucius glared at each other, still fuming. The girls weren’t giving in, but neither were they acting like they fully got it yet. Tom stood on the side, looking up at the fog. Tom didn’t look back. He just took one step forward, eyes low, mist curling around his feet. “The fog’s getting thicker,” he said quietly. “Let’s get going.” Something in his voice wasn’t loud, but it was enough. Everyone straightened a little. The air shifted. The mist suddenly felt colder… closer. And they moved. They moved in silence for a while, the mist curling around their legs, muffling footsteps and swallowing shapes whole. Lucius, smirking, finally broke the quiet. “This is… easier than I thought,” he said, voice carrying just enough arrogance to irritate everyone. Beatrix’s eyes snapped toward him. “Easier? Really? You always have to open your mouth, don’t you?” Lily shot him a sharp glare, her fingers tightening around her wand. “Don’t jinx us with your stupid confidence, Lucius. We’ve barely started.” Samera rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath, “Some people really can’t resist proving they’re idiots.” Before Lucius could respond, the fog thickened suddenly, swirling unnaturally. Shadows shifted, and then… figures emerged. Puppets. More than a dozen, their limbs jerking in awkward, mechanical motions as they surrounded the group. Lucius froze, his smirk faltering. “What—” Beatrix shoved him back slightly. “Look what your mouth did!!” she snapped, anger flaring. “You had to say it, didn’t you? You had to act like this is a joke!” Lily raised her wand, eyes narrowing. “Focus! Don’t give them any excuse. And Lucius…” she let the threat hang in the air, sharp as a blade. “Next time, keep your opinions to yourself.” Samera gritted her teeth, positioning herself defensively. “We’re surrounded because of him.” She gestured at Lucius, who was finally swallowing his pride and trying to muster a semblance of bravery. The puppets inched closer, jerking unnaturally, their hollow faces devoid of expression. The fog pressed in, colder now, as if it were alive and feeding on the group’s rising tension. Lucius swallowed hard, his cocky air gone, replaced by a tight-lipped unease. “Right… my bad,” he muttered quietly. Beatrix and Lily exchanged a look, both silently daring him not to speak again. The group tightened their formation, wands raised, hearts thudding as the puppets crept nearer, the mist swirling like a predator around them. The puppets jerked closer, their hollow eyes fixed on the group. Without warning, Helena raised her wand. “Expelliarmus!” she shouted, the spell shooting forward in a bright flash. It passed straight through one of the puppets, as if it were nothing, and struck another one behind it. The puppet wobbled but didn’t fall. Lucius laughed nervously. “Maybe they… aren’t harmful after all,” he said, still trying to keep his smirk. Before he could take another step, a puppet lunged. Its wooden arm shot out and hit him squarely in the chest, knocking him back a few steps. He stumbled, face pale, rubbing where it hit him. “Okay! They definitely are!” he admitted, his arrogance gone in an instant. Beatrix and Lily exchanged frustrated looks. Beatrix muttered, “Told you. Your mouth got us surrounded.” Lily just shook her head, gripping her wand tighter. “Focus, everyone! Don’t let one slip-up turn into another!” The mist swirled thicker, the puppets jerking in closer, and the group tightened their circle, readying themselves for the fight ahead. The puppets didn’t just advance — they moved unnaturally fast, limbs jerking with eerie precision. Every spell the students cast — offensive or defensive — passed through them as if they were nothing more than fog. “Protego!” Lily shouted, but the spell dissolved before it reached the nearest puppet. One of its wooden fists slammed into her shoulder, sending her stumbling backward. Her wand skidded across the ground, and she lunged for it, teeth gritted. Beatrix’s cheerful smile vanished. She spun and swung her wand wildly. “Stupefy!” The beam streaked forward… and passed harmlessly through a puppet that immediately kicked her in the shin, making her drop her wand. She hissed, hopping on one foot, fury burning in her eyes. Samera tried a combination, first a Rictusempra to distract, then a jab of Expelliarmus. Both spells fizzled through the puppet as it grabbed her by the arm, slamming her into a tree trunk. She grunted, pain flaring, and scrambled to her feet. Lucius, still trying to recover his composure, swung his wand with a dramatic flourish. “Impedimenta!” Nothing. A puppet struck him square in the stomach before he could even brace himself. He doubled over, cursing under his breath. “Ugh… these things…!” Even James and Tom weren’t faring better. James’s punches at the puppets met empty air; Tom’s calm composure cracked slightly as he tried to anticipate their jerky movements. Each strike, each spell, seemed to slip through, leaving only the inevitable physical blow behind. “Kaito!” Helena’s sharp voice cut through the chaos. The wiry Ravenclaw tried a spell of his own — a simple Expelliarmus — but the puppet jerked past it and slammed into his chest. He skidded across the misty ground, breathing hard, clutching at the impact. Thalia Reed shouted instructions over the din, but even her voice couldn’t rally them fast enough. Every step they took, the puppets were there, intercepting, striking, relentless. The air was thick with the mist, the smell of splintered wood, and the shouts of frustration and pain. Cordelia kept her wand up, circling, looking for openings, but her spells fizzled uselessly. One puppet swung at her side; she barely dodged, feeling the rush of air as its fist passed just inches from her ribs. Beatrix yelped, Samera groaned, Lily cursed, and Lucius was swearing under his breath, staggering under blow after blow. Even Tom, usually the calmest, had to block a sudden strike that nearly knocked him off his feet. The group, despite their panic and bruises, tried to rally together, but the puppets moved too unpredictably, too fast. Each attempt to fight back ended with a solid hit to their bodies instead of the puppets. Every failed spell, every strike that passed harmlessly through them, hammered their morale. The battle had turned into chaos. Fear mingled with frustration; adrenaline with anger. Everyone of them felt it: the horrifying, unrelenting power of something that couldn’t be defeated by simple magic. And yet, despite the hits, despite the mist swallowing their movements, they refused to yield, fists and wands raised, hearts pounding, ready to fight another second, even as the puppets closed in. Tom’s eyes flicked through the chaos, a sudden spark of clarity cutting through the panic. “They’re… fog,” he said aloud, voice steady despite the pounding around him. “Air. That’s what they are. They’re made of it.” Lily’s eyes widened, and she immediately grabbed onto the concept. “Air… so we can’t hit them, but we can… push them away. We can blow them apart!” James’s brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of it. “Blow them away… but does anyone actually know a wind spell? Or anything that could…?” Before the question could even finish, a puppet’s wooden fist slammed into James’s side, knocking him down. Another sent Beatrix sprawling. Samera went down with a grunt, hitting her shoulder hard. The fog puppets didn’t pause for thought — they kept striking, hitting harder and faster, feeding on the students’ confusion and fear. Lucius groaned, sprawled on the ground after another strike, clutching his side. “I… I don’t even know a single wind spell…” His voice was half panic, half incredulity. Lily, wiping a smear of mist off her cheek, looked around desperately. “We’re second years… we don’t even have anything for this! Nothing works!” The mist swirled thicker, jerking the puppets like they were alive, each strike coming faster, harder. Students were slipping on the damp ground, stumbling over each other, bracing for hits that no spell could block. Tom’s eyes narrowed, scanning, calculating. “We have to figure something out. Anything. This…” He gestured at the relentless fog. “This isn’t normal. But if it’s air… we can fight it differently.” The others, battered and gasping, could only nod weakly, hearts racing, eyes wide with fear. They were lost — second years against creatures that seemed to defy all their training. Not like they had much of that to begin with. The mist didn’t just hide the danger; it was the danger. And yet, even in the chaos, Tom’s mind raced, searching for a way to turn their fear into action before the fog puppets finally broke them completely. The fog puppets kept coming, relentless and merciless. Sameyr, battered and bruised, her robes torn, her wand hand trembling from every blow, felt a surge of anger and pain rise in her chest. She raised her wand with a scream, pouring every ounce of frustration, fear, and fury into a single, desperate spell. “Vento Maxima!” A whirlwind erupted from her wand. The mist and puppets were caught in the blast, swirling violently before being hurled away in a chaotic torrent. Students tumbled with the force of the wind — Lily rolled, Beatrix was shoved into a tree trunk, even Lucius was lifted briefly off his feet, landing with a groan — but it worked. The fog dissipated, the puppets scattered, leaving silence in their wake. For a long moment, no one moved. The air was thick with mist and splintered wood, hearts hammering, breaths ragged. They slowly got to their feet, each examining themselves for bruises, tears in robes, or scraped hands. The mist had gone… but the shock lingered. No one spoke for several seconds, stunned into silence. Finally, Lucius broke it, his voice cutting through the tension. “Well… that was… fun?” Beatrix threw him a glare sharp enough to slice wood, and even Lily let out an exasperated groan. James, already suspicious of Sameyr from the beginning, narrowed his eyes. “How… how did you even know that spell?” Samera shrugged, trying to keep her tone light, though her jaw was tight. “She must’ve been snooping around in the Advanced class textbooks again. She always does that.” James didn’t respond. His mind was elsewhere. The figure he had seen in the woods, the torn fabric, Sameyr’s hidden wound… pieces of a puzzle he couldn’t yet fit together. He glanced at Sameyr, who avoided his gaze, wand still clutched tightly in her hand, breathing hard. Everyone else was still shaken, some murmuring about how incredible and terrifying that last moment had been. Samera tried to smooth things over, laughing lightly to cover her worry. “Well… uh… that worked out, didn’t it?” But James remained silent, suspicion gnawing at him. Something about Sameyr didn’t add up. The spell, the timing, the way she fought… and the memory of that figure in the woods, the wound he had glimpsed — it all churned together, and he couldn’t quite piece it… yet. For now, the group caught their breath, battered but alive. The mist was gone, the puppets destroyed… but the unease lingered. The whirlwind settled, the fog evaporating like mist in the morning sun. The path ahead became visible again, winding back toward the safer part of the Founder Hollow camp. One by one, the group stepped forward, legs stiff, robes torn, bruises and scrapes marking their progress, but alive. When they reached the camp, Fyreband was waiting, his eyes scanning them critically before settling into a rare smile. “Congratulations,” he said, voice steady and approving. “You’re the first team to return. Well done. Now… go rest. You’ve earned it.” The group didn’t need a second invitation. They headed toward their tents, silence stretching between them as everyone processed the battle they had just endured. But James’s gaze kept flicking to Sameyr. Uneasy, uncertain, a knot of suspicion tightening in his chest. Something about the way she had fought… the way she had unleashed that advanced spell… it didn’t sit right with him. Sameyr moved quietly ahead of the group, careful to avoid his eyes, keeping her expression calm, casual, as if nothing had happened. But James noticed the subtle tension in her shoulders, the way her hands lingered just a little too long on her wand, the faint shadow of something hidden beneath her robes. He frowned, uncertainty gnawing at him. He wanted to confront her, to ask the questions bubbling in his mind — but something held him back. For now, all he could do was watch. Something was off, he knew it, and Sameyr was doing her best to make sure he didn’t notice. The camp settled into a restless quiet. The others drifted toward their tents, exhausted, murmuring about the battle and the strange puppets in the mist. But James didn’t move quite yet. His eyes stayed on Sameyr, a cold certainty forming inside him: there was more to her than met the eye, and he wasn’t going to ignore it. Sameyr slipped into a quiet corner of the camp, away from the bustle of students tending to themselves. Her chest heaved, and her hands still trembled slightly from the battle. A soft voice broke the silence. “Sameyr… are you okay?” She looked up to see Samera approaching, moving cautiously, eyes scanning the camp to make sure no one was listening. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m… fine,” Sameyr said, forcing a smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Just… tired.” Samera’s brow furrowed. “It’s not just that. James… he keeps looking at you. Does he know?” Sameyr’s smile tightened, and she shook her head. “No. He doesn’t know anything.” Samera gave a small, relieved sigh, though her eyes lingered on Sameyr, worried. “Good. Let’s… just keep it that way. Until the last test, okay?” Sameyr nodded, letting out a quiet breath. “Yeah… until the last test.” For a moment, the two stood in silence, the sounds of the camp muted around them. Sameyr kept her gaze averted, careful, calculating, while Samera remained nearby, a quiet shield. They both knew the truth had to stay hidden — at least for now. After some time, movement in the fogged path signaled another team’s return. Sirius’s team emerged, looking exhausted but unscathed, the Marauders leading them back into the camp. Fyreband’s eyes narrowed, scanning the remaining area. Then he spoke, voice carrying across the campfire-lit clearing. “And finally… the last team arrives.” A hush fell over everyone. The words sank in slowly. Shock rippled through the gathered students. “That’s it?” someone whispered. “Just… two teams?” Fyreband didn’t answer the murmurs. Instead, he raised his voice, bold and commanding, cutting through the whispers. “The final trial is near,” he declared, pacing slightly, every word deliberately. “Rest tonight. Sleep well. Gather your strength. Because tomorrow… You step into the match that determines everything.” He paused, letting the weight of the announcement settle over them like a cloak. Then, with a quiet puff of smoke, he disappeared, leaving the students staring after him, hearts hammering with anticipation, fear, and the dawning realization that the moment they had trained for was almost here. The camp fell into a tense, uneasy quiet, everyone trying to process what the final trial might hold — and wondering if they were truly ready.

TO BE CONTINUED

NESSGEEORIGINAL