Saturday arrived without the usual rush of classes, but none of us treated it as a day off.
The morning was spent finishing what little remained of our essays. Quills scratched steadily across parchment in the common room—no complaints, no shortcuts. The events of the past week had taught everyone the same lesson: preparation mattered more than talent alone.
By afternoon, we reported for detention.
It no longer felt like punishment.
With Professor McGonagall, we continued grading essays, dissecting arguments, correcting logic, and learning—almost unintentionally—how a proper academic mind worked. With Professor Snape, we brewed. Methodically. Repetitively. Each potion sharper than the last, each correction precise and unforgiving. By the time detention ended, our heads ached—but our foundations were stronger for it.
The evening before dinner was spent where we now felt most at ease.
The dueling hall.
Spells echoed softly through the expanded chambers, controlled flashes of light reflecting off ancient stone. Upper years were present as well, practicing on their own or offering brief, wordless corrections. There was no rivalry here—only discipline.
When it was time to leave for dinner, most of us gathered our things and headed back toward the castle proper.
Selene and Nyx stayed behind.
"I want to refine my control," Selene said simply, already resetting a practice dummy.
Nyx nodded in agreement, wand still in hand. "Just a little longer."
I didn't argue.
The dueling hall doors closed softly behind us as we left, torchlight fading into the familiar corridors that led toward the Great Hall—another quiet day at Hogwarts ending, and something new steadily taking shape beneath the surface.
We finished dinner in relative calm.
Conversation drifted, plates emptied, and the noise of the Great Hall slowly softened as students began to leave in small groups. By the time we stood to go, Selene and Nyx still hadn't returned.
At first, none of us were worried.
"They probably ordered dinner in the dueling hall," someone said casually.
It made sense. We'd done the same just days ago.
We were just about to head back down to the dungeons when hurried footsteps echoed across the stone floor.
Blake came running toward us.
Her hair was loose, her breathing uneven, eyes wide with something far worse than urgency.
"Al—" she gasped, hands braced on her knees for a split second before forcing herself upright. "Selene and Nyx… they're in the infirmary."
The words hit like a curse.
"What?"
Every first year at the table stood at once. Chairs scraped harshly against the floor.
I was already moving. "What happened?"
As we left the Great Hall at a near jog, Adrian fell into step beside Blake.
"Blake—why are they in the infirmary?" he demanded, voice tight.
She swallowed, forcing herself to keep pace.
"I was going to the dueling hall after dinner," she said quickly. "I thought I'd get some practice in and wait for you all. That's when I saw Selene—on the stairs leading up from the dungeons to the Great Hall."
My chest tightened.
"She was petrified," Blake continued. "Completely frozen. I used Finite."
Adrian swore under his breath.
"She didn't explain," Blake went on, voice shaking now. "She just… ran. Straight back down the stairs."
Nyx.
My pace quickened.
"At the bottom," Blake said, "Nyx had fallen. She was unconscious. Her leg was twisted—wrong—and her arm was broken. Selene took her straight to the infirmary. I came to find you."
No one spoke after that.
Footsteps thundered through the corridors, the sound of eleven-year-olds running without caring who saw or stopped them. The castle felt different now—no longer vast and wondrous, but tight, suffocating, hostile.
By the time the white doors of the infirmary came into view, the easy confidence we'd built over the week was gone.
Replaced by something colder.
Sharper.
And far less forgiving.
The infirmary doors swung open at our approach.
White light washed over us—too bright, too clean, carrying the sharp scent of antiseptic potions that never quite masked blood and fear. Beds lined the walls in orderly rows, curtains drawn around some, others left open.
My eyes went straight to the nearest bed.
Nyx lay there, unconscious.
Her dark hair was spread across the pillow, face pale against the white sheets. One leg was suspended slightly above the mattress, wrapped in shimmering magic as Madam Pomfrey stood beside her, wand moving with brisk, practiced precision. Faint runes flared and vanished along Nyx's leg as bone knit back together under controlled healing spells.
Selene sat beside the bed, hands clenched tightly in her lap.
She looked smaller than she ever had.
When Madam Pomfrey finally lowered her wand, I stepped forward without thinking.
"Madam Pomfrey," I asked, keeping my voice steady through sheer force of will, "will she be alright?"
The matron glanced at me over her spectacles, expression firm but not unkind.
"Yes, child. She'll be perfectly fine by tomorrow morning," she said crisply. "Broken bones are unpleasant, not fatal. Honestly—these clashes between houses happen every year. You'd think they'd learn."
I didn't respond to that.
Instead, my gaze shifted to Selene.
"Madam Pomfrey," I said again, more sharply now, "have you checked Selene as well? She was petrified."
Selene straightened immediately.
"I'm fine," she said quickly, trying to wave it off. "Really, Al—"
"Oh dear, nonsense," Madam Pomfrey cut in, already turning on her heel. "Come here this instant."
Selene hesitated, then stood and moved forward obediently.
Pomfrey raised her wand and began a thorough examination. Soft diagnostic spells rippled over Selene's body—blue, then green, then fading to nothing. Selene winced once as a spell lingered at her shoulder.
"Hm," Pomfrey murmured. She reached for a small vial, uncorked it, and handed it to Selene. "Drink."
Selene did so without complaint.
"There," Pomfrey said, satisfied. "No lasting effects. Minor bruising from the fall, a bit of magical shock from the petrification, but nothing serious. You'll be sore tomorrow. That's all."
Selene let out a breath she'd clearly been holding.
"I told you I was fine," she muttered, though the tension in her shoulders finally eased.
I looked back at Nyx.
She was still unconscious, but her breathing was steady now. Color was slowly returning to her face, and the magic around her leg had faded into nothing more than a faint glow.
I clenched my hands at my sides.
This wasn't a duel.
This wasn't training.
This wasn't rivalry.
This was someone crossing a line—again.
And as I stood there in the infirmary, watching two of mine laid low while the castle shrugged it off as tradition, something settled inside me with cold clarity.
This wasn't over.
Not even close.