The door to Snape's office closed behind us with a soft but decisive click.
The room felt tighter than usual—low ceiling, shelves packed with potion ingredients, the air heavy with the sharp scent of brewed draughts and old parchment. The fire crackled quietly, casting long shadows that stretched across the stone floor.
Snape didn't waste time.
He turned, black robes settling around him like ink, and fixed his gaze on us.
"Are you responsible for the attacks today?" he asked, voice flat, unreadable.
"No," Fawley answered immediately.
There was no hesitation in his tone. No bravado either—just certainty.
Snape didn't react. He merely gave a slight shrug and turned his head toward the Headmaster, as if to say you heard them.
Dumbledore folded his hands and studied us through his half-moon glasses.
"You issued threats against the school last night," he said calmly. "And today, several students were found unconscious with severe injuries. I find the timing… difficult to ignore."
"We protested," I said before anyone else could speak. "By splashing black ink on portraits. That's all."
I met his gaze steadily.
"Perhaps students of other houses didn't like that we weren't caught. Framing Slytherin wouldn't be difficult under the circumstances."
His eyes sharpened slightly.
"Do not invent stories, Mr. Salvius-P," Dumbledore said. "Tell me where you were today."
Fawley answered this time.
"In the common room," he said. "Most of the day. We were teaching first- and second-years basic dueling discipline. If—when—you approve the challenge, we intended to be prepared."
There it was again.
That calm assumption that the challenge was inevitable.
Dumbledore's lips thinned.
"I will need to examine your wands," he said.
"Of course," Fawley replied smoothly. "But only through our Head of House. We will hand them to Professor Snape."
For the briefest moment, the atmosphere tightened.
Then Dumbledore inclined his head. "Very well."
He paused, eyes flicking from one face to another.
"Understand this," he continued. "If spells matching the injuries are found, the consequences will be severe. Expulsion would be the least of your worries. In certain circumstances, even Azkaban is not beyond consideration."
The room went utterly silent.
"There is nothing to confess," I said calmly.
I stepped forward and placed my wand into Snape's waiting hand.
One by one, the others followed.
Snape examined each wand with meticulous care, murmuring diagnostic charms under his breath. His expression remained unchanged, but I watched his eyes closely.
Stunning spells.
Stinging hexes.
Minor jinxes.
The ink-splashing charm.
Nothing else.
No bone-breaking curses.
No dark magic.
No signatures matching the injuries.
Snape straightened and looked at Dumbledore.
"That is all," he said. "No spellwork capable of causing the injuries described."
Dumbledore's jaw tightened—just slightly.
"For the vandalism," he said after a moment, "fifty points will be deducted from Slytherin."
He turned, clearly intending to end the meeting.
"Headmaster," I said.
He stopped.
"Yes, Alastair?"
"You say you are personally investigating this because student safety matters to you," I said evenly. "Then allow me to ask—did you question other houses as well?"
Silence.
No answer came.
"If safety is your concern," I continued, "why was there no investigation when Nyx Calder was sent to the infirmary yesterday? She had the same injuries—a broken leg and arm. Or does that only become serious when Gryffindors are the ones injured?"
McGonagall's breath caught.
Snape's eyes flicked sideways.
Dumbledore's gaze hardened.
"That incident," he said after a pause, "will also be investigated."
He turned to leave again.
"One more thing," I said quietly.
He stopped—but did not turn around.
"If there is still no announcement regarding the challenge by tomorrow," I continued, "we will continue our protest."
Dumbledore did not respond.
McGonagall hesitated at the door, glancing back at us—at me—for just a second longer than necessary. Then she followed him out.
As the door closed, I noticed something small drifting through the air near the window.
A beetle.
It slipped through the crack and vanished into the corridor beyond.
A faint smile touched my lips.
Snape said nothing.
He simply gestured toward the door, dismissing us.
When we returned to the Slytherin common room, the atmosphere wasn't tense.
It was electric.
Cheers erupted the moment we stepped inside. Butterbeer was passed around freely, laughter ringing off the stone walls. Older students clapped us on the shoulders; first-years looked at us with something close to awe.
This wasn't fear.
This wasn't defiance.
This was unity.
For the first time in a long while, Slytherin wasn't bracing for judgment.
It was celebrating resolve.
The next morning the common room was buzzing discussing another sensational news.
___________________________
The Daily Prophet – Special Report
By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent
DOZENS OF STUDENTS ATTACKED — AND DUMBLEDORE BLAMES SLYTHERIN AGAIN
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry woke yesterday to yet another scandal shaking its ancient walls, as dozens of students were discovered unconscious across the castle, many suffering from broken limbs severe enough to require immediate medical attention.
Yet in a move that has left parents, governors, and Ministry observers raising their eyebrows, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore has once again turned his finger squarely toward Slytherin House—without presenting a shred of evidence.
According to hospital wing sources, every injured student suffered near-identical wounds: a broken arm and a broken leg, injuries healers described as "precise, deliberate, and suspiciously consistent." Several of the more severely injured students were transferred directly to St. Mungo's Hospital, bypassing Hogwarts' own facilities altogether.
And yet—no culprits have been named.
No spells have been traced.
No wands have been matched.
No public inquiry has been announced.
What has been announced—quietly, and without fanfare—is that Slytherin House has once again been penalized, following earlier deductions related to what the Headmaster described as "acts of protest."
A PATTERN OF ACCUSATION?
This latest incident follows closely on the heels of a highly publicized confrontation in the Great Hall, where Slytherin students openly protested what they called "systemic favoritism" after their House alone was punished for a prior altercation—despite multiple eyewitness accounts claiming spells were first cast by students from another House.
That protest culminated in a dramatic face-off between a first-year Slytherin representative—Alastair Salvius-P, a name now rapidly circulating among wizarding families—and Headmaster Dumbledore himself.
This reporter can confirm that a magical photograph of that confrontation now hangs in Professor Severus Snape's office, capturing a moment of unmistakable tension: a calm, resolute child facing down the most powerful wizard of the age.
A child, it must be noted, who is the son of fallen heroes—a family whose deaths were instrumental in the Ministry's decision not to follow Dumbledore's calls for broad mercy toward former Death Eaters after the war.
Coincidence?
Or history repeating itself in subtler, more troubling ways?
QUESTIONS WITHOUT ANSWERS
Parents have begun writing in droves to both the Board of Governors and the Ministry of Magic, asking questions that, so far, Hogwarts leadership has declined to answer:
Why were only Slytherin students investigated, while members of other Houses were not?
Why was no inquiry opened when a Slytherin first-year was hospitalized the day before with identical injuries?
Why does the Headmaster insist on "unity" while repeatedly singling out one House?
One particularly pointed letter from an anonymous pureblood matriarch asks:
"Is Headmaster Dumbledore suspicious of Slytherin House as a whole—or is he simply unable to separate old grudges from his duty as an educator?"
A CHILD MADE AN EXAMPLE?
Perhaps most troubling to observers is the growing perception that a single child—young, outspoken, and inconveniently principled—has become the lightning rod for this unrest.
Alastair Salvius-P has publicly challenged the Headmaster's decisions, called for structured inter-house cooperation, and demanded accountability where others have long accepted silence.
Is this bravery?
Or has it made him a target?
As one anonymous staff member reportedly remarked:
"Dumbledore is used to guiding chess pieces. He doesn't like it when one refuses to move."
_______________________
After reading the article, I let out a quiet breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Good. Exactly as expected.
By now, Dumbledore would be buried under letters—parents demanding answers, old families pressing governors, donors asking uncomfortable questions. Public pressure was the one thing even he couldn't wave away with a kindly smile or a carefully chosen speech about unity.
I folded the newspaper neatly and left the common room, making my way toward the Great Hall.
The atmosphere hit me the moment I stepped inside.
Once again, every Slytherin was present.
Not drifting in late. Not scattered across benches. Present—together.
Green and silver filled the table in disciplined silence, no chatter, no laughter, no posturing. We didn't need it. Across the hall, the Gryffindor table was still conspicuously half empty. The usual noise was missing, the confidence dulled, and those who were present sat rigid, eyes fixed on us with open hostility they no longer bothered to hide.
Ravenclaws watched carefully, already analyzing outcomes and odds. Hufflepuffs looked uncomfortable, caught between loyalty to fairness and fear of what was coming. Everyone else stared, not whispering now, not mocking, but measuring.
Breakfast passed without anyone truly eating.
At 9:15, the doors behind the professors' table opened.
Professor Snape entered first, his presence sharp and heavy, robes trailing like a storm cloud that had finally been given permission to break. Professor McGonagall followed, posture flawless, expression stern enough to silence the room before she even spoke.
The Great Hall fell quiet—not because someone demanded it, but because everyone knew this moment mattered.
McGonagall stepped forward, her voice firm and unmistakably authoritative.
"By decision of the faculty," she announced, her gaze sweeping the hall, "the ongoing conflict between Slytherin and Gryffindor will be resolved through formal duels."
The reaction was immediate and visceral.
Shock rippled through the room. Gryffindors straightened, some in outrage, some in sudden anticipation. Slytherins remained still, as if we'd been expecting nothing else.
"This Sunday," McGonagall continued, allowing no interruption, "each year will send three representatives to duel."
She paused just long enough for the weight of that statement to settle.
"These duels will be supervised by Professor Snape and myself," she said evenly. "They will be conducted under Hogwarts rules and protective wards."
Snape stepped forward then, voice low and cutting, leaving no room for misinterpretation.
"Any use of excessive force," he said coldly, "any fatal intent, or any dark spell beyond permitted limits—will result in immediate expulsion."
No qualifiers. No warnings wrapped in kindness. Just consequence.
The hall erupted the moment they finished.
Gryffindors shouted, anger and excitement colliding in equal measure. Ravenclaws immediately began debating strategies, already imagining permutations and outcomes. Hufflepuffs looked genuinely alarmed, caught between disbelief and concern.
At the Slytherin table, the reaction was quieter—and far more dangerous.
Smiles appeared slowly. Backs straightened. Eyes sharpened with intent rather than emotion. This wasn't relief. It was readiness.
I didn't smile.
I didn't need to.
The challenge had been accepted, and for the first time since my arrival at Hogwarts, everything was out in the open. No whispers, no half-measures, no convenient blindness.
This would not be settled through rumors or selective punishment.
It would be settled openly, under scrutiny, with witnesses watching every spell cast and every mistake made.
And this time, no one would be able to pretend they hadn't seen it coming.