Harry's POV
The corridors of Hogwarts had settled since the Halloween night attack. The gossip had faded, the whispers about Professor Greywood's dazzling prism spell were now common talk at breakfast, and the castle had resumed its steady rhythm of classes and complaints.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione were walking down the marble staircase after Charms when Harry stopped mid-step.
"Hold on—look," he whispered.
Ahead of them, just turning down the next hallway, was Professor Snape. He moved quickly, as he usually did—except for one detail. He was limping, favoring his right leg. His black robes dragged awkwardly on one side, and for just a second, Harry caught a glimpse of something underneath — a torn edge of cloth, dark with dried blood.
Ron leaned in. "you think that's from Halloween night?"
Hermione frowned. "Why would Snape get hurt during the attack? He wasn't even with the rest of the professors until after."
"Unless," Harry said quietly, "he wasn't heading to the feast in the first place."
They turned the corner, but Snape was already gone.
Ron scratched his head. "Do you think he was in the forest?"
Hermione crossed her arms. "Or maybe... somewhere else he shouldn't have been."
Harry's thoughts drifted. There was something odd about that third-floor corridor again — the one that had been accidentally blocked off for "repairs." And now this.
The library was warm and still, lit by late afternoon sun spilling through high windows. Hermione, Ron, and Harry sat in their usual corner, a pile of books spread between them.
"I found something," Hermione said suddenly, holding up a thick, dusty volume titled Obscure Magical Aberrations and Unstable Entities.
Harry leaned closer. "What does it say?"
She pointed. "'Chrono-Warped Beasts: Magical entities that have either slipped through or been born within a time anomaly. Symptoms include flickering forms, broken memories, and extreme resistance to normal spells.'"
Ron blinked. "Sounds like our troll, doesn't it?"
Hermione nodded. "Yes — and look. It says the first recorded instance was in Eastern Europe during a failed time-reversal ritual. A beast materialized inside a village and aged backward and forward until it imploded."
Harry glanced sideways. "Do you think Professor Cronos knows about this?"
Hermione smiled faintly. "He's probably the only wizard alive who understands it properly. This book—" she flipped the inside cover "—was last borrowed by him."
Ron whistled. "So he's been researching this stuff since before he started teaching?"
Harry said quietly, "And someone—or something—keeps triggering these anomalies. It's not random."
Hermione lowered the book, voice tense. "And if it's happening inside Hogwarts... then someone inside might be causing them."
The three exchanged glances as the light shifted over the library shelves. Somewhere out there, answers waited. And more questions, too.
Cronos's POV
Cronos stood alone in the quiet of his tower office, wand gently brushing the hourglass on his desk. It still held no sand, yet it glowed faintly, pulsing like a slowed heartbeat.
He had returned to the girls' lavatory earlier that day, just to be sure. The space held no trace of the beast—but the echo of unstable time remained, like smoke after a fire.
In his journal, he wrote:
Timeline A2 – Nov 1• Residual distortion localized but thinning• No spontaneous fracture detected — event was provoked• Source: still unknown• Snape's presence logged before initial rupture — coincidence?
He tapped the page with his quill. Coincidence rarely survives scrutiny.
Cronos looked out over the Forbidden Forest. Somewhere within that web of secrets, time itself had been tampered with. Not just fractured. Bent.
His hand hovered over the monocle. The artifact he had made himself shimmered faintly, reacting again. Not to a presence nearby—but to potential. Possibility unraveling.
The castle corridors were unusually quiet.
Cronos walked with measured steps, the silver-grey hem of his cloak brushing lightly against the ancient stone. Shadows clung to the corners of the corridor, not quite following the angles they should.
His monocle shimmered faintly. Just for a second, one of the wall-mounted lanterns flickered backwards—its flame extinguishing, then relighting itself with the same spark, like a moment replayed.
Cronos slowed, brow furrowing. He turned, gaze trailing the hallway behind him.
Nothing.
No one.
Just still air and ancient walls.
He lifted the monocle slightly, focusing it down the corridor. No ripples. No fractures. Only the whisper of footsteps already taken.
"You're tired," he told himself aloud, voice low and flat.
"Residual tension from the bloom encounter. Don't read into shadows."
Still, as he resumed his pace, he noticed something else — a suit of armor ahead, halfway down the hall, was facing the wrong direction. Not just turned — fully reversed, as if it had been placed that way deliberately.
He stopped. Watched it. Waited.
No movement.
Cronos sighed softly and adjusted his ring. No time echoes, no jump. Just… wrong.
"Later," he muttered.
As he turned a final corner, the muted glow of candlelight spilled out from under a wooden door: the staff room.
He stepped inside.
The door creaked as Cronos pushed it open. Warm firelight spilled out. He stepped inside, quietly.
Snape sat stiffly on a low bench, one leg propped up on a crate. His robe was pulled aside, revealing a long burn wrapped in bandages. Professor Flitwick stood beside him, wand raised and murmuring softly as his charm glowed blue along the injury.
"Ah, Professor Greywood," Flitwick said without looking up. "How good of you to join us. Severus is pretending this didn't require attention."
"I didn't ask for it," Snape muttered. His voice was flat, but there was strain behind the words. The pain wasn't gone yet.
Cronos stepped further in, folding his arms.
"Three-headed dogs tend to leave reminders," he said quietly.
Snape shot him a glance—sharp, but not surprised.
"Let's call it a misstep," he said.
Flitwick gave a faint hum of disapproval as he finished the last movement of the charm. The light sank into the bandages.
"There. The tissue should repair overnight. Try not to antagonize magical beasts in the meantime."
"I'll make a note of it," Snape said, standing slowly. He didn't wince—but Cronos noticed the twitch at his jaw.
There was a pause. The fire crackled behind them, the only sound for a moment.
"You felt it too, then," Flitwick said softly, glancing between them.
Cronos didn't ask what he meant. He just nodded.
"The corridors," he murmured. "The armor in the South Wing was facing the wrong way again. I saw a lantern flicker in reverse."
"Residual charms?" Flitwick offered, though without much hope.
"No," Snape said, picking up a cup of tea. "Magic doesn't echo like that on its own."
Cronos turned toward the window. The glass pane shimmered slightly, just for a moment, like the reflection wasn't quite caught up.
"Something's… slipping," he said. "Only slightly. But it's there."
Flitwick looked thoughtful. "Unstable enchantments? A student experiment?"
Snape shook his head.
"No student knows enough to cause this. Not without help."
There was a silence at that. Heavy. Unspoken thoughts folded into the quiet.
Cronos finally looked back at them.
"If someone is testing time," he said slowly, "they're doing it carefully. But not carefully enough."
Snape sipped his tea, the monocle glinting briefly in his peripheral.
"I don't like careful enemies," he said. "They're the ones that survive."
Cronos nodded once.
Then, with nothing more to say, he turned and left, the door swinging softly shut behind him.
Unknown POV
The corridor was empty. The flickering lanterns above swayed unnaturally — not from any breeze, but from the residue of time folding back on itself for just a heartbeat.
He stood in the shadow of a forgotten stairwell, robed in plain Hogwarts servant attire. Small. Overlooked. As planned.
He touched the stone wall beside him, fingers tracing the old groove — a crack from when the castle had shifted during the Goblin Uprising. Even then, they blamed it on the wrong rebellion.
The monocle-wearing professor had passed this way earlier. Too observant. Too precise.
His fingers moved in practiced rhythm, drawing a faint rune in old Elvish — a mark not taught in centuries, one that hummed with displaced memory. The symbol shimmered, invisible to most eyes, but it would pulse with resonance when the time was right.
He breathed, slow and steady. The magic in this place resisted him, but it remembered. The stones remembered. The castle had once been built with elven hands… before the chains.
He pulled out a fragment of bark, blackened with time. The anchor. A remnant from the Grove of Stillness — the last place his kind had lived freely before the wizards came. He clenched it tightly.
"Not vengeance," he whispered, his voice soft and bitter. "Correction."
Footsteps echoed distantly — students returning to their dorms.
He adjusted his robe, melting into the shadows. A few more tests. A few more fractures. And then…
Then they would listen.
He passed a mirror. For a second, his reflection shimmered — not human, not even elven anymore. Something bent by years too long lived.