Harry Potter : Cael Vale’s journey to Hogwarts

The train ride to Normandy was long and quiet. Cael sat by the window of the carriage, watching as the landscape shifted from the grey elegance of Paris to wide green fields, quiet hills, and sleepy towns. The further he traveled, the more ancient the air seemed to grow—as though the land itself remembered forgotten stories.

By mid-afternoon, the train arrived at the local station in the town of Gisors. The castle itself loomed at a distance, perched on its modest hill like a crown of grey stone. Cael adjusted his backpack, pulled his hood a little lower over his brow, and joined the crowd of tourists making their way uphill toward the site.

Château de Gisors was every bit the legend it claimed to be. Weather-worn towers rose from the grassy mound, thick stone walls curling around a small courtyard. The keep, aged but standing proud, cast long shadows across the ancient grounds. Tourists were everywhere—families taking pictures, children playing knights with wooden swords, older couples reading historical plaques aloud.

Cael moved among them effortlessly, a camera slung over his shoulder, a small notebook tucked under his arm. He blended in, just another young tourist with too much curiosity and not enough time. He spent the afternoon inspecting every part of the open site: the winding staircase of the central tower, the small chapel, the remains of the outer walls. He even listened to a tour guide explain in broken English how Templar legends once connected this place to buried treasure.

Treasure, Cael thought, amused. They had no idea.

He scanned everything—the way the stones were laid, the resonance of old enchantments lingering like cobwebs. There were traces of magic here, but nothing overt. All of it was dormant, buried. Whatever secrets this castle held, they were not above ground.

And then he noticed something else.

Among the tourists, there were others. Still figures posted at strategic corners. They wore casual clothes—jeans, windbreakers—but their eyes didn't wander like tourists. They scanned. They stood like guards.

Aurors, or something close to it.

Cael slipped behind the outer wall, pretending to tie his shoe, and watched two of them exchange signals with the subtlest nods. This place was under magical surveillance.

They know, he thought. Someone knows that something lies beneath this place.

He wouldn't be able to explore in daylight. Not like under the watch of some unknown wizards.

That night, Cael returned to the hill.

The crowds had long since thinned. Only the occasional pair of lovers or late-night joggers passed near the castle. He waited from the shadows, invisible in his cloak and silence, until the grounds were empty.

Then, with a breath and a flick of concentration, he changed.

His limbs shortened. His spine curled. His vision shimmered. A heartbeat later, a small black cat with glowing blue eyes padded silently across the damp grass. His senses sharpened. The world looked different—smells, sounds, shadows. He could feel the whisper of magical wards humming faintly beneath his paws.

He crept past the gates, slipping through a narrow hole in the fencing. Once inside, he darted between stone and shadow, quiet as wind.

The cat's body moved with instinctual ease—jumping ledges, ducking beneath beams, balancing atop half-fallen walls. He revisited every place he had seen earlier that day, but now with a different perspective. The tower felt colder. The air near the chapel prickled against his whiskers. Magic slept in these stones like a dormant beast.

Then, he found it.

Near the far end of the grounds, hidden behind a ruined segment of the outer wall, a section of stone was loose. Not obvious—but to the eyes of a cat, and the nose of a wizard trained in ancient detection, it was clear. The moss around the stones was disturbed. The scent of damp air and stale enchantment wafted from a thin crack.

Cael shifted back to human form, crouched low, and whispered a detection charm. A shimmer revealed itself—a nearly invisible magical seal protecting what looked like a trapdoor built into the earth.

He pressed his hand against it, and felt a subtle warmth buzz at his palm. The magic was old. Very old.

A rune-lock. And not one he recognized immediately.

He reached into his satchel and pulled out one of Myrddin's books, flipping through until he found a matching diagram. His fingers traced the pattern in the dirt beside the seal. With a whispered word in the Old Tongue, the runes clicked—mechanically and magically—and the stone split with a soft hiss.

A narrow spiral staircase yawned into darkness below.

The air that rose from it was cold, untouched, and smelled of time and iron.

Cael pulled his wand free and lit the tip with a soft glow. One step at a time, he descended into the silence, the stone door sliding shut behind him, sealing him inside the unknown.