The prefect hauls a cracked bucket up the Ramshackle dorm’s back staircase, water sloshing with each step. Grim, tail high, bounds ahead, his blue-flamed ears casting eerie shadows on the peeling wallpaper. The chill in the corridor bites through the oversized blazer. From the parlor comes Ace’s voice, pitched in a mock shout:
“Hey, Grim, you gonna help or just eat all our snacks again?”
Deuce’s reply is quieter, but tense:
“Keep it down, Ace. The ghosts are circling.”
Rounding the landing, the prefect’s arms tremble from the weight; water drips onto worn floorboards. A door slams somewhere above, rattling glass. Grim jumps sideways with a yowl.
“Not scared! That was just… wind!”
Grim blusters, but his fur stands on end. The air tastes faintly of dust and ozone, magic lingering from the last student duel somewhere out on the quad.
Inside the parlor, Ace lounges on a battered armchair, feet on the table, while Deuce stands watchfully at the window. The mood is uneasy; something outside has unsettled the ghosts, and now even Grim’s bravado is thin. The prefect sets the bucket down with a dull thud. No one says it, but everyone can sense that trouble is closing in.