A/N: Apologies for the author note at the start of the chapter, but I ask the readers who are enjoying this story to support me on P@treon. If I don't have sufficient members supporting the story, it becomes difficult to continue it consistently. While I'll probably keep writing out of my love for the series, I still hope to gain enough support to dedicate more time to it.
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Moonlight reflected off the calm surface of the Black Lake, silver ripples stretching lazily beneath the night sky. The water was still tonight—unnaturally so—as if even the lake itself had chosen silence.
Blake and I sat beneath the old tree at the shoreline, its thick roots half-buried in earth, half-reaching toward the water. The grass was cool beneath us, damp with evening dew, and the air carried the faint scent of moss and lakewater.
We talked.
About everything.
And nothing at all.
About how strange Hogwarts felt at night—too large, too quiet. About Badeea's habit of muttering spell theory under her breath. About Tulip getting lost twice on the same staircase. About how the stars here looked sharper than the ones above the orphanage, as if magic had scrubbed the sky clean.
I didn't mention it was my birthday.
I never did.
Birthdays had stopped meaning celebration long ago. For me, the date carried a different weight—one I had learned to shoulder quietly. It marked not just my birth, but the day my mother and my family died. A line etched into memory, impossible to forget.
Since my eighth birthday, Blake and I had spent that day the same way every year.
Not with cake.
Not with songs.
We wandered.
Sometimes through narrow city streets, pretending we were explorers mapping unknown lands. Sometimes through abandoned parks at dusk, sitting on broken swings and talking about futures we didn't quite believe in yet. Other times, we hid away in the far corner of the orphanage, sharing stolen books and whispered stories, making the day smaller—manageable.
Tonight felt the same.
Quiet.
Shared.
Enough.
We sat there for a long while without speaking, listening to the water lap gently against the shore.
Then—
Footsteps.
Fast. Uneven. Approaching at a run.
I straightened instinctively, hand moving slightly as if to reach for my wand. Blake noticed too, her posture shifting from relaxed to alert in a heartbeat.
"Al—"
Before she could finish, a familiar voice broke through the quiet.
"Alastair—!"
Adrian burst into view from between the trees, breathing hard, robes slightly askew.
"Adrian," I said calmly. "You look like you've been chased."
"Feels like it," he replied, hands braced on his knees as he caught his breath. "Finally found you. Professor Snape has called all prefects and year representatives to his office."
That wiped the calm away completely.
I stood at once.
"Alright," I said evenly. "I'll head there now."
Blake rose beside me without a word, already understanding. The three of us started back toward the castle, the soft glow of moonlight giving way to torchlight as stone walls loomed closer.
We reached the entrance, and I slowed.
Blake stopped with me.
Neither of us spoke about what had happened that day.
Neither asked questions.
"I'll see you later," she said quietly.
I nodded. "Don't wait up."
Then she turned and disappeared up the stairs toward Ravenclaw Tower, leaving me standing there with a feeling I couldn't quite name.
I exhaled once, steadying myself, and turned back toward the dungeons.
Adrian fell into step beside me.
"So," I asked as we walked, voice low, "how bad is it?"
"All accounted for," he replied without hesitation. "Those four were sent to St. Mungo's."
I nodded. "Good."
"And the letter?" I asked next.
"To Miss Skeeter?" Adrian said. "Already delivered."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. "Efficient."
We reached Snape's office moments later.
Adrian stopped outside the door, straightening his robes.
"I'll wait here," he said.
I nodded once and stepped inside.
The atmosphere changed immediately.
The room was crowded.
Prefects.
Year representatives.
Upper years from every corner of Slytherin.
Professor Snape stood near his desk, expression unreadable as ever. Professor McGonagall was there too, posture rigid, lips pressed thin. And seated behind the desk—hands folded, eyes sharp behind half-moon spectacles—
Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.
Every conversation died the moment I entered.
All eyes turned to me.
And just like that, the calm of the lake was gone—replaced by something far heavier.
___________________________________
Great Hall — Earlier That Evening
The Great Hall was filling slowly, the way it always did on weekends—students drifting in from the grounds, staircases, and common rooms in loose clusters, voices overlapping in half-formed conversations.
Something was wrong.
The Slytherin table was completely empty.
No green and silver.
No prefects.
No first years.
No upper years lingering or posturing.
Just bare benches and untouched plates.
At the Gryffindor table, the situation wasn't much better.
Out of nearly a hundred and twenty students, barely thirty were present—and most of those were first years. The absence was glaring to anyone who bothered to count.
Fred and George Weasley sat near the middle, laughing loudly with Lee Jordan, reenacting some exaggerated story with wild hand gestures. They were oblivious to the tension coiling through the Hall, oblivious to the sharp looks cast their way by older Gryffindors who were present—faces tight, jaws clenched, eyes flicking again and again toward the entrance.
At the staff table, nearly all the professors had already taken their seats.
Professor McGonagall stood beside the Headmaster, her posture rigid, hands clasped tightly in front of her as she spoke in a low, urgent tone.
"Albus," she said, eyes darting briefly toward the empty Slytherin table, "the Slytherin students do not appear to have abandoned their challenge. Reports are still coming in—portraits splashed with ink, particularly along corridors frequented by Gryffindors."
Dumbledore listened calmly, fingers steepled, expression unreadable behind his half-moon glasses.
"I have received your report, Minerva," he replied evenly. "But we cannot give in to the childish provocations of students. Responding to such challenges would only validate them."
McGonagall's lips pressed into a thin line.
Before she could respond, the doors of the Great Hall burst open.
A Hufflepuff student—fourth year by the look of him—ran inside, breathing hard, eyes wide with panic. He scanned the Hall frantically before spotting a lone Gryffindor prefect seated near the end of the red-and-gold table.
He rushed over, leaned down, and whispered urgently.
Whatever he said drained the color from her face.
She didn't waste a second.
The prefect spun on her heel and hurried toward the staff table, her pace bordering on a run.
"Professor McGonagall," she said, voice trembling but loud enough to carry, "four fourth-year Gryffindors have been attacked. They were found in the infirmary wing—unconscious. Madam Pomfrey says almost all their bones were broken."
The Great Hall fell into stunned silence.
McGonagall's composure shattered instantly.
Her eyes flashed with fury as she turned toward Dumbledore. "Albus, this has gone too far. This is no longer mischief. Slytherin must be stopped—now."
A cold voice cut in before Dumbledore could answer.
"And how exactly do you know that, Minerva?"
Severus Snape had risen from his seat.
His expression was carved from stone, dark eyes sharp as knives.
"I will not accept unproven accusations against my house," he continued calmly.
McGonagall rounded on him. "Rumors?" she snapped. "Four of my students are lying broken in the infirmary, Severus. And you call that rumor?"
Snape did not raise his voice.
"Do you have proof," he asked quietly, "that Slytherin is responsible?"
The question landed heavily.
McGonagall faltered—just for a heartbeat.
Before she could respond, the Gryffindor prefect spoke again, her voice shaking now.
"Professor—there's more. Several Gryffindor students haven't been seen since breakfast. At first we thought they were just exploring or avoiding the Hall, but now—now we think they may have been attacked as well."
Murmurs erupted across the Hall.
Chairs scraped back.
Students leaned forward.
Fear replaced irritation.
McGonagall turned back to Dumbledore, urgency cutting through her anger.
"Albus," she said tightly, "we need to search the castle. Immediately."
For the first time that evening, Dumbledore's calm expression shifted—just slightly.
"We will have to deploy staff immediately," Dumbledore said at last, his tone measured but no longer indulgent. "With so many portraits indisposed, our usual means of observation are… unreliable."
He had barely finished speaking when the Great Hall doors flew open again.
Argus Filch came scuttling inside at a half-run, lantern swinging wildly in one hand, his thin frame vibrating with barely contained agitation.
"Professors!" he wheezed, voice shrill. "The portraits—the ink's gone! Vaporized, just like that! And they're in a right state, they are—ranting and screaming, saying students are dropping all over the corridors!"
That did it.
Dumbledore straightened fully, the genial air around him snapping into something sharper, more commanding.
"Prefects," he said, voice carrying effortlessly through the Hall, "all prefects present—from Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff—assist the staff immediately. Begin a systematic search of the castle. Check corridors, stairwells, unused classrooms, and passageways. Professors, fan out and support them."
Chairs scraped back in unison.
McGonagall was already moving, issuing clipped instructions to Gryffindor prefects. Flitwick slid off his stack of books and hurried toward the Ravenclaw table, while Professor Sprout ushered Hufflepuffs into orderly lines with calm but unmistakable urgency.
Within moments, the Great Hall emptied into controlled chaos.
Only the staff table remained partially occupied.
Time stretched.
Minutes passed with reports coming in—first scattered, then steady. Students were being found in small groups, some slumped against walls, others collapsed on stair landings or in alcoves. All were unconscious. None were missing.
Finally, Dumbledore received the last report.
"All students have been accounted for," a breathless prefect confirmed. "No fatalities. No critical injuries."
Pomfrey's assessment followed soon after.
"Every one of them has the same injuries," she had said sharply. "A broken arm and a broken leg—non-lethal fractures, clean breaks. They'll be fully mended by tomorrow morning."
Uniform injuries.
Identical severity.
Controlled force.
The four fourth-year Gryffindors found earlier had already been transferred to St. Mungo's out of an abundance of caution, but even there the healers had confirmed the same prognosis.
Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly.
This was no riot.
This was not chaos.
This was orchestration.
He opened his eyes and turned to Snape.
"Severus," he said quietly, "I will be speaking with the Slytherin representatives. They will explain their actions."
Snape's jaw tightened.
"I voice my disagreement," he said flatly. "You are presuming guilt before inquiry."
Dumbledore met his gaze steadily. "I am presuming responsibility," he replied. "There is a difference."
For a long moment, neither man spoke.
Then Snape inclined his head—barely.
"I will gather them," he said. "But do not mistake compliance for consent."
Dumbledore nodded once.
The lines had been drawn.
And somewhere deep within the castle, the consequences were already set in motion.