While all of this unfolded across the castle, the Slytherin common room had been quietly transformed.
The usual sofas and low tables had been pushed aside with deliberate care, creating an open central space. In their place stood a long dining table—solid, orderly, and unmistakably intentional. It wasn't decorative. It was functional.
Students filtered in steadily, one by one, expressions ranging from excitement to sharp focus. No one lounged. No one joked. This wasn't a gathering—it was an operation.
I stepped further inside, scanning the room.
"How's the progress?" I asked calmly. "Any visible spots?"
Headboy Fawley didn't hesitate. "Thirty-five to forty so far," he replied. "No visible exposure. Clean routes."
I nodded once. "We should aim for seventy."
He gave a thin smile. "Already accounted for."
I studied him for a moment. "And you're confident the spells will hold until dinner?"
"Absolutely," Fawley said without hesitation. "I've snuck out more nights than I care to admit. I know exactly how long they'll last—and how to layer them properly."
Good.
"Alright," I said. "You keep things moving."
I turned toward the exit, already planning the next step.
"We're going to get Nyx from the infirmary."
No questions followed.
Everyone understood.
The board was set.
When we reached the infirmary, Nyx was sitting upright on her bed, arms folded, staring at the ceiling with an expression that could only be described as profoundly bored.
She looked entirely too healthy for someone who had been knocked unconscious the night before.
The moment she spotted us, her head snapped up.
"Alastair," she said sharply, eyes flashing, "those bastards attacked from behind."
No fear. No hesitation. Only fury.
"We know, Nyx," I replied evenly, stopping at the foot of her bed. "What do you think we've been busy with all morning?"
Her glare softened—just a fraction—replaced by something far more dangerous.
"So," she said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, "what are we doing about it?"
I met her gaze.
"The table's already set," I said calmly. "We're just waiting for you to place the final dish."
A slow smile spread across her face.
"Then let's go," she said, hopping off the bed with far more energy than Madam Pomfrey would've approved of.
We turned toward the exit.
"Absolutely not."
Madam Pomfrey's voice cut through the room like a scalpel.
She stood with her hands on her hips, eyes narrowed, already halfway through a lecture.
"Miss Calder, you are to remain here under observation until at least this evening. Head injuries are not something I—"
"Madam Pomfrey," I interrupted gently, but firmly, "we'll take responsibility for her."
Her gaze snapped to me.
"You?" she said incredulously.
"Yes," I replied calmly. "And besides—you're going to need those beds."
That made her pause.
Not long. Just long enough.
She looked at Nyx—standing upright, steady, already reaching for her wand. Then at Selene. Then back at me.
Her lips thinned.
"You children," she muttered, clearly unhappy. "If she collapses—"
"She won't," Selene said confidently.
Madam Pomfrey sighed, defeated in the way only a healer who knew she'd already lost could be.
"Out," she said, waving a hand. "Before I change my mind."
We didn't waste the opportunity.
The moment we were out in the corridor, Selene fell into step beside Nyx and began filling her in—quietly, efficiently. About the empty tables. The waiting silence. The way the castle had begun to shift.
Nyx listened without interrupting.
When Selene finished, Nyx's smile had vanished.
What replaced it was focus.
"Alright," she said simply. "Let's get to work."
We began our preparations quietly.
Methodically.
Every movement had a purpose, every role assigned with care. There was no excitement now—only focus.
Warrington was given the most important task.
It wasn't lost on anyone how ironic that was.
Since I had acknowledged his apology, he had stayed close to the group. Not at the center, not loud, not trying to reclaim any misplaced authority—just present. Training. Listening. Watching. He still lingered at the back, shoulders slightly hunched, as if expecting to be pushed away at any moment.
When the role was explained, he volunteered without hesitation.
We waited.
According to the fourth years, 5:30 PM was ideal.
The place was set.
Outside the Library
Third Person POV
Four Gryffindor students exited the library together, parchments tucked under their arms, voices low but sharp with lingering irritation.
"I really hope they punish those Slytherin bastards properly," one of them muttered, shoving his essay into his bag.
Another snorted. "I went to McGonagall. She said she can't do anything without proof."
"That figures," a third scoffed. "They're already trying to clean the ink off the portraits. Apparently it's… stubborn."
The fourth laughed. "She told me to wait until Dumbledore gets back from his ICW conference. As if that'll help."
There was a brief pause.
Then—
"Still," one of them said with a grin, "felt good giving those first-year witches a lesson the other day."
The others chuckled.
"Yeah," another agreed. "Though honestly? Would've been better if we'd gotten that Salvius kid instead."
Their laughter echoed faintly down the corridor.
And then—
They saw him.
A lone figure stood ahead, wand raised, splashing dark ink across the face of a portrait. The painted wizard inside was mid-protest, mouth open in outrage as black stains spread across the canvas.
The Gryffindors slowed.
Grins spread.
"Well, well," one of them said, drawing his wand. "What a pleasant surprise."
"Get him."
Warrington froze.
For a split second, his face went pale—eyes wide, breath hitching as he realized he wasn't alone.
He spun, yanked his wand up, and shouted—
"Lumos Maxima!"
A burst of blinding white light exploded down the corridor, washing over the Gryffindors like a flashbang.
"Ah—!"
"Bloody hell—!"
"I can't see!"
Before the light could fade, Warrington turned and ran.
Footsteps thundered against stone as he sprinted down the corridor, robes flapping wildly behind him.
The Gryffindors recovered quickly.
"After him!"
"Don't let him get away!"
They took off in pursuit, anger sharpening their movements, confidence fueling their chase.
They chased him through corridors most students barely remembered existed.
Passageways that curved too tightly.
Staircases that led nowhere useful.
Hallways where the torches burned low and the portraits slept, long abandoned by traffic.
Warrington's breathing grew ragged—loud, uneven, convincing.
He slowed.
Then stumbled.
Then stopped altogether, hands braced against his knees as he bent forward, chest heaving.
The Gryffindors skidded to a halt a few paces behind him, wands half-raised, sweat on their brows, irritation bleeding into triumph.
"Well?" one of them sneered between breaths. "Where will you run now, little snake?"
Another laughed harshly. "Thought you lot were clever."
Warrington straightened slowly.
They expected fear.
Panic.
Maybe a desperate spell.
Instead—
He smiled.
Not wide. Not manic.
A small, knowing curve of the lips.
The kind that said you're already too late.
The Gryffindors hesitated.
And that was when the doors opened.
Classroom doors on both sides of the corridor swung inward at once.
Footsteps echoed behind them.
And ahead.
Too many.
Too synchronized.
The Gryffindors turned sharply—
Only to find the way they'd come now blocked by figures stepping out of the shadows, wands already raised. From the front, more emerged, silent and composed, eyes cold, posture disciplined.
Green and silver.
First-year Slytherins.
They closed ranks.
The corridor felt narrower by the second.
One of the Gryffindors swallowed. "You—you planned this."
A footstep sounded beside Warrington.
Alastair moved into place with unhurried calm, standing shoulder to shoulder with him. His presence shifted the atmosphere instantly—not louder, not more violent, just… controlled.
"You did well," Alastair said quietly, not taking his eyes off the Gryffindors. "They really do think themselves righteous heroes."
Warrington's shoulders eased just a fraction.
The Gryffindors spun, wands snapping toward Alastair.
"You think this proves something?" one of them barked. "Ambushing us like cowards?"
Alastair tilted his head slightly. Amused at their hypocrisy.
"No," he replied evenly. "This proves you're predictable."
The Slytherins tightened their formation—subtle, deliberate. No one crossed wands. No spells flew.
Not yet.
"You attacked from behind," Alastair continued, voice steady. "You insulted families you don't understand. You injured someone and felt proud of it."
His gaze hardened.
"And now," he finished, "you walked willingly into a place where there are no witnesses… and guaranteed consequences."
The Gryffindors' bravado cracked.
One took a step back—only to realize there was nowhere left to go.
Silence settled over the corridor, thick and heavy.
The trap had closed.
__________________________
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