The night, usually bringing peace and quiet to the ancient corridors of Hogwarts, passed restlessly for the inhabitants of Slytherin. A loud explosion, shaking the dungeons, echoed in every corner of the house, sowing panic and fear. By morning, when the first timid sunbeams began to pierce through the castle's narrow windows, it became clear: the night had brought serious consequences. Thirteen students, members of the secret meeting of older students, with various injuries and concussions, were urgently transported to the Hospital Wing. Among them were those who had suffered burns from magical flames, numerous bruises and contusions from scattered debris, deep cuts from fragments of the stone table, and also those suffering from severe shock. Madam Pomfrey, the indefatigable Matron, bustled between beds all night, her steps swift and determined. She muttered curses under her breath about "these silly children who constantly get into trouble," skillfully applying healing ointments, rapid mending charms, and cold compresses. The air in the Hospital Wing was permeated with the sharp smell of antiseptic, mixed with the sickly sweet aroma of chamomile draught.
In the morning, as soft golden light flooded the ward, illuminating the white sheets and gleaming medical instruments, the injured Slytherin students finally began to regain consciousness. Their faces were pale, and their eyes red from lack of sleep and pain. Gemma, despite a throbbing headache and a noticeably swollen cheekbone, was the first to get out of bed. Her dark green robes were crumpled, and her hair disheveled, but even in such a state, she tried to maintain the remnants of her arrogant grandeur. Her gaze was hard and determined. She slowly, almost demonstratively, approached Marcus Flint's bed, who was sitting with his head in his hands, and looked at him sternly. Her gaze held a mixture of disbelief, anger, and unspoken accusation, which seemed to weigh heavily on Marcus. Under her piercing gaze, Marcus, like a caught kitten, recoiled, instinctively drawing his head into his shoulders.
"And what was that, Marcus?" Gemma's voice was quiet but piercing, like an icy thorn, each word sharply enunciated. "How much did he promise you to betray us? How could you do that? A pure-blood member of the Flint family, submitting to some...?" She didn't finish, but her voice held such contempt that the meaning was obvious.
Marcus got out of bed, his face pale as a sheet, his movements uncertain, as if he had just woken from a nightmare. He desperately waved his hands, trying to fend off the accusations. "Guys, it's not my fault! I honestly don't know what happened! I... I remember walking to the common room, and then... then everything's a blur. I truly don't remember how it happened! Believe me!" His voice broke into a hoarse whisper, holding genuine pleading bordering on despair. Yesterday felt like a fragmented dream to him, full of unsettling gaps and dark memory blanks. His head was splitting, and fragments of alien thoughts drifted through his mind, as if an invisible, foreign will touched his consciousness, leaving only a vague, oppressive sensation.
Gemma fell silent, her gaze becoming even more suspicious, her cold eyes evaluating Marcus's every word. At that moment, one of the injured, a tall boy with singed eyebrows and a bandaged arm, pushed himself up on his elbows, his face contorted in a grimace of pain and fury. He began to shout at Marcus, his voice full of indignation and outrage.
"What are you talking about?! We all saw it, Flint! You did it yourself! You! You pointed your wand right at the table and shouted the spell! We all saw it! How could you?! You're a pure-blood! Heir to an ancient line! How could you submit to some Mudblood, and then lie about it?!"
The last word, "Mudblood," sounded especially loud, steeped in pure-blood contempt. And then Gemma sharply raised her hand, interrupting the yelling Slytherin, her eyes suddenly blazing with cold, calculating fire. A terrible but logical realization flashed in her mind.
"Silence!" Her cry was sharp, suddenly ringing with a piercing, ominous certainty. "I think I understand what happened! Our little genius—Viktor Moss—learned an Unforgivable Curse, and it seems he has perfectly mastered the Imperius!"
A gasp swept through the ward. The word "Imperius" spread, causing a wave of shock, then instant relief, and only after that, a dark, ominous joy. It explained everything! This wasn't betrayal, but compulsion. One of the girls, a third-year with a bandaged arm and a pale face, asked fearfully: "Gemma, are you sure? Doesn't he realize what awaits him after using an Unforgivable Curse? He could go to Azkaban!" Her voice trembled with fear, but unmistakable anticipation of revenge already slipped into it.
Gemma bared her teeth, her lips twisting into a cold, predatory smile, despite the throbbing pain in her cheekbone. "It seems he doesn't know. Or he thinks he's the smartest... But this is good. Very good. Soon our little friend will be feeding the Dementors!"
The other Slytherins, gradually recovering from the initial shock, their faces still pale, now sported malicious grins. Dementors... That was the most terrifying punishment in the wizarding world, because it took not freedom, but the soul, leaving only an empty shell. The thought of such a terrible punishment for the first-year they hated warmed their souls, filling them with perverse pleasure.
At that moment, the ward door quietly creaked open, and Professor Snape entered. His robes slid silently across the floor, creating the impression of a sudden appearance, as if he had materialized from the shadows. His face, as always, was inscrutable, but in the depths of his black eyes, one could discern his usual irritation. He slowly surveyed the ward, lingering on the Slytherins as if assessing the damage, and then his gaze settled on Marcus and Gemma.
"Awake?" Snape's voice was low and even, but full of an authoritative note that instantly silenced everyone. "Can you explain to me what happened last night?"
Gemma immediately straightened up, trying to project the image of a confident prefect, despite her disheveled state. "Professor, allow me!" her voice sounded convinced. "We believe someone used an Unforgivable Curse on Marcus and forced him to do it! The Imperius Curse!"
Snape frowned, his eyebrows drawing together. "Are you sure, Corner?" his question was full of doubt.
Gemma nodded confidently. "Yes, Professor. And I believe it was Viktor Moss."
Snape slowly approached Marcus's bed. His gaze was intense and penetrating. He touched the tip of his wand to Marcus's head, and for a second, absolute silence fell upon the ward. Snape closed his eyes, his face becoming even more focused as he delved into the student's mind, using Legilimency. After waiting for some time, he pulled his wand back, his furrowed brows smoothed, and his face became utterly impassive. He looked at Gemma and the other Slytherins, who were smirking, anticipating triumph.
"Do you find this amusing?" Snape asked, his voice quiet but sounding like a clap of thunder, which instantly wiped the smirks from their faces.
Gemma hesitated, her self-assurance instantly vanishing, replaced by bewilderment. "What do you mean, Professor?" she mumbled barely audibly.
Suddenly, footsteps and a bold, unmelodious singing were heard outside the door. It was clear from everything that whoever was approaching was in a very good mood. The door swung open, and Viktor burst into the ward.
"Rise and shine, Vietnam!" he cheerfully shouted, but upon seeing Snape, he instantly froze. His smile vanished, and his eyes widened. He adopted a respectful, almost military, posture. "H-hello, Professor... Did you also come to check on our poor comrades?" he said, trying to give his voice an innocent, sympathetic tone.
At that moment, Marcus, seizing the opportunity, again pointed at Viktor and desperately shouted: "There, Professor! It's him! He used the Imperius on me!"
Viktor looked at him, at Gemma, at their smiles. And then he couldn't hold back. He threw his head back and burst into unrestrained, genuine laughter. His laughter was so infectious and inappropriate that everyone in the ward exchanged bewildered glances, not understanding what was happening. They expected anything but such unrestrained merriment.
Snape looked sternly at Viktor, his eyes narrowed. "This is no longer amusing, Mr. Moss! And you, stop this farce! No curse was used on Mr. Flint! None at all!"
Gemma, emboldened but with a hint of disbelief in her voice, still tried to object. She chuckled uncertainly. "Professor, are you sure?"
Snape slowly turned his head and looked at her. His black, beady eyes narrowed, a coldness in them that sent shivers down the spine. "Are you questioning my competence, Miss Corner?" his voice was so quiet that it was barely audible, but each word sounded like the crack of a whip.
Gemma instantly paled. She fell silent, her self-assurance immediately evaporating, and she lowered her head, looking at the floor like a scolded kitten.
Viktor finally stopped laughing. He caught his breath, wiped away the tears that had welled up from laughter, and said, addressing everyone in the ward, as if performing on a stage before an appreciative audience: "My God, why joke like that? Now my stomach hurts. You should be performing in a circus, not studying at Hogwarts. Such talent going to waste!"
Snape again surveyed everyone, his patience clearly wearing thin, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Alright, enough of this charade. Gemma, Marcus, when you are discharged, come straight to my office. Without delay." His gaze settled on Viktor. "And you, Mr. Moss," he pronounced, his voice filled with a hidden threat, "come to my office after classes."
Viktor, without flinching, adopted an exaggerated military "attention" stance: he stood ramrod straight, sucked in his stomach, pressed his arms to his sides, and loudly, like a brave soldier, said: "Sir, yes, sir!"
Snape squinted, his gaze piercing Viktor as if trying to decipher his true intentions and understand whether this first-year was mocking him or if he was truly so abnormal and fearless. "Now you should prepare for classes. And don't be late."
Viktor didn't change his stance. "Yes, sir! Get ready for class!" he replied even louder, his voice seeming to ring with amusement.
Snape stared intently at him, his lips pressed into a thin line. Then he sighed heavily, a sigh full of hidden irritation and unspoken powerlessness. He waved his hand, as if swatting away an annoying fly, and, turning, left the ward, his black robes sweeping dramatically behind him.
Viktor looked at the other Slytherins stretched out on their beds. Their faces expressed a mixture of fury, humiliation, and helplessness. Some looked at him with pure hatred, others with chilling terror. He smiled widely and said, his voice full of playful malice that seemed to spread through the ward: "Alright, get well, CLOWNS! We're not saying goodbye. See you around." With these words, he easily turned and, whistling a cheerful tune, left the Hospital Wing, leaving behind a trail of bewilderment, humiliation, and fury.
A heavy, oppressive silence hung in the ward, broken only by the occasional groans of the injured and stifled breathing. The Slytherins, humiliated and broken, lay and stared at the empty doorway. There was no Imperius. This meant that Marcus had done it himself, of his own free will, or, even worse, under some other, incomprehensible and undetectable control. And this damned Moss not only escaped punishment, not only destroyed their meeting, but also managed to mock them.