Professor Flitwick didn't waste time playing detective to find out who had knocked Flint into a coma. The situation was spiraling out of control faster than a bludger with a broken guidance charm.
"Sonorus!"
Flitwick placed the tip of his wand against his throat. When he spoke, his voice didn't just carry; it roared with the force of a hurricane. "I SAID, ENOUGH!"
The sound wave was so potent it actually rattled the massive crystal chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling of the Great Hall, sending a shower of dust down onto the combatants. The vibrating roar acted like a bucket of ice water. The young wizards froze, their wands half-raised, their faces flushed with the heat of the fight.
However, stopping was one thing; retreating was another. The Quidditch players from both houses were locked in a stalemate of pure, unadulterated loathing. No one wanted to be the first to lower their guard and look weak in front of their rivals.
Flitwick didn't wait for their permission. With a series of fluid, whip-like motions, he cast several "Expelliarmus" spells in such rapid succession that they sounded like a single, elongated crack of thunder. Red light flashed repeatedly, and a dozen wands—belonging to the most aggressive agitators on both sides—were ripped from their owners' hands, flying through the air to land in a neat, clattering pile at the Professor's feet.
Only then did the last of the fighting truly subside.
Flitwick turned his head slightly, looking back at Allen while the disarmed students stood in stunned silence. "You see, Allen? This is why I call it the most useful spell in a wizard's arsenal. Simple, effective, and it settles a mess without turning the hallway into a morgue."
Allen gave a sharp, respectful nod. He didn't need to be told twice about the power of the Disarming Charm. In another timeline, he knew a certain Boy-Who-Lived would eventually use this exact spell to deflect a Killing Curse and end a war. It was the ultimate "civilized" spell—it provided total control, removed the threat, and didn't leave you with a legal nightmare at the Ministry of Magic. It was the perfect tool for a wizard who wanted to win without losing his soul.
Seeing that Allen had grasped the deeper strategic value of the spell, Flitwick turned his attention back to the battlefield. The diminutive professor's aura was no longer gentle; he looked every bit the former dueling champion.
"Josie, run to the hospital wing. Fetch Madam Pomfrey immediately," Flitwick commanded. He waved his wand over Bradley, the Ravenclaw Chaser, whispering the counter-charm to the Full Body-Bind. As Bradley's limbs loosened, the Professor looked over at the unconscious Marcus Flint, whose face was now a horrifying landscape of pulsating red boils thanks to Penelope's handiwork. "Tell her we have several students who require... cosmetic and concussive restoration."
"I would very much like to know," a voice hissed from the shadows of the staircase, "exactly what prompted this display of primitive animalism."
It was Snape. He emerged from the darkness like a predatory bird, his black robes billowing behind him. Beside him, Professor McGonagall marched with a stiff, rhythmic click of her heels, her lips pressed into a line so thin it was almost invisible.
The silence that followed was heavy. The same students who had been screaming profanities and throwing hexes just moments ago were now staring intently at their shoes.
"Who was involved?" McGonagall's voice was like a whip. "Step forward. Now."
Slowly, the Quidditch teams from both houses shuffled into the center of the hall. The Slytherins looked defiant but wary; the Ravenclaws looked grim.
"Is that all?" Flitwick added, his eyes scanning the crowd. "Don't make us resort to Prior Incantato. If we find out your wand has been busy tonight and you're standing in the back hiding, the punishment will double."
At that, several more students—including Edward and a handful of bruised first-years—limped forward. Allen watched them for a moment, then, with a calm shrug, he stepped out from behind Flitwick to join the line of 'criminals.'
Flitwick looked momentarily astonished. He knew Allen hadn't been part of the initial brawl, but he also knew why the boy was doing it. Allen understood the social currency of Hogwarts. If he stayed out of it while his entire house and team took the fall, he'd be an outsider. By standing with them, he was cementing his place as a leader who shared their burdens. Plus, Allen didn't fear detention—to him, a few hours of scrubbing cauldrons or filing papers was just extra time to think.
Roger Davies, whose face was swollen like a pair of overbaked buns, gave Allen a lopsided, painful grin and a light nudge with his elbow. It was a silent 'thank you' for the solidarity.
"So," Snape said, his voice dropping to a silky, dangerous register. "Instead of resting for the trials ahead, you decided to congregate in the hall for... a group... massacre?"
"Professor, it was the Ravenclaws," Draco Malfoy drawled, stepping forward with an air of unearned confidence. He knew Snape favored him, and he knew his father's influence at the Ministry made him nearly untouchable. "They attacked us without provocation."
"Is that so?" Snape turned his dark eyes toward the Ravenclaw side.
Penelope Clearwater stood tall, her eyes flashing. "That's a lie and you know it, Malfoy. We were returning from a legitimate practice. The Slytherins were waiting for us. They insulted our heritage, mocked our team, and then Marcus Flint had the audacity to call Roger a 'dirty half-blood'."
The word hung in the air like a foul odor. Even McGonagall flinched slightly at the slur.
Penelope didn't stop there. She laid out the entire sequence: how Warrington had spotted their new Nimbus 2001s and reported back to Flint, and how the Slytherins, feeling threatened by Ravenclaw's sudden upgrade in hardware, had come to the hall specifically to provoke a fight.
"They couldn't handle the fact that we have better brooms, so they resorted to the only thing they know—thuggery," Penelope concluded, her voice ringing through the hall.
McGonagall looked at the wounded on both sides. The Slytherins had definitely taken the worse of it—Flint was still out cold and looking like a mutant tomato—but the Ravenclaws had clearly been the ones to fire the first offensive hexes in the hallway.
"I have heard enough," McGonagall declared. "The provocation was beneath contempt, but the response was unacceptable. Group brawling in the Entrance Hall is a stain on the reputation of this school. Two hundred points will be taken from both Slytherin and Ravenclaw."
A collective gasp went up. Two hundred points! It was a catastrophic blow to the House Cup standings.
"And," McGonagall continued, "every student standing in this line will receive a week of detention. Percy Weasley!"
The Gryffindor Prefect stepped forward, looking like he'd just won the lottery. He pulled out a fresh parchment and a quill, his hand practically shaking with excitement as he began recording names.
"Write them all down, Percy," McGonagall said. "Every single one."
Percy didn't hide his glee. With Ravenclaw and Slytherin both docked two hundred points, Gryffindor—who had been trailing in a distant third place—was suddenly back in the running for the House Cup. It was a miracle gift for the lions.
The Ravenclaw students hung their heads. Last year, they had tasted the glory of the House Cup, and they had been so sure of a repeat performance. Now, that dream felt like it was slipping through their fingers.
The Slytherins weren't happy either. Seeing the smug look on Percy's face, they realized their attempt to bully Ravenclaw had only served to hand an advantage to their most hated rivals.