Madam Pomfrey didn't give us much of a choice.
"Out. All of you," she said briskly, already pulling a curtain partway around Nyx's bed. "She needs rest, not an audience. You can check on her in the morning."
There was no arguing with that tone.
Selene gave Nyx one last look before standing. I nodded to Madam Pomfrey in thanks, then turned and led the others out of the infirmary.
The corridor beyond felt colder than before.
Our footsteps echoed softly as we walked, no one speaking at first. The earlier rush—the panic, the anger—had settled into something heavier now. Something sharper.
It was Selene who finally broke the silence.
Her voice was quiet, controlled, but there was a tremor underneath it.
"We left the dueling hall to join you all at the Great Hall," she began. "Everything was fine at first."
She slowed slightly, fingers curling into her sleeves.
"On the stairs from the dungeons… two Gryffindors stopped us. Fourth years, I think."
Adrian's jaw tightened.
"They started berating our families," Selene continued. "Saying Slytherins like us should be in Azkaban. That we were no better than Death Eaters. That destroying school property proved it."
Nyx wasn't there to contradict her.
No exaggeration.
No embellishment.
"They drew their wands," Selene said. "We were about to draw ours—"
Her hand went unconsciously to the middle of her back.
"And then I was hit with Petrificus Totalus from behind."
A sharp breath went through the group.
"Nyx was hit with Stupefy almost at the same time," Selene finished. "She fell down the stairs. I couldn't move. I couldn't even shout."
Her voice wavered for just a second before she steadied it again.
"When Blake found me and broke the spell, Nyx was already unconscious."
Silence followed.
Not shock.
Not disbelief.
Understanding.
I nodded once, slow and deliberate.
"That's enough," I said quietly.
We reached the corridor junction that led back toward the Slytherin common room.
I didn't turn that way.
Instead, I changed direction.
Toward the dueling hall.
The others followed without question.
When we arrived, the hall was quieter than earlier in the evening—torchlight steady, dueling circles empty or occupied only by a few upper years finishing their practice. Conversation died the moment they saw our expressions.
I scanned the room.
"Fawley," I said.
The Head Boy looked up at once, reading the situation instantly. He crossed the hall toward us.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Nyx is in the infirmary," I replied evenly. "Attacked from behind. Selene petrified."
His face hardened.
"I need you to gather all Slytherin year representatives," I continued. "Now."
Fawley didn't hesitate.
"I'll have them here in ten minutes," he said, already turning away.
As he moved, the atmosphere in the hall shifted.
Whispers spread.
Upper years straightened.
Wands were subtly re-pocketed—not in threat, but in readiness.
I looked at Selene, then at the others.
"This isn't about retaliation," I said calmly. "Not tonight."
That earned me a few surprised looks.
"This is about making something clear," I continued. "No more stairway attacks. No more spells from behind. No more pretending this is 'just rivalry.'"
My gaze hardened.
"If they want conflict, then do it where everyone can see it."
The torches flickered softly, as if the hall itself were listening.
"And if the school refuses to protect us," I added, voice low, controlled, "then we make sure the truth can't be buried."
I looked around the circle of year representatives, meeting each pair of eyes in turn. There was anger there—yes—but also restraint. Control. Exactly what I needed.
"I'm going to issue a formal challenge to Gryffindor," I said calmly. "All of Gryffindor."
That drew their full attention.
"Each year will prepare three duelists," I continued. "Clean duels. Witnessed. No ambushes, no staircases, no spells from behind."
A pause.
"If the challenge is refused," I added evenly, "then be ready. Because if they choose cowardice, we'll show the entire school what Slytherin cunning actually looks like."
No cheers.
No protests.
Only nods.
I took out a parchment, my quill moving quickly and decisively. The words came easily—formal, precise, impossible to twist without obvious bad faith. When I finished, I tapped the parchment with my wand. Copies peeled away from the original, stacking neatly in my hand.
"Take these," I said, distributing them. "Post them in the Great Hall. Make sure everyone sees."
Then I turned to Blake and handed her one copy separately.
"Take this to Professor McGonagall," I said. "Tell her exactly this: if the challenge is refused, then any harm that follows is no longer Slytherin's responsibility."
Her jaw tightened, but she nodded once. "Understood."
With another copy in hand, I headed straight for the dungeons.
Snape's office door was ajar, green light spilling faintly into the corridor. He was bent over his desk when I entered, quill scratching across parchment, several vials simmering quietly nearby.
"Professor," I said, placing the parchment on his desk, "this is a challenge letter to the entirety of Gryffindor. We intend to end this feud properly. Once. And publicly."
Snape looked up sharply, eyes scanning the page.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then, "Alastair," he said slowly, "this is not how these things are done. Dumbledore will never allow it."
I met his gaze without flinching.
"Then he will face the consequences," I replied. "He's been revered for far too long without being questioned. I'm done pretending that silence equals peace."
Snape studied me—really studied me—jaw tight, eyes unreadable.
"I have an announcement to make in the Great Hall," I added. "I'll be going now."
I turned to leave.
Behind me, a chair scraped softly against stone.
"Wait," Snape said.
I paused at the door.
After a heartbeat, he spoke again—quietly, tightly. "I'm coming with you."
I glanced back.
He was already standing, robes settling around him like a shadow drawn into motion.
Together, we headed toward the Great Hall.
As we made our way toward the Great Hall, I filled Snape in—briefly, precisely—on what had actually happened.
The ambush.
The insults.
The petrification.
Nyx falling down the stairs.
I didn't embellish. I didn't need to.
With every sentence, Snape's expression darkened. By the time I finished, the cold mask he usually wore had cracked just enough to let something dangerous show through.
Fury.
Not the theatrical kind. The quiet, lethal sort that meant someone had crossed a line that could not be uncrossed.
We reached the entrance to the Great Hall.
I was in the middle of pinning one of the challenge parchments to the notice board—my hand steady, my magic precise—when sharp footsteps echoed behind us.
"Alastair!"
Professor McGonagall's voice cut through the corridor like a blade.
She strode toward us, tartan robes snapping with each step, her expression thunderous. Blake followed a pace behind her, jaw tight, eyes flicking briefly to me before returning to McGonagall.
I straightened, already bracing myself.
"Do you have any idea," McGonagall began, "how grossly inappropriate this behavior is—posting inflammatory challenges, dragging your house into open—"
"Minerva," Snape said calmly, stepping forward.
That alone made her pause.
"I would advise against it."
She turned on him, incredulous. "Severus, do you even know what he's doing?"
"I do," Snape replied coolly. "And I know precisely why he is doing it."
McGonagall's eyes narrowed. "And you allow this?"
"I support it," Snape said flatly.
The silence that followed was razor-thin.
"This," Snape continued, voice cutting and unmistakably venomous, "is the result of Gryffindor's cowardice. A house that boasts of bravery, yet attacks from behind stairwells and hides behind administrative indulgence."
McGonagall's face twisted—anger, shock, and something dangerously close to doubt colliding all at once.
I didn't wait for the argument to escalate.
I stepped past them and entered the Great Hall.
Every head turned.
Dumbledore sat at the center of the professors' table, hands folded, half-moon glasses glinting beneath the enchanted ceiling. Since the previous incident, he had been more present—watching, calculating.
Our eyes met.
He didn't look surprised.
If anything, he looked as though he were daring me to proceed.
I glanced around the hall.
Slytherin students still held the parchments in their hands—some folded, some clenched, some openly visible. Gryffindors stared back with open hostility, whispers already spreading like sparks through dry grass.
I smiled faintly.
With a smooth flick of my wand, I cast a silent summoning charm.
The parchments tore free.
They rose into the air—dozens of identical letters—spiraling outward like white birds before shooting across the hall. Professors, students, prefects alike caught them instinctively or watched them land at their places.
No one was excluded.
Then I placed my wand against my throat.
"Sonorus."
My voice boomed, echoing against ancient stone and enchanted ceiling alike.
"This," I said clearly, "is an open challenge."
Every whisper died.
"To the house of Gryffindor," I continued, eyes locked forward, "a house that calls itself brave while attacking from behind, hiding in numbers, and striking those walking alone."
An eruption of angry shouts rose from the Gryffindor tables.
"How dare—"
"You can't—"
"This is—"
I didn't raise my voice further.
I didn't need to.
"If you dare," I finished coldly, "fight us in the open."
The Great Hall teetered on the edge of chaos.
Then—
"SILENCE."
Dumbledore's voice cracked like thunder.
Magic rolled outward from the staff table, pressing down on the hall until even breathing felt loud. Every student froze. Every professor went still.
"There will be no duels," Dumbledore said evenly. "Hogwarts is a place of learning. Conflicts are resolved by its staff."
I didn't look away from him.
"And if these duels do not happen," I replied just as evenly, "then Slytherin will not be responsible for the consequences."
A murmur rippled through the hall.
"We will respond," I continued, "in exactly the same manner that we receive the message."
I took one step back, letting the weight of the words settle.
"Headmaster," I said calmly, "you are making a mistake."
Dumbledore's eyes sharpened.
"Announce supervised duels by breakfast tomorrow," I finished, "or watch what happens next."
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then Headboy Fawley stepped forward from the Slytherin side.
"That's enough," he said loudly.
And as one—
The Slytherin table stood.
Chairs scraped back in unison.
Without another word, the entire house turned and walked out of the Great Hall together—emerald ties, green-trimmed robes, heads held high.
Not in anger.
In unity.
Behind us, the Great Hall buzzed with stunned voices, furious whispers, and the unmistakable realization that Hogwarts had just crossed into territory it hadn't seen in decades.
And this time—
It wouldn't be smoothed over by speeches.
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