The trap was simple. The timing was precise.
Selene and Nyx stepped forward together.
They didn't rush. They didn't raise their voices.
They simply stood where the corridor light fell cleanly across their faces and looked at the four Gryffindors who had only moments ago believed themselves hunters.
Nyx spoke first, her tone calm, almost curious.
"How does it feel," she asked, "being surrounded?"
One of the Gryffindors barked out a laugh—forced, brittle. "What, this?" he scoffed. "You think this scares us? What are you planning—want us to apologise?"
Another snorted. "Like that would ever happen. We won't apologise to Death Eater bit—"
He never finished the sentence.
A stinging jinx struck him square in the chest.
Then another.
And another.
Green sparks filled the corridor as a dozen spells hit in rapid succession—precise, controlled, relentless. The Gryffindors cried out, collapsing to their knees, hands clawing at the air as the pain stacked faster than they could react.
No one shouted. No one laughed.
The Slytherins moved like they'd rehearsed it.
When the Gryffindors were barely conscious—breathing, but broken and helpless—Alastair raised a hand.
The spells stopped instantly.
He looked at Selene and Nyx.
"Let's finish this."
They nodded.
"Gladly," Nyx said.
Two clean Stupefy spells rang out.
Four bodies hit the stone floor, unconscious.
Adrian and Terrence stepped forward immediately, uncorking Wiggenweld vials. They tilted the Gryffindors' heads carefully, pouring just enough potion to erase the evidence of the stinging jinxes—no lingering marks, no magical residue that could be traced easily.
Celia glanced around, swallowing.
"Are we done?" she asked.
Alastair shook his head once.
"Not yet," he said softly. "Chromis."
The snake bracelet around his arm shifted.
Uncoiling.
Growing.
Gasps rippled through the corridor as Chromis expanded smoothly, silver-blue scales catching the torchlight. Her form lengthened, elegant and powerful, her presence pressing against the air itself.
An Occamy.
For a heartbeat, even the Slytherins forgot where they were.
"She's… beautiful," one of the girls whispered without thinking.
Chromis ignored them.
She glided forward, silent as thought, and wrapped herself around the nearest Gryffindor. There was no frenzy—no rage. Just pressure.
A sharp, sickening crack echoed through the corridor.
Then another.
Chromis released him and moved on, repeating the process with cold efficiency. Not lethal. Never lethal. But unmistakable. Arms. Legs. Ribs—damaged enough to be unforgettable.
By the time she finished, the corridor was utterly silent.
Those who had been admiring her moments ago now looked at her with a different understanding.
This was not a pet.
This was a warning.
Chromis returned to Alastair just as calmly, shrinking and coiling around his arm once more, scales warm against his skin.
"Now," Alastair said evenly, "we're done."
They worked quickly after that.
Using a hidden passage, they dragged the unconscious Gryffindors to the corridor outside the infirmary, arranging them just close enough to be found immediately—but not so close as to raise questions about how they'd arrived.
No signatures. No witnesses. No obvious trail.
As they stepped back into the passage, the castle bells chimed faintly in the distance.
Dinner time.
Alastair glanced once more toward the infirmary doors, then turned away.
"Let's go," he said. "We don't want to be late."
We all returned to the common room together. Dinner had already been laid out on the long dining table, steam rising from covered dishes, the room buzzing with low voices and tightly contained energy.
"Is it done?" Fawley asked quietly.
"Yes," I replied just as calmly. "No worries."
He nodded once, satisfied. "Good. They should be found soon. I suggest everyone stays in the common room tonight—less suspicion that way."
"That's sensible," I said, then paused. "But I have to step out. I'm meeting Blake. Can't avoid it today."
Fawley studied my face for a moment, then inclined his head. "Alright. Just be vigilant."
"I always am."
I left before anyone could say more.
I found Blake near the Great Hall entrance, just as planned. The noise from inside was already rising—voices overlapping, tension bleeding into the air—but she didn't ask about it. And I didn't offer any explanations.
Some things were better left unspoken.
We walked out of the castle together, our footsteps crunching softly against gravel as the night swallowed us. The air was crisp, tinged with the scent of damp grass and the faint mineral tang of the Black Lake ahead. Above us, the sky stretched wide and clear, stars scattered freely—unconcerned with houses, points, or grudges.
We followed the familiar path toward the lake's edge, the one that curved gently past old trees whose roots broke the surface like ancient scars. Moonlight spilled across the grounds, washing Hogwarts in silver and shadow, transforming it from fortress to memory.
For a while, we didn't speak.
Then Blake broke the silence with a quiet laugh.
"Do you remember," she said, "the time you convinced the kitchen staff to give us extra bread by pretending we were starving?"
I snorted softly. "Pretending? We were starving. Or at least it felt that way."
"You told them we hadn't eaten in three days," she said, shaking her head. "We'd had dinner that same evening."
"They didn't need to know that," I replied, a faint smile tugging at my lips. "Besides, you were the one who cried on command."
She rolled her eyes. "You pushed me into it."
We laughed quietly, the sound carrying over the still water.
The orphanage rose easily in our minds—peeling walls, narrow beds, the constant smell of boiled vegetables that never quite went away. Nights where the wind whistled through cracked windows, mornings that began too early and ended too late.
"You used to hide books under your mattress," Blake said, glancing at me. "Even when the matron told us lights out meant lights out."
"They were the only escape," I replied. "And you used to warn me when she was coming."
"Only because you shared the stories afterward," she said. "You always did that—hoarded knowledge, but never kept it to yourself."
I looked at her then, really looked. Moonlight traced the familiar lines of her face, softer now, older—but still unmistakably Blake.
"You were always the brave one," I said quietly.
She scoffed. "Hardly."
"You were," I insisted. "Remember when you took the blame for breaking the window? You didn't even do it."
"You would've gotten punished worse," she replied simply. "And you had exams coming up."
I let out a slow breath. That was Blake. Always choosing the quieter sacrifice.
Laughter came easily out there, under the open sky.
We reached the tree by the lake—the one with the crooked trunk and low-hanging branches that brushed the water's surface. We'd sat here before, years ago, sneaking out past curfew at the orphanage whenever the city felt too loud, too cramped.
We sat down side by side, backs against the cool bark. The Black Lake stretched out before us, dark and endless, reflecting the moon like a held breath. Somewhere in the distance, something splashed softly—probably a giant squid stirring in its sleep.
"Do you ever think about how strange this is?" Blake asked after a while. "Us. Here."
"All the time," I admitted. "Back then, Magic was just… a word. A dream we weren't sure was real."
"And now," she said softly, "it's our battlefield."
I didn't argue.
She said, "Do you remember the day the letters came?"
I smiled, a little wistful. "You read yours three times before believing it."
"And you read mine twice," she said. "To make sure you weren't imagining it."
I nudged her shoulder lightly. "You looked terrified."
"I was," she admitted. "Not of magic. Of leaving."
That earned her a sideways look from me. "You never said that."
"Didn't need to," she replied. "You knew."
Silence settled again, comfortable this time.
We talked about small things then—the matron's habit of counting steps, the way winter mornings smelled like metal and frost, the one time we nearly got caught sneaking out and had to hide behind rubbish bins for an hour, laughing silently until our sides hurt.
For a few precious moments, Hogwarts disappeared.
There were no houses.
No headmasters.
No plans layered upon plans.
Just two kids who had grown up too fast, sitting beneath a tree, remembering when survival was simpler—even if it was harder.
Blake turned toward me suddenly.
"Al," she said.
I hummed in response.
She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to my cheek—gentle, familiar, grounding.
"Happy birthday," she said quietly.