That day passed under a strange, uneven sky.
In Potions, Professor Snape awarded us ten points before we had even begun brewing—no explanation, no ceremony, just a curt nod and a flick of his wand as if daring anyone to question it. It was subtle, almost invisible to anyone not watching closely, but to us it was unmistakable.
Support.
Everywhere else, the resistance remained.
Some professors were colder than usual, their praise measured, their points rationed carefully even when our work clearly surpassed expectations. They weren't hostile—not openly—but they were cautious, guarded, as if waiting to see how far this situation would go before choosing a side.
They would come around eventually.
They always did.
By evening, after lectures and detention alike had drained the day of its remaining tension, we returned to the dueling hall. The torches ignited as we entered, their steady glow casting long shadows across the stone floor. Practice circles were already marked, upper years sparring quietly in the mirrored chambers beyond, their movements disciplined and controlled.
I let the group settle before calling out a name.
"Warrington."
He stiffened instantly.
A few heads turned. No one sneered. No one whispered. That, more than anything, showed how far things had already shifted. He stepped forward hesitantly, hands clenched at his sides, eyes darting briefly to the others before settling on me.
"You did very well yesterday," I said evenly.
His eyes widened, just a fraction.
"I'm inclined to accept your apology," I continued, my tone calm but deliberate. "But there's one condition."
He swallowed. "Y-yes?"
"Your family needs to send a sincere apology."
The word sincere hung in the air.
Warrington fidgeted, fingers twisting together. "They… they won't send a formal apology for me," he said quickly, fear creeping into his voice. "My father—he—"
"I'm not asking for a formal apology," I interrupted gently, but firmly. "I'm asking for a sincere one."
He looked up, confused.
"Send the letter home," I said. "Tell them exactly what happened. Tell them why you're apologizing. They'll understand."
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he nodded, slowly, as if bracing himself for something inevitable. "I'll… I'll write tonight."
"Good."
I didn't linger on it. This wasn't a punishment; it was a line being drawn—not between families, but between who he had been raised to be and who he chose to become.
I turned back to the group, voice carrying across the hall.
"Now," I said, "we focus on the duels."
The air sharpened immediately.
"For first years, the representatives will be Nyx Calder, Graham Montague, and Warrington."
A flicker of surprise crossed a few faces—quickly replaced by assessment. Nyx didn't react at all, already composed. Montague straightened, jaw set, clearly pleased. Warrington froze for half a second before realization hit him fully.
"M-me?" he asked, barely above a whisper.
"You," I confirmed. "You'll fight. And you'll win."
I let my gaze sweep the group once more.
"Any objections?"
Silence.
Not reluctant silence.
Not uncertain silence.
Acceptance.
"Good," I said quietly. "Then let's make sure none of you embarrass yourselves on Sunday."
The torches flared a little brighter as we took our places, wands coming up almost in unison.
This time, there were no doubts left to settle.
The week slipped by in a steady rhythm of preparation.
Every scrap of free time not claimed by lectures or detention was spent in the dueling hall—refining footwork, tightening casting sequences, drilling responses until they became instinct. There was no panic in it, no last-minute scrambling. It was methodical, almost clinical, the kind of preparation that came from certainty rather than bravado.
Gradually, the atmosphere in class shifted.
Professors who had been distant only days earlier began to thaw, not out of sympathy, but because results left them little room to argue. Our performance in lectures stayed consistently high, our essays were structured, precise, and—most importantly—thought through. Even points, once begrudgingly given, started to flow again, if slowly.
Reputation, I had learned, was rebuilt the same way it was destroyed: by repetition.
With nothing immediate demanding my full attention, my thoughts drifted further ahead—to Christmas.
As planned, I would be spending the holidays with the Blacks. That much was settled. But that wasn't all. I also needed to check on the Salvius and Peverell properties, review their current state, and assess progress that should have been ongoing in my absence. A family survived on momentum as much as legacy, and names alone only carried weight for so long.
If I became complacent, the so-called pureblood snakes would not hesitate to turn on me.
They always went for weakness.
In hindsight, the Warrington situation had unfolded the way it did because of a perfect storm—shock, awe, and the quiet pressure of Black family support hovering in the background. Strip any one of those away, and the outcome might have been very different.
Ironically, Warrington himself became proof of that.
On Wednesday morning, an owl arrived bearing his family seal. The letter inside was impeccably phrased—polite, restrained, and very careful not to cross certain invisible lines. There was no apology, not in words at least. No admission of fault. Just concern, respect, and acknowledgment of my return to wizarding Britain.
Enclosed with it was a deed.
A shop in Hogsmeade.
Gifted.
Not as recompense.
Not as contrition.
But as a gesture—one that preserved appearances while conceding ground.
I folded the letter neatly and set it aside, fingers resting briefly on the parchment.
They hadn't apologized.
But they had understood.
And in our world, that mattered far more.
And just like that, the week slipped away.
Between the steady grind of lectures, the quiet intensity of detention, and the relentless preparations in the dueling hall, time lost its edges. Every day blurred into the next, marked only by small refinements—faster reactions, cleaner spell transitions, fewer wasted movements. No one spoke about fear or doubt. Not once. If it existed, it stayed buried beneath discipline and purpose.
Plans extended beyond the immediate as well. Christmas loomed in the distance, along with obligations that reached far beyond Hogwarts, but for now everything narrowed toward a single point. The castle itself seemed to sense it—the tension in the corridors, the way conversations hushed when Slytherins passed, the watchful eyes that followed us from every house.
There were no more provocations.No more rumors.No more half-measures.
By unspoken agreement, both sides were waiting.
Tomorrow would not be about words, accusations, or politics.
Tomorrow would be decided by skill, control, and resolve.
Tomorrow would be the duels.