Night deepened around Hogwarts, and the usually tranquil hospital wing had erupted into absolute chaos.
"Oh, sweet Merlin's beard!"
Madam Pomfrey pressed a trembling hand to her forehead as yet another wave of battered Slytherin students limped through her doors, supporting each other like survivors of some terrible battle. She looked ready to collapse from sheer overwhelm.
Professor Sprout burst through the entrance moments later, her arms laden with medicinal herbs after receiving Dumbledore's urgent summons. Several students trailed behind her, their faces pale with concern.
The sight that greeted them froze the Herbology Professor in her tracks.
Little serpents writhed on every available bed, their agonized moans echoing off the stone walls like a symphony of suffering. The precious dittany tumbled from Sprout's nerveless fingers, scattering across the floor in silvery pools.
"Merlin's sake!" she gasped, her usually gentle voice cracking with horror. "Were you attacked by Death Eaters—"
Dozens of students whose parents served the Dark Lord turned toward her with reflexive terror, their glazed eyes still swimming with primal fear. The words died in Sprout's throat as realization struck.
How foolish of me.
"Then... were you attacked by Severus—" she tried again, but her voice faltered as several children of Order of the Phoenix members shrieked in agony while house-elves applied fresh bandages.
No, that's impossible. Severus would never harm students.
Professor Sprout cursed her own confusion, drawing her wand with white-knuckled fingers. Her normally kind features hardened into something fierce and protective.
"What in blazes happened here?!" she demanded, voice rising to near-shout. "Which bastard dared harm you? Dark wizards? Aurors? Werewolves? Centaurs?!"
Despite her gentle reputation, Sprout's magical prowess was formidable—and her maternal fury even more so.
"Worse than all of them..."
Blaise Zabini huddled behind the door, clutching his throbbing skull with bloodless fingers. His aristocratic features had drained to corpse-pale as he whispered:
"Please, Professor... I need dittany. I can feel my wound reopening..."
"At once!" Sprout scrambled to gather the scattered herbs, her movements sharp with urgency.
"Poor child. Let me see what they've done to you."
When she glimpsed the gaping forehead wound—white bone visible through torn flesh—Sprout's jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. She fumbled for concentrated dittany essence with shaking hands.
"How did this happen, Mr. Zabini? Does it still hurt terribly?"
The moment essence touched exposed tissue, healing mist rose like incense. The ghastly gash sealed itself with visible speed, torn skin knitting together as if time itself reversed.
Perhaps moved by genuine compassion, Sprout's weathered fingers trembled as they hovered near the injury. Her touch carried unfamiliar warmth—something Blaise had never experienced from his own cold, calculating family.
He stared up at her kind eyes, feeling his terror-rigid muscles slowly relax as color crept back into his cheeks.
"Nothing serious, Professor," he managed with bitter irony. "Slytherin organized a... duel. I merely got caught in the crossfire."
Blaise shook his head in dazed disbelief. He couldn't fathom how he'd found courage to draw his wand against that walking catastrophe.
Absolutely mad.
But Draco had been cowering directly behind him, trying to shield the unconscious Crabbe and Goyle. That aristocratic fool had nearly died for his misplaced loyalty.
The memory of that massive scythe whistling toward his skull would haunt Blaise's nightmares forever. His Shield Charm had shattered like spun glass—if Draco hadn't yanked him aside, his brains would be decorating the common room walls.
God's truth, before that alien substance withdrew from his forehead, he'd actually felt his own skull...
"Severus!" Madam Pomfrey's voice cracked like a whip. "I need Skele-Gro—twenty-four bottles! Now!"
Professor Snape departed with thunderous expression, the hospital wing's potion stores nearly depleted.
Fortunately, Venom's crude biomimetic repairs had prevented any truly critical injuries. The serpents looked horrific—blood and torn fabric painting them like war casualties—but appearances deceived.
Most required only Skele-Gro and Dreamless Sleep Draught to survive the night.
Due to bed shortages, students with minor injuries departed after receiving basic treatment...
"Prefect Bursted!"
Atlante Bursted had barely regained consciousness when Madam Pomfrey seized his arm, pressing a heavy wooden crate into his trembling hands.
"Every student will need this tonight," she declared grimly, indicating the Dreamless Sleep Draught within. "Shoulder your responsibility as prefect."
Throughout all of Slytherin House, only Bursted remained physically unharmed.
As the prefect who'd failed to prevent this catastrophe, Pomfrey's disapproval radiated like winter frost. But immediate medical needs took precedence over recriminations.
Bursted clutched the weighty crate, stumbling from the hospital wing with shell-shocked eyes. His thoughts remained trapped at that final moment before unconsciousness claimed him—fragmented memories swirling in chaotic confusion.
In stark contrast, the pure-blood nobility confined to their beds still radiated primal, animalistic terror. Even approaching house-elves triggered hysterical screams and violent thrashing.
Until Professor Snape returned with Draught of Living Death, his expression promising merciful oblivion...
Slytherin Common Room
House-elves had restored the chamber to pristine condition, erasing every trace of the earlier carnage with supernatural efficiency.
Tiger dragged a leather sofa to the room's center and settled into it like a conquering warlord, his smile radiating predatory satisfaction.
The sight of that terrifying figure sent early-returning students scurrying into defensive clusters, none daring to venture within striking distance.
"Slytherin..." Tiger's voice cut through the silence like a blade.
Every serpent flinched involuntarily.
"...will help you achieve great things."
His mocking laughter echoed off ancient stones, each note dripping contempt.
"That's your house motto, isn't it? Or perhaps what certain people love to hear whispered in their ears?"
Tiger shook his head with dark amusement. These pampered children actually believed such transparent manipulation—promises of future glory in exchange for present servitude.
Pathetic.
Head Girl Gemma Farley stood at the crowd's forefront, her eyes maintaining their characteristic frost-pond coldness. Yet beneath that practiced composure, inexplicable panic gnawed at her composure like acid.
"What exactly are you implying, Shelby?"
Her voice carried aristocratic disdain, but Tiger heard the tremor beneath.
"You believe this is finished?"
She'd observed the aftermath carefully—chaos and terror, yes, but zero fatalities. This mongrel wouldn't dare actually kill pure-blood nobility. The Shelby family lacked the political capital to survive such retaliation.
"Finished?"
Tiger's eyes narrowed to predatory slits, most of his savage intensity concealed behind deceptive calm.
"I assumed we were finished."
His smile turned razor-sharp.
"Apparently, you disagree."
He despised diplomatic games, but that didn't mean he misunderstood this foolish girl's calculations.
"Marcus. Adrian. Lucian."
At Tiger's casual summons, Marcus Flint and two other seventh-years emerged from the crowd, positioning themselves behind his chair. Their shadowed eyes held barely-concealed terror despite their apparent compliance.
During the earlier massacre, they'd remained frozen—not from cowardice, but from survival instinct screaming warnings. Any drawn wand might reflexively turn inward, seeking their own throats instead of their intended target...
They were shrewd Slytherins. Family-trained elite. They recognized irresistible force when it stared them in the face.
This was cold, pragmatic clarity.
More importantly, it was survival wisdom.
As scions of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, Marcus understood exactly what Gemma was thinking. His formerly hideous buck teeth—shattered by Tiger's earlier punch—had been magically restored, but his cruel smile remained unchanged.
He doesn't dare? Sweet Merlin, he dares absolutely everything.
You think you understand the situation, but you comprehend nothing.
When did this happen?
Seeing the three figures flanking Tiger like loyal hounds, Gemma's composure cracked slightly. Her mind raced, trying to pinpoint when her carefully-laid plans had begun unraveling.
Then Tiger spoke a single name.
"Bursted."
The crowd erupted into panicked motion, students pressing against walls as if the very air had become poisonous.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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