Ascension 38 [A small request, do comment]

Dumbledore’s office was a grand room. Not only in its size, but also in the amount of stuff the ancient wizard had stashed and displayed across every inch of the available space and wall. Rare tomes, even rarer devices and artifacts from every place around the world, the old Headmaster had it all.

While he was not one to go drool-mouthed at the sight of such things, Neville still wasn’t above being amazed by Dumbledore’s trinkets and books, especially since he was finally free to explore and learn to his heart’s content.

Unfortunately, the circumstances couldn’t have been more treacherous for him.

The phoenix sang low and mournful in one corner, the short trill sending shivers down his spine, making him feel as if the creature was judging him, condemning him for what he had done.

He stood stiff in the center of the Headmaster’s office, eyes resolutely meeting Dumbledore’s, aware of the stares he was being subjected to. The portraits of long-dead Headmasters were awake and whispering to one another, eyes glimmering with suspicion, their gazes heavy. Dumbledore sat behind his desk, hands folded loosely as if in prayer, but there was nothing soft in those blue eyes tonight, reminding him of that moment on Halloween, when Mrs. Norris had been petrified. 

McGonagall stood like a carved statue near the fire, jaw set and eyes narrowed. In the ten minutes that had passed since he had been silently, softly ushered out of the Great Hall, she had not said a single word to him, and Neville didn’t know what to take her silence for. Snape lingered in the shadows of a bookshelf on the other side of the desk, arms crossed as he too stared at him unblinkingly—and Lockhart…Lockhart looked absolutely unconcerned with the tense atmosphere, sitting quietly in a high-backed chair and inspecting a painting by his head.

They had just exited from the Pensieve, where Snape and Lockhart both had shown their memories of the events to the Headmaster and his Deputy, and now, Neville stood before them, awaiting the words.

“You spoke Parseltongue,” McGonagall said without preamble, voice clipped sharp as glass as she broke the terse quietness, almost surprising him out of his skin.

Neville’s throat was dry as he struggled to think of a response, feeling the judgment, hearing the thoughts of everyone in the office. “I didn’t mean t-”

“Ahh, you didn’t ‘mean’ it,” Snape cut in, lips curling into something that was not quite a smile. “Doesn’t quite matter what you mean, Longbottom. You either have the gift, or you don’t. And that gift, Longbottom, is shared by one man in living memory. The same man you supposedly defeated. How… curious, that the Boy-Who-Lived be the one to speak Parseltongue again.”

Dumbledore lifted a hand, silencing the verbal fangs. “Severus. We are here for clarity, not condemnation. I will need an alibi, Mr. Longbottom. For each incident, even if we have covered them previously.”

McGonagall’s eyes speared him as she continued the moment, standing just a little straighter, “Halloween. The first attack—Mrs Norris.”

“I was in the dungeons,” Neville said quickly, looking at both of them earnestly, “Heading back after the ghost party hosted by Sir Nicholas. I saw the Potters there too, after that we found the writing and Mrs Norris, frozen.”

“And the second,” she pressed, Neville saw it in her expression, and she knew how futile this was, yet necessity demanded it of them all, “Miss Granger.”

Neville swallowed. He could still see Hermione, rigid on the cold stone floor, her eyes wide and lifeless as he and Ron came to a stop beside the faculty near the library, “I was in the common room when she was last seen in the library with Ron; anyone can attest to that. After that, during dinner, Ron told me Hermione was in the library searching for the impedimenta spell, and she was not going to come to the Great Hall. We returned to the common room and went to sleep. Professor McGonagall’s announcement told us about the situation the next morning.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, and Neville glared right back, daring him to argue or comment. He was so tired of the man’s stupid, childish vendettas after the last few classes on top of Ron’s argument and subsequent duel with Draco.

“The third,” Dumbledore said quietly, breaking him out of his thoughts, and bringing his attention back to the old wizard, “The incident on the Grand Staircase.”

Neville’s stomach lurched. Helena had made him swear that he would not disclose the secrets of the Room of Requirement and her teaching to anyone…and while it was not an unbreakable vow, it was still a commitment he could not break. “I was…on the seventh floor at that time.”

McGonagall’s brows furrowed. “Why, Mr. Longbottom?”

“I was searching for a room to practice my spellwork in,” he answered, meeting her eyes instead of others, knowing she would falter first, “Aft-After Hermione was petrified…I wanted to do something, even if it was only preparing if just in case I was on the list. The last room I had been using was turned into a storage room by Professor Sinistra, therefore, I switched to the seventh floor.”

Her eyes softened a tad at his words, and as Neville turned back towards the Headmaster, he thought he saw the faintest glimmer of recognition in his eyes—even though his expression did not change in the slightest.

Silence stretched in the wake of his testimony, broken only by the low ticks of the clock, and phoenix’s low, mournful cry as it hopped from one arm of its stand to the next, staring at him in concert with everyone else.

Dumbledore finally leaned back, eyes ancient and heavy. “I do not believe you guilty, Neville. But understand this; belief is fragile. I can offer you trust, but the school will not. Already, the whole castle knows about your ability, and whispers become verdicts faster than facts. You are not a novice when it comes to the press either, so you know that the public is going to know about this by tomorrow morning.”

“I know,” he answered, agreeing with the words, yet dreading every moment of the events that were to come. Not because he was scared of the students or the public, but because it was another headache he did not need. Not now.

“Very well,” Dumbledore nodded, leaning back and smiling genially, “I shall announce your innocence at the dinner, Mr. Longbottom. Till then, I suggest you find Mr. Weasley; he is in the Hospital Wing, I believe. Professor Lockhart shall escort you to Madam Pomphrey.”

“At once, Headmaster,” the man jumped to his feet, lowering his head towards Dumbledore before turning towards him, once again smiling as if the last thirty minutes had never happened. Nodding towards the exit, the blond wizard tapped his shoulder as he walked by him, “Come now Mr. Longbottom, I reckon Mr. Weasley is quite anxious to meet you. He looked mighty worried when you came with us.”

“Mr. Longbottom,” Dumbledore’s voice stopped him right as he turned around and began to exit the room, and Neville turned his head to face the ancient wizard, something about the heavy, serious tone raising his alarms. A shiver crawled up his spine as he saw the solemnity, the graveness of Dumbledore’s face, that trademark twinkle nowhere to be found.

“Is there anything else you would like to share with us?”

‘FREE…AT LAST’

“No, Professor,” he repeated his words from that night, even if that demonic, hellish whisper bounced around in his skull every second moment of the days since.

“...Very well,” he nodded after a pause, as if knowing that Neville was lying. Inclining his head towards the doors, Dumbledore smiled softly, “You may leave now, Mr. Longbottom. That will be all for now.”

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“He is lying.”

“I appreciate you managing to control those words for thirty-eight seconds, Severus,” he said. Once again, a bad attempt at humor…hmm, maybe he was losing his touch.

“Please, you can be glib all you want,” his potions professor snarked, walking around to stand in front of him as he pointed a finger at the doors through which young Neville had just left. “That boy knows something which he is not telling us. Just how many more petrifications do we have to see before we consider a confundus or a drop of veritaserum?”

“You will not treat a child as a Death Eater under interrogation,” McGonagall cut him off, her tone iron. “He is thirteen, Severus.”

“Ah yes, the famed lioness defending her cubs again,” Snape rounded on her, robes flaring. “He is the Boy-Who-Lived. He speaks Parseltongue, the Dark Lord’s own tongue, in the middle of the Great Hall! He lies to us about where he spends his days and nights, or don’t tell me you fell for his drivel about the seventh floor?! Do you truly wish to wait until another corpse is dragged from a corridor?”

“They are not corpses!” Minerva’s voice was furious, matching Snape’s cold rage as she too stepped forward.

“Not yet,” her once student dismissed coldly, impassive in the face of her growing rage, and for once, even the whispers behind him fell silent at the standoff between the two teachers.

“Enough.” Dumbledore’s single word cracked the air, heavy with authority. He rose from his chair, the geniality stripped from his features, and for a moment even the air inside the office stilled. “We will not force the truth from Neville Longbottom. Trust, once broken, cannot be rebuilt, and if we lose him, we lose more than one boy.”

“Trust is a poor shield against Slytherin’s creature,” Snape pressed, though quieter now. “We are not dealing with a common serpent. Its power is deliberate, bred. Old records speak of things like this—mutations bound to masters. Gorgon-blooded, I would say, based on what we are witnessing. Whole villages have fallen to such beasts before.”

Dumbledore’s frown deepened. He did not deny it. “I have searched every passage I could reach. The castle shifts. Its wards resist me, and that is before the indecipherable amount of enchantments laid into the very brick and mortar of this castle come into the picture. However, whatever lair it holds… it opens into the Forest. That much, I have found. Although any attempts to retrace its path fail that way, too.”

McGonagall spoke up next, distraught as she looked at him, before her eyes turned to the afternoon sun. “What if there is another? We are already at three attacks this year. One more, Albus, and the Board will move for closure.”

“Yes. Parents are restless, and I have already had this discussion with the Ministry twice. Should another child fall, Hogwarts may indeed be shuttered.”

Fawkes hopped on his shoulder at that, rubbing his feathery, soft head against his cheek, and Dumbledore felt the warmth of his companion’s magic enter his body and mind, soothing some of the frayed edges of his thoughts.

Snape’s voice slashed through the hush. “And what of Hagrid?”

McGonagall stiffened. “Hagrid? Surely you are not—”

“Surely I am,” Snape bit out. “Fifty years ago, he was caught with a monster in the castle, conveniently blamed to cover for another. Now, again, children are petrified, and what do we find? That oaf muttering about creatures in the Forest, looking as guilty as ever. You think it coincidence that these attacks have returned while he still feeds horrors in the dark?”

“Rubeus would never—” McGonagall began hotly, but Dumbledore’s raised hand stilled her.

“Perhaps not,” Snape continued, “but what if his ‘pets’ are not so tame? Longbottom and Weasley went to him last week, and they both returned afraid, not relieved.”

”Spying on children is beneath you Severus, whatever your motivations may have been,” Dumbledore’s face was grave. “Rubeus Hagrid is not the Heir of Slytherin. But you are right about one thing, there are things that were omitted from his ministry testimony. Things which only I am privy to, because of his trust in me. I shall not shatter it.”

McGonagall’s lips thinned. “Albus…”

The Headmaster turned from them both, pacing toward the phoenix’s perch. “If there are more petrifications, we will not be able to shield Neville from the Ministry, nor protect Hagrid from Azkaban. Skeeter’s articles have already made their verdict upon me, as they shall soon upon Young Neville. And the students…”

“They will eat him alive,” McGonagall finished quietly. “Already, whispers are spreading faster than our reassurances. Gryffindors looked up to him, both younger and older…and I do not doubt the Slytherins will seize this chance for blood.”

“Then it falls to us,” Dumbledore said softly. “We must hold the line—between fear and truth, between trust and suspicion. One more attack, and that line may shatter.”

“Yes, Headmaster.” His most trusted aides nodded. One on reassurance, one in cold practicality. The moment passed, and Snape swept his robes around himself, walking out of his office for his dungeons. McGonagall remained a moment longer, her eyes on him, no doubt searching for the twinkle that had once steadied her, yet finding only weariness—before she too turned sharply and left.

Alone in his tower, Albus Dumbledore sank slowly back into his chair. The trinkets and baubles around him hummed softly, each recording its own secrets, and the portraits of his predecessors whispered uneasily among themselves.

“Fawkes,” he suddenly straightened in his chair, a rush of energy passing through his veins as he gripped his wand, “take me to Nicholas, please.”

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The next morning dawned colder than usual, the kind of chill that seemed to seep through the castle stone rather than the windows. Neville had hoped, foolishly, that a night’s rest might ease the tension. Hell, he had even decided to sleep in the Room of Requirement, wishing for Helena to appear so that she could shed some light on how he could have possibly possessed Parseltongue.

He had mentally gone through every relation, every woman and man that had married into the Longbottom House over the centuries, yet nothing popped into his head. Deciding to ask his grandmother in reply to the letter he was sure to receive the next morning, Neville had gone to sleep, troubled and thinking of what was sure to come the next morning.

He had not been disappointed.

The Prophet lay sprawled across every table, with enchanted headlines that bled acid-green across the pages:

“BOY-WHO-LIVED… OR THE HEIR OF SLYTHERIN?”

Beneath, a moving photograph repeated endlessly—Neville, smiling as cameras flashed before him, a moment from last year’s Ministry Ball.  At its side, the Dark Mark hovered in the sky, the ethereal serpent snapping its wide jaws at the viewer. Rita Skeeter’s byline glittered like venom on the parchment, completing the ensemble.

Other papers followed suit. The Oracle printed him side by side with Voldemort’s silhouette. The Quibbler, less malicious but more absurd, showed a cartoon Neville with a crown of writhing snakes, students fleeing from him in caricature panic.

No amount of Dumbledore’s authority could blot out moving ink once it spread.

As his entrance into the Great Hall was finally noticed, silence swelled like a tide. Forks clattered, goblets tipped—whole benches shifted away as he approached. Even at the Gryffindor table, his own House, the benches tightened and scraped, his classmates leaning aside in unison until an empty gulf yawned between them.

His yearmates, too, followed suit unanimously. There was certainly no love lost between them, and Neville didn’t really care for any of them besides Ron and Hermione, but it still pinched a nerve in his heart. Dean, Lavender, Seamus, Parvati—each sat just far enough away to make the absence obvious..

Neville sat anyway, scoffing audibly in the face of their judgment and fear. 

‘Just goes on to show why I never got along with them anyway.’

The whispering rose like gnats within moments. Parselmouth. Dark Heir. Pretender. Some too cowardly to say it loud, some too eager not to, yet throughout the hall, it continued. For a moment, Neville was tempted to summon a snake by himself and chat with it, just to make a couple of them shit their pants, but he resisted the urge. 

And then a plate crashed down into the empty gap on his left.

Ron Weasley entered his vision, scowling at everyone as he dropped his bag unceremoniously on the bench. His hair was still damp from sleep, his robes misbuttoned, but the way he sat was deliberate—loud, defiant, elbows wide, cutting into the space everyone else had abandoned. Glaring at a muttering Seamus and Dean, the Weasley leaned forwards and outright pointed at them, “Hey, you got nothing better to do than stare at us? Get lost Finnegan!”

“You should’ve told me,” Ron muttered as the Irish wizard instantly turned his face away, and Neville met his friend’s eyes with discomfort, a large part of him relieved by the fact that at least one of his friends didn’t mistrust him.

“Told you what?” he asked, buttering a piece of toast as he saw Ron do the same, finally realising that he had not eaten anything since yesterday.

“That you could talk to snakes.” Ron’s voice was low, but sharp enough to cut through the whispers. “That’s not the sort of thing you forget to mention to your best mate.”

“I didn’t know,” Neville hissed back, heat flaring in his chest. “I didn’t know, Ron. It just—happened when I saw that cobra. You saw it!”

Ron finally turned his head, freckles stark against his pale, stubborn face. His eyes searched Neville’s for a long moment, hard as flint. Then, with a grunt, he nodded once. “Yeah. I believe you.”

He tore into the toast savagely, as if that settled it. But his next words came quieter. “Doesn’t matter though, does it? Not to them.”

Neville followed his gaze down the table. Whispers, sidelong glances, an occasional sneer that flitted away when he met it. Even a couple of professors at the Head Table—Sinistra, Vector—gave him quick, furtive looks before fixing their eyes back on their plates.

He didn’t even need to look at Snape to see the sneer on the git’s face.

Dumbledore’s words from yesterday came whispering back into his head, and he sighed. While it certainly didn’t matter what the students thought of him at the moment, that was sure to change outside this castle. The Longbottom name, and the Boy-Who-Lived were tried together. When one ended, the other began…and now that the Boy-Who-Lived was a Parseltongue, a language feared across Britain and beyond, it was sure to affect his House.

Business deals, invitations, mergers, dissolutions…hundreds of thousands of galleons of trade and networking were going to be affected by this incident, and he was going to have to bear his Grandmother’s words.

Once again.

He forced his eyes down to his plate, though he could not bring himself to eat. The Prophet’s green letters burned at the edge of his vision, screaming louder than the whispers. As if on cue, Reginald, his family owl, descended from the sunlit windows above, carrying in his talons the trademark oak colored envelope used by his grandmother.

“Chin up mate,” Ron slapped his back as he too caught sight of Reginald, “Your grandmum can’t be worse than my mother, at least it is not going to be a howler.”

“I hope you did not just jinx me.”

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Classes that week had been fraught enough, students jumpy as startled deer, but the dungeon held an extra weight. The air always carried the bite of crushed roots and boiled ash in here, yet today even the sixth-years sat unusually straight. They weren’t second-year students to be herded; they were beginning to turn into somewhat professionals. Severus had a rule, one he had followed ever since he had first taken up the task of training Britain’s future potioneers.

He would not teach anyone who could not score an Outstanding in their fifth-year assessment.

It was a waste of his precious time and talent, to spend more minutes on neanderthals than what the rules strictly demanded. And thus, he was left with only five students in the batch of ‘87.

Snape’s gaze swept the room as he stalked between their cauldrons, robes hissing like serpents over stone. Percy Weasley scribbled meticulous notes, his quill never missing a beat. Rookwood’s shield bracelet gleamed faintly at her wrist as though she were daring someone to hex her. Hestia Carrow mirrored her notes at her side, while Amanda Smith, the only Hufflepuff in the class, chopped the bison liver neatly.

Snape nodded to himself mentally, satisfied with the state of affairs. The class was composed, obedient—as it should be.

For Severus, at least, there was comfort in this: competence. Not Finnegan’s blundering, not the Weasley’s incessant whispering and chuckles, not the empty-headed babble half the other students in each class. Instead, these were students who did not explode cauldrons with every stir, who understood the calmness, the severity, and serenity of potion making…at least better than ninety percent of the population. 

Today, they were working on the Draught of Living Death, a rather scarcely used potion by all accounts, but it contained several new steps combined into one recipe that were necessary for future studies and applications, especially in medical work. The floor was soaked with droplets and splatters of sopophorous beans, and Snape caught one in his hand absently as he leaned down to review Weasley’s work, tossing the bean back towards Smith. The citrusy, tangy smell of the beans filled the class, combining with the rawness of the African Sea salt.

All in all, it was going.. adequately.

And then the smell came.

It crept first as a faint sweetness, nutty, roasted thing, making him straighten up as he cast his eyes over the other four cauldrons. Gardenia and Maple extract, his nostrils flared in recognition as he took a deep breath. There were no Gardenia seeds or maple leaves in the Draught of Living Death, and neither were they present in any of his currently brewing bat-

“Shields,” Snape snapped, wand flicking before the word had left his tongue. His own ward hissed into existence around him, a dome of faint silver, and the students, trained in the security measures, obeyed instantly.

At once, translucent domes formed around each and every student, covering them as well as their workstations and ingredients. Sparks rippled against their barriers as the vents above began to emit acrid yellow vapors, dense and trailing through the air.

He flicked his wand sharply, vanishing them entirely and sending a gust of wind through each of the vents in the same motion, clearing out of the pipes at once. Frowning as he finally realised where his missing ingredients had been going, Snape slowly turned his head, meeting Percival Weasley’s ashamed, downcast eyes.

No words were needed, for they both knew who was responsible—bloody idiots that they were. Casting his eyes about the other students, Snape checked the others for any mishaps, but the sixth-years had stayed safe.

One crisis averted, Snape’s eyes narrowed at once. This class was known to be for the sixth year. The twins were stupid, yes, but even they knew that this wasn’t going to work on them. Not with the vapors being circulated through the ven—his eyes narrowed as he followed that train of thought, looking at the open vents above.

This was not meant for them.

His wand rose along with his magic, and the empty blackboard shimmered for a moment as he removed every illusion in this room at once. On its surface, chalk-scripted words appeared, letters warping into broad, curling script, mockingly radiant:

“SOLARIS FLORENS—SUN FOR ALL, SHAME FOR SLYTHERIN. HAPPY CHRISTMAS!”

‘A new adaptation’ he thought, reading the tiny, scrawling words written below the bold letters, lip curling in disdain as he saw just why the Weasley twins had decided to be so impetuous, so bold this time. He had long moved past the question of just how the twins learnt of these recipes and adapted them for new applications. Severus had accepted them to be the followers of those damned Marauders, even if they were but a pale imitation of Potter’s and Black’s insolent, arrogant bullying.

For a moment, silence reigned in the class. And then the screams began.

From outside.

Snape’s eyes narrowed to slits as he whirled around, vanishing every potion still bubbling in the student’s cauldrons. “Class dismissed. Rookwood, Carrow, clear out the corridors of the potion. Prefect Weasley, you shall come with me. Right now.”

“Anaisàbhailte” He heard the boy behind him mutter as soon as the door was opened. Severus, however, did not need such childish tricks. A flick of his wand cleared away their immediate surroundings, turning yellowish vapors into harmless water droplets as he forced a transfiguration on the magical substance. As the area in front of him was cleared, Snape found his eyes drawn to a screaming pair of first-year students at the corner to his left, the children on their knees and scratching at their heads as a single Gardenia slowly sprouted upon their hair, along with a smatter of grasses.

“Finite,” he muttered, stopping the blooming in its tracks as he walked towards them, eyeing the flower and grasses critically. It didn’t appear to grow downwards as well, thankfully. But was it reversible with a simple magic spell? Twisting his wand counter-clockwise, Snape chanted the reverting spell inside his head, watching the Gardenias and grasses recede slowly. Smirking as the cosmetic changes vanished entirely, Snape summoned two vials of a calming potion to his hand and gave them to the shivering, clearly shaken students.

“Drink slowly,” he ordered as they took it from his hands, and he instantly began to walk towards the dormitories, faint screams and shouts still echoing through the dungeons as vapors filled every inch of the space before him.

“I apologise Professor,” Weasley’s weak voice came from his shoulder as he cleared yet another corridor, dozens of third years shouting incoherently before them as flowers and grasses of all kinds sprouted from their heads.

“I hope you were not hoping to become a Head Boy, Mr. Weasley,” he snarled quietly, casting the finite-reverto combination…only for nothing to happen. The students continued to shout and try spells, the smell of the potion continued to linger in the air, and Snape…Snape found himself wanting to show the twins just why he was the Master of Potions, and not them.

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The Slytherin table was half-empty.

And it was not just because the Christmas holidays were starting from tomorrow.

More than half, really—whole stretches of bench gaped bare, silver goblets untouched, platters cooling under the enchanted ceiling. Only a scattering of their House sat in stiff silence, some still bearing the evidence. Tufts of cropped hair, bald patches, or worse, the stubborn remnants of greenery sprouting despite every spell they’d thrown at it. Laughter rippled from the other tables each time another late arrival slunk in, head bowed, crown of flowers swaying like mockery.

Daphne sat between Harry and Persephone, her back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap. She could feel Persephone’s fury radiating in the tense set of her shoulders, saw Harry’s jaw working, his hand clenched white-knuckled around a fork. She kept her eyes forward, outwardly composed, yet inwardly seething with a fury she had rarely experienced, if at all.

She remembered.

It had begun in the common room, warm firelight on stone, the usual din of voices echoing under the green-glass lamps. Theo and Blaise bent over a chessboard, Draco muttering with Crabbe and Goyle, Tracey scribbling a letter by the hearth. Then—the cough.

Not mild, but violent and alarming in the way that it had drawn nearly everybody’s attention. Tracey doubled over, quill snapping under her knee as she wheezed and hacked, eyes streaming. Daphne leaned forward at once, only for the smell to strike her.

Roasted, nutty, cloying. A lifetime spent at the edges of cauldrons simmering with potions told her just what she was smelling. Gardenia…along with Maple. Her eyes shot to her dearest friend as horror grew in her mind, 

The air had shimmered, yellow mist trailing from the vents and rising from the corners. Persephone’s wand was out, a shield flaring green around their little circle. Harry swore, dragging Daphne down as vapors curled close.

But Tracey had already breathed in too deeply. Daphne saw it—the strands of brown twisting, splitting, stalks forcing themselves from her scalp, leaves unfurling slick and green. A bud swelled, dragged her head sideways, and then burst into golden bloom.

The scream that followed still rang in Daphne’s ears.

They had tried everything. Persephone’s counter-curses, Harry’s reversals and untransfigurations, while Daphne clutched Tracey’s wrist and whispered to her—but nothing had worked. The rest of the common room had dissolved into chaos: Theo hacking violets from Blaise’s head with a swipe of his wand, Millicent pounding the wall as daffodils sprouted through her braids, Warrington yelping as bluebell flames singed ivy that crawled across his scalp. Prefects Rookwood and Carrow shouted orders along with other seventh-year prefects, wands flashing, yet order was hard to maintain in the chaos that had been unleashed in the commons, in the dormitories. Merlin’s balls, they had not even spared the restrooms and corridors!. 

Snape’s voice thundered distantly as he created some semblance of an order in the aftermath, clearing away the potion fumes from the Slytherin side of the dungeons. But inside their walls, flowers reigned.

Slowly, as more and more students around them were affected, something became clear to them. Once the bloom completed, simple magic failed. Only shears or hair-fall potions could undo it. And so Tracey had been carried, sobbing, to the Hospital Wing, hidden away under Madam Pomfrey’s care with dozens of Slytherins, and the one single Hufflepuff caught in between.

And through the panic, Daphne remembered Harry’s warning from days ago—how Neville had told him, days before, that the Weasley twins were plotting “something for the Slytherins.” She hadn’t believed it then, had brushed it off as another of Gryffindor’s endless schemes. Then, the whole Parseltongue thing with Longbottom had happened and she had completely forgotten about it. Now, with Tracey sobbing into Pomfrey’s potions and half their House shorn or humiliated, she knew that the twins hadn’t.

This had been planned. Promised for days and carried out when they least expected it.

Her gaze slid back to the Hall, to the jeering Hufflepuffs pounding their tables, to Ravenclaws whispering gleefully, to Gryffindors howling with laughter as Adrian Pucey trudged in with a Gardenia still crowning his head like some grotesque parody of laurels.

The humiliation was total.

Daphne did not speak. She kept her mask in place, chin high, every muscle still. But inside, she carved the names of Fred and George Weasley in a special place. Because Slytherins remembered, and Daphne was nothing if not a Slytherin.

Because Dumbledore and the Professors might think that detention and point loss, and refusal to grant Christmas leave were acceptable punishments, but she didn’t.

And when the chance would arise, she would take her own satisfaction out of their misery.