Christmas was approaching. By mid-December, when everyone woke up in the morning, they discovered that the castle was covered in a thick layer of snow, and the enormous lake had frozen solid. The few owls that had somehow managed to push through the snowstorm that morning to deliver the mail to the school were on the verge of collapse. Hagrid had to work hard with them before they could fly again.
Everyone eagerly awaited the holidays and could think of nothing else. Perhaps it was because the school was unbearably cold, and everyone wanted to rush off to their warm, cozy homes. No, the Slytherin common room, the dormitories, and the Great Hall were warm, thanks to the magical flames roaring in the fireplaces, which never dimmed for a minute. But the drafty corridors froze over, and the windows in the icy classrooms rattled and trembled under the wind, threatening to shatter at any moment.
I also wanted to get to the Goyle estate quickly, though mostly because it promised possible help against the Voice. Cold didn't bother me personally—even in this body, for instance, I could withstand water at temperatures down to zero degrees without issue.
The others had the worst time during Professor Snape's lessons, which took place in the dungeons. Steam puffed from their mouths, hanging in the air in white clouds, and the students, forgetting burns and other dangers, tried to stay as close as possible to the boiling cauldrons, nearly pressing against them.
"I can't believe anyone would stay at school over the Christmas holidays, since no one's waiting for them at home," Malfoy said loudly during one of the Potions classes. "Poor kids, I pity them…"
As he said this, Malfoy looked at Potter. Crabbe and Nott snickered loudly, and I grinned too, though humor at this age among teenagers was, of course, rather primitive. After the memorable match in which Gryffindor had acquired a new Seeker, Malfoy became even more unbearable. Hurt by this fact, he tried to make everyone laugh with a joke he invented. His idea was that in the next game, Potter would dance ballet on the field instead of catching the ball. However, he quickly realized that his joke amused no one—perhaps Potter had become Seeker in a very unconventional way, but he had still become one. Moreover, everyone was amazed that he managed to dodge most of the balls thrown at him. Malfoy, burning with envy and even more angered, invented increasingly foolish jokes in an attempt to rile Potter, who, in turn, didn't react.
When the lesson ended and we exited the dungeon, we discovered that our path was blocked by a massive fir tree that had somehow appeared in the corridor. But two giant feet peeking from behind the trunk and heavy panting suggested that Hagrid had brought the tree there.
"Perhaps you would be so kind as to let me pass," Malfoy said as we caught up with the Gryffindors. "And you, Weasley, if I understand correctly, are trying to earn a little extra? I suppose after school you plan to stay here as a gamekeeper? Hagrid's hut compared to your parents' house is practically a palace."
Weasley looked like he wanted to leap at Malfoy, but he met my warning gaze and, baring his teeth in a grimace, swallowed his insult, offering only a bland:"Go to hell, Malfoy!"
Pushing past, we were about to head to the common room, when suddenly my keen hearing picked up muffled sobbing in a side corridor. I became curious who was crying, as the voice sounded quite familiar, and I decided to check.
"Guys, go ahead, I'll catch up with you."
Malfoy merely nodded regally (or so he thought) and went off with the others, while I turned left. On the windowsill, curled up and crying, covering herself with her sleeve, sat Hermione Granger. I had heard her situation was quite bad; Weasley and Brown continued teasing her, calling her a "know-it-all" and a "rat," while the others simply ignored her.
The girl truly looked terrible—her hair resembled a crow's nest, dark bruises surrounded her eyes, the eyes themselves were red, and her robe and shirt were worn carelessly. Her ink-stained bag lay on the floor nearby.
"Well, well, what happened?" I decided to show concern, since I had approached her.
She lifted her tearful eyes for a moment and burst into full-blown sobs without answering. I sighed and sat down next to her on the windowsill.
"Sniffle… Go away, Goyle," Granger said, calming slightly after a few minutes.
"Go away?" I smirked, suddenly coming up with a playful idea of what to say to her. "Why? You don't want to be alone again, do you?"
Granger snorted and looked away, but I continued, trying subtly to lead her to the thought.
"You know, Hermione, what your problem is? No, of course, they're all jerks and scoundrels, but… All these books, constant preaching, excessive initiative in class… Maybe you should adjust your style a little? You'd be surprised how others' perception would change if you compromised your image a bit."
Granger stared at me, bewildered, and noticing her reaction, I added cautiously:"I'm not saying you should completely abandon intelligent conversation. It's wonderful that you understand magic so well. But think about what would happen if you shifted the emphasis a little. Everyone perceives you only as a 'know-it-all,' but you are much more than that. You could attract far more attention than you think."
Granger blushed slightly, but her eyes still held doubt.
"I don't think I need that, Goyle," she said restrainedly.
"Well, of course, if you don't want to," I shrugged, but continued looking at her. "Just… if you want to change how people see you, you could become far more noticeable and finally find friends. Who knows, Gryffindors might look at you differently if you weren't just the 'book-smart girl.'"
I waited while she processed my words, knowing she wouldn't remain indifferent. Seeing her thoughtful expression, I continued with more confidence, adding a touch of provocation:"I don't say this for nothing, Hermione. You could be much more than just a 'know-it-all.' All those Gryffindors… especially Weasley and Brown," I said with a disdainful smile, "they're so used to seeing you in that role that they don't even notice the inner world hidden behind it. But if you… changed a bit, allowed yourself to be different? They'd definitely start seeing you differently."
I watched her reaction, taking my time so she could consider my words, continuing with a slight mockery in my tone:"You don't want all those Gryffindors to keep perceiving you only as the girl who always sits behind books and cries in the corridor, do you? When you could be far more interesting to them… Maybe, if you shifted your approach a little, they would admire you. And imagine Brown's fury when you look better than her—because you can, I know. Do you think she'd dare call you a 'rat'?"
Granger finally looked up, and I understood that my words had resonated. Not wanting to pressure her further, I gently tapped her shoulder, making her flinch, and stood up, heading back.
I wondered if anything would come of this.
I stepped through the massive gates leading to the ancestral estate, once fairly grand. In the old days, its tall spires proudly reached toward the sky, reflecting sunlight, while the mosaic windows shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow. But now, covered with cracks and frost, they looked dimmed, as if even the memory of the house's former glory was beginning to fade. Stone walls, entwined with the remnants of long-dead ivy, breathed cold, and the intricate bas-reliefs decorating the façade were barely discernible beneath layers of grime and time.
Creaking underfoot, the massive oak doors reluctantly yielded, opening the way inside. Here, in the half-light, shadows of former wealth hovered beneath the ceiling. Once-luxurious chandeliers with crystal pendants now barely hung from time-darkened chains, their dull light a reminder of past splendor. My echoing steps across the marble floor rang through the empty corridors; the paintings in heavy gilded frames glared at me silently, and the carved doors bore the marks of time, obviously needing renewal. The corridors and hall were empty, and furniture was scarce.
The grand hall greeted me not with warm familial comfort, but with cold air that seemed to have absorbed echoes of long-gone years. By the staircase stood a dust-covered table, once a stand for exquisite vases or whimsical figurines, now appearing as a mere remnant of a bygone era.
On the floor, under the dim light of a single soot-stained lamp, a hunched figure busied itself clumsily cleaning. The house-elf, whose weathered body and tattered, faded cloak embodied the decay of the entire estate, slowly lifted his head. His enormous eyes, which once perhaps radiated loyalty, now looked tired and dull.
"Welcome, young master," the elf's voice was soft, almost a whisper, as if loud sounds were inappropriate here. "Your father expected you."
The elf bowed low, his long, bony fingers gripping the edge of his cloak as if it could support him. Looking at this creature, I suddenly realized that he had changed almost as much as the house itself.
"Thank you, Grinch," I replied. "My father—is he here?"
The elf nodded and, wobbling slightly, gestured down the far corridor leading to the old library and study.
"He is there, young master, but if I may… he has become… different lately."
I merely nodded, understanding what he meant. Goyle Sr. had always been a complex man, but recent events had clearly left their mark.
Ascending the stairs, I felt a strange sensation. The place where the previous Gregory Goyle had spent his childhood now looked completely different. Walking down the corridor to the library, I noticed empty shelves where books had once stood. Various artifacts and trophies, the numerous weapons that had previously hung on the walls, all were gone, as if someone had tried to strip the house of its soul.
I headed toward my room, but passing one of the doors, I heard a sharp, joyful laugh. The sound was so unexpected in the gloomy silence of the mansion that I stopped, listening. A second later, the door swung open, and my younger sister appeared on the threshold—now MY younger sister.
"Finally, you've arrived!" the nine-year-old exclaimed with genuine joy, rushing toward me with unexpected warmth.
She had always been a bright spot in the house, like a ray of sunlight on a cloudy day. Against the gloomy walls, her clothing seemed to glow: a blue cloak with golden embroidery, a light skirt just brushing the floor. Her light hair was gathered in a fluffy bun, though a few strands had escaped, softly framing her face.
"I thought you might spend Christmas somewhere in Hogwarts," she said, laughing, stepping back but still holding my hand.
"How could I?" I smirked, feeling my mood lift a little from her energy. "You must have missed me, right?"
"Missed you?!" The girl snorted playfully, but her eyes betrayed the truth: yes, she had. "Do you even realize what's happening here?"
She turned dramatically, pointing down the long corridor where portraits of their ancestors used to hang. Now many frames were empty, and the remaining paintings were covered with cobwebs or had decayed beyond recognition.
"This place has become…," she hesitated, searching for a word, "empty. Even the elves no longer sing while working. Do you notice?"
I nodded. In this house, once filled with noise, music, and light, it had indeed become unbearably silent.
"But you'll find a way to fix it, won't you?" she added, her eyes glowing with hope.
"Of course," I replied, though I didn't yet know how.
"I know, I know, you're always serious," she suddenly changed the topic, tapping me on the shoulder. "But let's forget all these worries for a moment. I prepared something to cheer us up."
She grabbed my hand and pulled me into the room that had once been a playroom. Now it contained only an old sofa and a couple of chairs, but on one of the tables lay cookies and tea, and in the corner stood a small Christmas tree adorned with a few shiny ornaments.
"Well?" she asked, with the look of a child expecting praise for her efforts, though she was still younger than my new body.
"Very cozy," I said sincerely, something long absent from this house, "but wait a moment, I need to check in with father."
The girl frowned slightly but nodded, and I headed to Goyle Sr.'s study, located in the farthest part of the estate. The narrow corridor leading there was dimly lit; only occasional magical lamps flickered unevenly, casting shadows on the peeling wallpaper.
I paused for a moment before the massive oak door, adorned with intricate carvings: heraldic symbols of the family—a black shield with a white skull pierced by a red sword, lightning bolts on each side, and two red stars above. Beneath the skull, the inscription read: "In Umbra — Potestas." Once a symbol of pride, it now seemed dull and faded.
I pushed the door, and it creaked. The study greeted me with a thick aroma of dust, old paper, and something barely perceptible. The room always commanded respect. The high, arched ceiling was decorated with dark carved beams, and the walls were lined with bookshelves filled with ancient tomes. Yet many spaces were empty—books seemed to have left, taken by Malfoy along with artifacts.
In the center of the room stood a massive black oak desk, its smooth surface scratched and stained with ink. On the wall behind the desk, an old map of Britain hung in a gilded frame, marked with magical notations. Here and there were old scrolls, hastily rolled notes, magical artifacts, many cracked or dulled.
In the corner by the window sat a chair, its back draped with a worn robe. Goyle Sr. occupied it, seeming part of the furniture. His figure looked tired, but his eyes burned with a feverish fire, both frightening and captivating.
"You decided to show up after all," the man's hoarse voice sounded, as if he hadn't spoken in a while. "I was beginning to think you'd abandon us entirely."
"And I'm glad to see you, father," I said calmly, closing the door behind me.
He cast a piercing gaze at me, making me uneasy even now. It was a look that seemed to study not just my face, but my soul.
"You've changed," he finally said, not specifying in which direction. "Hogwarts seems to nurture not only wizards but character as well."
I stayed silent. Like the previous Gregory, I disliked my father's games with hints.
"Sit," he nodded to one of the chairs. "We have much to discuss."
At that moment, another resident appeared from the shadows—a second and last (formerly there were more) house-elf. He too seemed to embody the decay of the house. His skin was gray, as if dust-covered; his ears drooped like dull rags, and his once-bright eyes were now dim and lifeless. He held a tray with tea and two glasses, one half-empty.
"Pinky, disappear," my father waved. The elf bowed, nearly dropping the tray, and vanished into the shadows.
"Even the servants have become unreliable," Goyle Sr. muttered, pushing a glass closer. "Everything is collapsing. Everything we've built for centuries."
He turned to me, his face illuminated by the single lamp on the desk.
"I read your letter," he said quietly, looking at me intently. "Tell me."
"At Hogwarts…" I began, my voice hollow. "I heard a voice."
The man frowned, leaning forward.
"A voice? What voice?"
"It didn't just speak," I continued, careful not to reveal too much. "It… commanded. Ordered me to kill Harry Potter."
Silence filled the study, thick as fog. Goyle Sr. tilted his head, as if pondering the words, then stood and began pacing, rubbing his chin.
"Are you sure it's not your imagination?" he asked, though his tone held only indifference.
"I'm sure. This voice… it's not mine. It's foreign. It's… something else. It appeared to me in dreams and even during the day."
He paused by a shelf, leaning on it, frozen for a moment.
"Do you know what that might mean?" he finally said, not turning around.
"No," I admitted, a hint of doubt in my voice.
Goyle Sr. turned, his gaze heavy yet filled with a strange gleam.
"It may be the legacy of our blood," he began, stepping closer. "Something linked to ancient oaths or magic our ancestors used."
"But why me? Why Potter?" I asked, irritation simmering inside.
He merely shook his head.
"Potter… the boy is tied to powerful magic that defeated the Dark Lord. Perhaps the voice is connected to those events."
He fell silent, returning to the desk.
"I… may know how to help," he finally said.
I squinted.
"But you're holding something back," I noted.
The man smiled with a touch of madness, and it brought no relief.
"Of course I am. You're old enough to understand: sometimes the choices we make change everything. Though you don't really have a choice."
We fell silent again. The room felt heavier, each word spoken by Goyle Sr. hanging like a harbinger of something significant.
"To rid you of this… voice, a sacrifice is required. Possibly more than one. It is complex magic, dark, ancient. It demands strength."
"What kind of sacrifice?" I asked indifferently.
The man lifted his eyes, his face grim yet detached.
"Something to fuel the ritual. Theoretically, it could be any living being… but the stronger the magical connection, the better. We could try using Muggles, but we'd need at least a dozen."
I fell silent, unsure how to respond. Killing wasn't new to me, but… not like this.
"Is this the only way?" I finally asked.
Goyle Sr. didn't answer immediately.
"The only way I know," he said at last