Veronica's magic ran sharper, more cutting, but clean. No issues there either.
Regulus could confirm it. The new segment these two Prefects had designed wasn't aimed at him.
Which left one possibility. Someone had learned about the addition beforehand.
Then found Geoffrey outside school. Talked him into it. Gave him something. Set him up to shine tonight, win a few rounds, and challenge Regulus at the end.
Geoffrey had bought in. Obviously.
A family like the Sayres, barely clinging to the fringe of Pure-blood society, had two paths: keep their heads down or claw their way up.
Whether this was the family's idea or Geoffrey's own didn't matter anymore.
The magic inside him was on the verge of collapse.
If Regulus hadn't noticed, he would have accepted the challenge.
Of course he would. A new first-year Chief challenging the incumbent? It was tradition, mentorship, face. All the right boxes ticked.
And given what Regulus had shown, even limited to the level he displayed at school, Geoffrey would need everything he had to put up a fight.
Whether the boy genuinely wanted guidance, wanted to make an impression, or wanted to beat Regulus outright and make a name for himself, he'd go all out.
Then Geoffrey would collapse in front of everyone.
Maybe he'd faint on the spot. Maybe he'd be seriously injured. Maybe his magic would never obey him properly again.
Or worse. Permanently stunted, locked at a first-year's ceiling forever, barely better than a Squib.
Or worse still.
Whoever designed this had good timing and a good eye for targets.
A nobody from a minor family. Easy to manipulate. Easy to discard. No one would step forward on his behalf if things went wrong.
The number of people who could've known about the Prefects' new addition was small. The Prefects themselves. Those involved in planning. Those who made it their business to find things out early.
But Regulus didn't need to guess and didn't need proof. The malice was right here in the common room.
The same thing he'd felt when Arnold Belmont had stepped forward.
Thorfinn Rowle. Seventh-year. Eldest son of the Rowle family.
Kept a low profile as a rule. Rarely spoke publicly. Drifted to corners at gatherings, sat at the edges during meals. So forgettable that people sometimes forgot he existed at all.
But everyone knew what Thorfinn was. And everyone knew what the Rowles were.
He stood in the shadows now, hands buried in his robe pockets, posture lazy, the ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
His gaze rested on Regulus. Not once had his eyes strayed toward Geoffrey.
He caught Regulus looking and raised his goblet in a casual salute. Easy and natural.
But the malice came through whole and undiluted.
Regulus received every drop of it.
Him again. This was the second time Rowle had moved against him.
The first was the Belmont incident.
The second was now.
But both times, the only thing connecting Rowle to any of it was malice that Regulus could sense. The man never showed his face, never acted directly, never left evidence.
Credit where it was due: compared to Belmont's approach last time, this was far more sophisticated.
Belmont had acted in person. Stepped out and forced Regulus's hand.
The result? Public humiliation. Forced to his knees. His family stripped of holdings, driven from England.
That had carried risk. The Belmonts weren't some pushover family with no room to push back. They could have named whoever was pulling their strings.
Not to earn forgiveness, but to stop the bleeding. Pay a price. Stay in the country.
For whatever reason, they'd chosen to take the fall alone. But the risk had been real.
This time was different.
Geoffrey Sayre. A clueless kid from a nothing family.
A few whispered words from the right person, a little something slipped to him, a script of what to do and what he'd gain. And the boy believed it.
Regulus was certain: if anyone tried to trace this back, the trail would die with Geoffrey. His memories were probably already hollow, either wiped clean or stuffed with false ones. The person behind it all would be untouchable.
Once Regulus accepted the challenge, Geoffrey would inevitably break.
But what did that have to do with Rowle?
He hadn't done anything. He'd only watched a welcome gathering.
If Regulus's magical perception weren't sharp enough to catch malice directly, he wouldn't even have Rowle's shadow to chase.
But Rowle didn't know Regulus could sense it. That was his blind spot.
Everyone else in the room was still looking at Regulus. No one understood why he'd stopped the final match.
But no one spoke.
If anyone else had pulled this, there'd be heckling by now. Snide remarks. Demands for an explanation.
But when Regulus did it, the room went quiet and waited.
Veronica Yaxley stepped out from behind Polius.
A trace of concern crossed her features. She walked to Regulus and leaned down slightly. "Regulus, what's wrong?"
The Yaxley family and the Blacks went back years.
Walburga and Lady Yaxley were regulars at each other's tea parties, trading invitations several times a year. Veronica had heard Regulus's name at home almost as often as she heard it in Slytherin.
With that kind of connection, using his first name came naturally.
Regulus gave her a small nod. "Something's off. Needs checking."
His gaze swept the crowd and found its target in the third-year section, off to the side, away from the core group.
Snape.
He sat in the corner, leaning against the back of a sofa, expression dark.
A few students were scattered around him, mostly the same kind. Half-bloods. Fringe Pure-bloods. They occupied a small patch of territory, the atmosphere heavy and subdued.
Regulus addressed him directly. "Snape."
Not loud. But loud enough for the entire room to hear. Every pair of eyes followed his line of sight and landed on Snape.
Snape froze. He lifted his head and met Regulus's gaze.
A flash of surprise in those black eyes. Then wariness. Then something harder to name.
Regulus kept his voice even, casual, as though it had only just occurred to him. "Go check whether Sayre's taken some kind of potion."
The common room dropped into silence.
Conversations. Whispered debates. The clink of goblets. All of it, gone.
A potion?
What?
In the upper-year section, several people who'd been lounging sat up straight.
Frowns appeared. Glances were exchanged. Someone's mouth opened, thought better of it, closed again.
In Slytherin, the first-year Chief title was earned through combat. No one could say how many years the tradition had endured, but everyone acknowledged what it meant.
At other times, you could leverage your family name. Pull strings. Grease the right paths. But inside that circle, you stood on your own.
Using a potion was cheating. The lowest kind. Anyone caught doing it would never hold their head up in Slytherin again.
Every eye in the room shifted from Snape to Geoffrey.
Geoffrey stood in the center of the circle, shaking uncontrollably. His face had gone a terrifying white. Even the hand gripping his wand trembled, the tip wobbling, ready to slip from his fingers at any moment.
He couldn't speak. A single thought looped through his mind.
It's over. It's over. It's over.
The murmuring started among the upper years.
"A potion? Has he lost his mind?"
"Get caught doing that and you're finished. Does he want a future?"
"Who gave him the nerve?"
"More to the point, how did Black spot it? How did he know?"
Snape stood. Under every gaze in the room, he threaded through the crowd toward the center.
Regulus had called on him. In front of everyone.
Snape understood exactly what this was. An opportunity.
He wasn't stupid. If Black could see something was wrong with Geoffrey at a glance, then Black was more than capable of checking for himself.
Walking over, taking one look, saying one sentence. That was all it would take.
Black was giving him the chance instead.
Snape needed this. Desperately.
But alongside the need, something strange stirred in him.
Gratitude?
Yes.
And alongside the gratitude, discomfort. He didn't want to owe anyone. Least of all Black.
But he already did. Last time, Regulus had accepted his thanks, and Snape had walked away knowing the debt was real.
Now, again.
His grip tightened on his wand. He reached Geoffrey and stopped.
Geoffrey looked up at him, eyes swimming with terror and a silent plea.
Snape didn't spare him a second glance. He held out his hand. "Wand."