The underground corridor air had turned thick and cloying, like breathing through wet wool.
What began as Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy's private grudge had—thanks to Lucian's quiet nudges—escalated into open war between two entire houses.
As the Slytherin common-room stone wall ground open, more and more older students poured into the narrow passage.
Green robes faced red robes in perfect, hostile lines.
"Is that Oliver Wood?"
Marcus Flint shoved through the crowd. Built like a troll, he bared crooked, oversized teeth in a grin and jabbed his stubby wand straight at the Gryffindor Quidditch captain's nose.
"What are you and your little pack doing down here, Wood? Come to surrender early?"
"Shut your filthy mouth, Flint!"
Wood didn't back down an inch—he actually leaned in until their noses nearly touched. "I'm here to teach you lot some manners! Last term, if you hadn't cowardly rammed Alicia's broom tail to splinters from behind, you'd have crawled back to the sewers where you belong!"
"That was a perfectly legal tactical collision!" Slytherin Beater Bole roared, waving meaty arms. "Only soft-arsed crybabies like you run to the referee!"
"Legal collision? Ha! What about the year before that? Who smeared glue on Jordan's broom?" Lee Jordan pushed forward, wand still spitting sparks. "And the year before that—you released a whole nest of Cornish pixies in our changing room!"
Wand-tips on both sides began glowing with dangerous light.
In the middle of this powder-keg standoff, Draco Malfoy rediscovered his trademark sneer.
Just minutes earlier he'd been pressed flat against the wall, terror turning his spine to jelly as dozens of furious Gryffindors advanced.
Now, shielded by a solid wall of older Slytherins and Flint's broad back, the fear drained away—replaced by multiplied shame and venom.
"Why so quiet now, Potter?"
Malfoy poked his head out from behind Flint, pale face twisted in that infuriating fake smile, voice drawling.
"Weren't you so brave a minute ago? Is this all Gryffindor has—charge in like barbarians, then stand there like cowards?"
"Malfoy!" Ron's face turned beetroot purple; he tried to lunge, only for Fred to clamp both arms around him.
"Let him through, Weasley!" Malfoy jutted his chin, eyes dripping contempt. "Let's see if your second-hand wand is any match for my—"
"EVERYONE STOP!"
A furious bellow tore from the far end of the corridor, ripping through the near-explosive tension.
Percy Weasley's prefect badge gleamed like a tiny beacon. He came sprinting up, out of breath, face flushed with righteous panic—Hermione Granger right on his heels, looking equally alarmed.
The commotion had grown too loud; someone had tipped off the prefects.
The moment word reached Hermione that Harry and Ron were in trouble, she'd bolted after them.
"What are you doing?! This is a serious breach of school rules!"
Percy waved his arms, trying to wedge himself between the two mobs. "I am a prefect! I order you to disperse immediately, or I will—"
"Or you'll what? Cry to Mummy, Weasley?" A burst of mocking laughter exploded from the Slytherin side.
Percy's ears went scarlet.
Hermione ignored them completely.
Her eyes locked onto Harry and Ron at the front, shielding a tear-streaked Neville behind them.
"Harry! Ron! Lower your wands—now!"
She shoved to the very front, bushy hair wild from running, but her presence somehow cut through the chaos. She grabbed Harry's wand arm and forced it down.
"Have you all lost your minds? Fighting in the corridors means Gryffindor loses every single point we have! We could even be expelled!"
"He started it!" Harry struggled, eyes bloodshot. "He used the Leg-Locker Curse on Neville! Humiliated him!"
"Then we report it to Professor McGonagall—not behave like… like savages down here!"
Hermione spun around, arms spread wide, placing herself between the two walls of older, taller students. Her voice shook slightly but stayed clear.
"Calm down. If we start hexing each other now and Professor Snape arrives, no one walks away. This helps nobody—does it?"
For a heartbeat the temperature dropped.
Hermione's words hit like cold water. Even Flint frowned, visibly weighing the consequences.
Seeing the situation stabilize, she let out a tiny breath of relief.
She had forgotten that some people don't want reason—they want a stage.
Malfoy stared at the girl who had suddenly appeared and tried to take control.
Her again.
The know-it-all who always shone in Charms, answered first in Transfiguration, born filthy yet somehow always one step ahead of him.
And now she dared stand in front of a Malfoy and lecture him like a professor?
Especially now—when he had just clawed his way out of paralyzing fear and desperately needed an extreme way to reassert dominance.
"How touching."
Malfoy stepped slowly out from the crowd until he stood directly in front of her.
His eyes glittered with malice.
"Since you love sticking your nose in…"
He leaned in, voice dropping to a venomous whisper that only the front row could hear.
"…nobody asked for your opinion, you filthy little—mudblood."
The word landed like a slap.
Hermione froze.
It wasn't just an insult—it was a denial of her birth, her parents, her very right to exist.
"How dare you!!"
The roar came from Ron.
In that instant Ron's sanity snapped. As someone raised in a pure-blood (if broke) family, he understood exactly what that word carried.
His fingers clenched around the inherited ash wand—old, dull, its unicorn-hair core frayed and visible at the worn tip.
Yet right now that temperamental stick answered the tidal rage in his blood like it had been waiting years.
Pure Weasley instinct took over. He leveled the battered wood at that pale, smirking face.
"You filthy—get away from her!"
"Flipendo!"
Red sparks detonated with a crack that echoed down the corridor.
No one was seriously hurt.
But the taut string that had held the night together—
snapped.
"KILL THEM!!"
No one knew who screamed it first—just raw Gryffindor recklessness and blood singing for violence.
The corridor ignited.
Harry moved first.
No fancy spell—just pure fury. The modified Dungbomb left his hand whistling through the air.
SPLAT.
It hit Draco Malfoy square in the face—perfect aim while the smirk was still frozen there.
Thick, eye-watering yellow-green sludge coated his features.
"AAAHH!! MY EYES! MY EYES!!"
The arrogant boy who'd lorded over everyone seconds ago now shrieked like a stuck pig, hands clawing at his face. He stumbled backward blindly, crashing into Goyle's stomach. His wild wand swings sent a stray red spark that clipped Pansy Parkinson—she screamed even louder.
"ATTACK!"
Fred and George Weasley proved why they were Gryffindor Beaters. No time wasted on incantations—they dove straight into their pockets.
"Make way—Weasleys' Wildfire Whiz-bangs incoming!"
A dozen multicolored fireworks arced into the Slytherin ranks.
Blue dragons slithered across the floor, nipping at ankles; crackers burrowed under robes and detonated with sharp pops.
"Damn Weasleys—I'll murder you!"
Marcus Flint bellowed, charging through the sparks like a bull. As Slytherin's captain he fought dirty—always had.
"Diffindo! Reducto!"
A purple beam grazed Harry's scalp and slammed into an ancient suit of armor behind him.
CRASH.
Four centuries of metal exploded into shrapnel, slicing cheeks and drawing first real blood from several younger students.
"FLINT!!"
Oliver Wood's eyes blazed crimson. No broom? Didn't matter—he was still the best Keeper Gryffindor ever had.
He launched a textbook flying tackle, shoulder smashing into Flint's chest. The two went down in a tangle of limbs.
Wands useless at grappling range—they switched to fists, elbows, knees.
"Expelliarmus!"
"Rictusempra!"
"Petrificus Totalus!"
Rainbow spell-light ricocheted off stone, clashing mid-air in showers of sparks.
Harry felt a savage thrill he'd never known.
This was primal. He ducked a yellow bolt, snapped "Petrificus Totalus" at Crabbe—watched the big oaf lock rigid and topple like a felled tree, flattening three Slytherins. A dark satisfaction curled in his chest.
"Release the big one!"
Lee Jordan leaped onto a stone ledge—commentator lungs at full volume.
"Special delivery for you snakes!"
He flicked his wand; the hairy tarantula he'd been hiding shot from its box.
"Engorgio!"
Palm-sized became washbasin-sized.
Eight glossy black eyes gleamed. It scuttled up the wall toward the Slytherin torch brackets.
"SPIDER! GIANT SPIDER!"
"AAAHH—IT'S RIGHT ABOVE ME—GET IT OFF!"
Panic ripped holes in the Slytherin line.
"Hold the wall! HOLD!" Flint roared while wrestling Wood. "It's an illusion—Incendio the damn thing, you idiots!"
Too late. Terror spread like Fiendfyre among the younger Slytherins.
Gryffindor wasn't unscathed either.
Older Slytherins adapted—slipping into shadows, taking potshots.
Hermione kept trying to stop the madness.
Arms wide—
"Stop! You can't—this is against the rules! Please—"
"Densaugeo!"
A pale-yellow beam sailed over Neville's head and struck her square in the mouth.
She clapped hands to her face in horror as her front teeth exploded outward—growing past her lip, past her chin in seconds. Grotesque. Terrifying.
"HERMIONE!"
Harry saw it.
Fury drowned fear.
This was Slytherin. This was Malfoy's precious "pure-blood" superiority—a pack of cowards who hid and hurt girls and the weak.
"I'LL KILL YOU!"
He broke from the crowd, wand locked on the sixth-year who'd cast it.
At the same moment Percy Weasley was living his personal nightmare.
"Since none of you will listen…" He tried binding curses on the worst offenders.
No one cared.
A Devil's Snare seed—thrown by who-knows-who—sprouted at his feet. Vines snapped around his ankles.
The fastidious prefect yelped, pitched forward, and slammed face-first into marble. His gleaming badge clattered, cracked, and rolled into the corner.
"Prefect?" Slytherin laughter turned vicious. "String him up on the chandelier!"
"Back off!" George kicked a Slytherin away from his brother. "Only we get to bully Percy—you snakes don't qualify!"
The corridor was lost.
Portraits fled screaming, hands over ears. Suits of armor toppled in clanging heaps. Dungbomb stench mixed with sulfur smoke.
Every face in the flashing spell-light looked feral, twisted.
Gryffindor roared like enraged lions—chaotic but unstoppable. Slytherin struck like cornered vipers—cold, vicious, aiming to maim.
Neville cowered in the corner, terrified.
He watched Harry roar, Hermione sob behind her monstrous teeth, Ron writhe on the floor.
Then something ignited inside his clumsy frame.
Courage.
"STOP… BULLYING THEM!!"
Eyes screwed shut, he charged blindly—wand flailing, no spell even spoken. Pure momentum. He barreled into Crabbe just as the big Slytherin tried to flank Harry, sending the thug staggering.
…
In the torch-shadowed dead angle.
Lucian stood beneath a Disillusionment Charm.
The architect of it all watched the little beasts tear at each other with cool detachment.
"Tch. How ugly."
A full-scale house war was far more entertaining than the petty duels of the original story.
But right as he savored Neville cannonballing Crabbe aside—
—an inexplicable chill crawled up his spine.
"Damn it—"
Instinct screamed for Protego.
Too late. Too perfectly timed.
Down in the chaos, two stray curses—one Slytherin "Reducto," one Gryffindor "Bombarda"—collided mid-air and ricocheted straight toward him.
A dull thump.
Pain exploded in his left shoulder.
The hasty shield shattered; residual force tore a deep gash through cloth and flesh.
Blood immediately soaked black robes.
Lucian staggered in the shadows, nearly dropping from the ledge—then caught himself. He snapped the failing Disillusionment back into place.
He looked down at the wound—bone-deep, blood dripping steadily.
The usual elegant, mocking expression was gone.
Replaced by flat disbelief.
He'd been minding his own business—literally eating popcorn—and a stray shot from a pack of children clipped him?
Of course. Bad luck clung to him like tar.
"…Fine. Very fine."
Being smacked by fate like this left a sour taste.
It was like meticulously building an arena, then getting brained by a gladiator's wild throw while sitting in the stands.
"Since you've made me bleed…"
Lucian narrowed his eyes.
"…I won't take this for free."
He had never been the type to eat a loss and smile.
If fate's bad karma had tangled him into this mess anyway—fine.
He'd stir the filthy water until it turned pitch black.