You whisper the spell under your breath, and the air shivers around you like a pond struck by stone. At once, faint traces bloom in your mind across the room, ghostly outlines of presence and absence skimming the shelves and corners. Nothing living stands beside you on this floor, but the spell catches a cluster of warmth below the trapdoor, low and restless. Your scar twinges as if confirming what the magic already knows: you are not alone, and whatever waits beneath the floor is moving.

The whispering from below grows clearer, rising and falling in a pattern that sounds almost like hurried conversation. Dust trembles on the shelf edge, and the pale glow beneath the trapdoor pulses again, brighter this time. If any students are involved, they are hidden well enough to fool the eye, though not the charm. You tighten your grip on your wand, deciding whether to descend, listen longer, or search the room for another way in.