On Thursday, evening after dinner, the atmosphere in the Slytherin common room was, as usual, calm. The restrained murmur of voices, the muffled rustle of pages, and the crackling of the fire in the hearth were pleasant to Arcturus, who sat in his usual spot by the bookshelf, outwardly an island of complete tranquility. This very island was about to be disturbed by two sixth-years, who themselves didn't understand why they were provoking him, but they clearly enjoyed it. Impunity breeds insolence.
"Malfoy," came the mocking voice of Torbin Rookwood from above. "How's your... secret club doing? The Slytherin Council, was it?"
His friend, Edgar Crone, leaned against the mantelpiece, barely suppressing a smirk.
Arcturus slowly tore his gaze from the book, which in truth only served as cover for his sharp, rumor-hungry ears. His gaze was empty, as if he had just returned from a long journey through his own thoughts.
"It's going well," he replied in a flat, emotionless tone. "But, you know, the main success for today is that none of my now, as you put it, 'club' ran off to tell tales to the Gryffindors, the Ravenclaws, and especially to Professor McGonagall, unlike some."
The corners of his lips twitched in a slight smirk, and his words were perfectly audible to those nearby. Soon, silence fell over the entire common room. Everyone watched the development of events with anticipation.
"No wonder you were friends with Answorth back in the day. You're very much alike... Torbin. Weak and good for nothing except running your mouths."
Torbin was momentarily dumbfounded, before anger coursed through his face like a dark wave. The mention of his meetings with Vance and the Gryffindors was well disguised by his feigned anger at the mention of the dead Benedict Answorth. Taken together, this was the last straw in the insult, which had started veiled and ended blatantly.
"You're delusional, brat," Crone hissed, straightening up. "And no matter how vile we may seem to Slytherin, in Britain there are always those to whom we will cede first place. And that place is very closely tied to you... Malfoy."
The hint was transparent, and it seemed someone had forgotten that insulting a noble scion like that was very dangerous, or perhaps they thought a duel with him was nothing to fear. The insult hung in the air like a heavy weight. This was the line everyone tried not to cross, but someone clearly lacked restraint.
Arcturus's jaw muscles tightened sharply under his skin. Few could understand that right then, a primal, blinding rage was washing over him, threatening to breach all the dams of self-control. He was one step, one breath away from losing it. But that step was not taken, for he quickly regained his composure, having initially intended to provoke them into such an insult in the first place.
Instead of instant retribution, he slowly, with deadly calm, closed the book, placed it on the table, and stood up. His movements were fluid, completely devoid of haste. He approached Torbin, who was trying to act as if he hadn't said anything out of line, but he was watching.
The gaze of his sky-blue eyes, meeting Rookwood's, seemed to look right through his soul. A cold, piercing gaze ready to tear the brainless hunk of meat before him to shreds, but the owner of this chilling stare merely looked into the eyes of the frozen Torbin.
Arcturus was only slightly shorter than Torbin, making the authority in his gaze all the more felt. A gaze that, looking up, belittled the taller and elevated the shorter in the eyes of the witnesses.
"You insulted me, Rookwood," his voice rang out with such cold clarity, such confidence and finality, that the words seemed to freeze in the air. "And you insulted my family. I cannot let this pass unanswered."
"There were no hints," Crone immediately interjected, trying to defuse the tension with a habitual smirk. "You interpreted those words according to your own true opinion."
But the deflection didn't work. Arcturus merely gave him an indifferent look, then returned his gaze to the pinned Torbin.
"Torbin Rookwood, I, Arcturus Corvus Armand Malfoy, insulted by your words, challenge you to an official duel, tomorrow afternoon. Until... first blood." And these words sounded like a final verdict. "And now... get out of my sight."
Was Torbin afraid of a duel with a third-year? A minute ago — definitely not. But now, deep down, he was beginning to be afraid, not understanding how the boy standing before him could have such a terrifying gaze. Rookwood didn't even answer when he was told where to go, like a kicked dog.
The boy's chilling gaze slid over both sixth-years one last time. And this was certainly not the gaze of an angry teenager. It was the gaze of a lord who, from the height of his status and the antiquity of his lineage, observed something bothersome and unclean. Eyes full of indifferent contempt and a willingness to kill at any moment would have frightened any student.
Rookwood and Crone, succumbing to instinct, almost obeyed, as the words for new barbs stuck in their throats. They were saved from this humiliation by the timely arrival of the Slytherin prefect.
"Rookwood, you disappoint me more every day," came the imperious voice of the prefect, Lucian Foley. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking at the upper-years with an expression of deep and bored disgust. "Go to your rooms. Immediately. And if I ever hear that you've been harassing a younger student because of your personal complexes again, you and I, Torbin, will have a conversation on a completely different level. Understood?"
The pressure was undeniable. Foley, as the legitimate prefect, held far more real power within these walls than mere hints. Rookwood, already pale, nodded, threw a last venomous glance at Arcturus, and, nudging Crone with his elbow, quickly retreated into the depths of the common room towards the dormitories. Another time, he would have argued with the prefect, but this time Foley had unconsciously saved them from even greater shame.
Arcturus did not watch them leave. He picked up the book again, sat in the armchair, and opened it exactly to the page he had stopped on, as if he had only paused to shoo away a fly. But everyone who had witnessed the scene would whisper about it for a long time, granting Arcturus's keen ears the satisfaction of a goal achieved. He only regretted that in ten minutes, he would have to get up and head towards the dormitories.
Perhaps he hadn't planned to take it as far as an official duel, but this outcome could also set the Plan in motion. The main thing was to humiliate his opponent during tomorrow's duel. Then everything would work out even better than planned.
Meanwhile, the unsuspecting Torbin Rookwood and Edgar Crone walked silently down the corridor towards their room. The humiliation burned them from the inside like acid. Especially Rookwood. No joke, a sixth-year had been publicly challenged to a duel by a third-year!
And not just challenged, because first the brat, as Torbin had called him, had humiliated him... and later, Prefect Foley had put him in his place, like an inexperienced first-year. And they were both too stunned and angry to find the words to answer this disgrace.
Only when the door to their room, where they had lived alone since Answorth's death (their third roommate), appeared before them, did Crone exhale hoarsely:
"What the fuck was that all about?!"
"A bag of hallucinogenic potions must have burst, and we imagined all of it," Rookwood hissed through his teeth, roughly pushing the door. "What a crazy dream! And tomorrow, this Mordred-forsaken nonsense will only get worse!"
Rookwood knew that if he won the duel, it would be a disgrace for Malfoy, but if he happened to lose, the disgrace would be for life. However, as they entered the room, they didn't realize the door hadn't closed all the way. Its edge had suddenly met resistance — a thin, elusive woman's shoe.
The angry thoughts Rookwood was exchanging with his friend caused his brain to set aside this insignificant detail, only to receive a silent Petrificus Totalus in the back the next second and fall flat on his face.
Crone, unlike his friend, was a much more skilled wizard and had shown decent results in the Dueling Club. He reacted on reflexes, instantly lunging sideways and spinning as he moved. His wand traced a defensive arc through the air. But this was a mistake. His attention was focused on the defensive spell, not on the opponent. His mind only thought about staying alive.
A flash of the blinding variant of Lumos Solem struck his eyes, making him cry out in pain and shock. The next moment, something strong, like a tentacle, grabbed his leg and yanked it towards itself. He lost concentration, and receiving a Stunner to the forehead, he helplessly flew onto his back. The last thing he saw before his vision almost completely faded was the silhouette of a wand and the woman's hand holding it. Then, only darkness.
Perhaps he wasn't the best duelist, but among his Slytherin peers, he was one of the best. Hence, he immediately understood that only one girl could pull off such a thing against two, albeit not the strongest, but still strong sixth-years, even considering the element of surprise, in two seconds. And her name was Merula Snyde. Hogwarts' most powerful female student, who, the second she neutralized them both with a simple Petrificus, immediately used an unpleasant and not-so-light curse of temporary blindness. Almost complete.
Ten empty minutes later, the door to the room, which Merula hadn't even bothered to lock with a cascade of charms, opened again for the two Slytherins, also without a knock.
The light from the corridor revealed a horrifying scene. Two sixth-years lay on the floor, paralyzed but fully conscious, and, of course, their eyes darted back and forth, unable to see anything beyond their noses.
***
I closed the door behind me. My fingers immediately retrieved a small vial from my inner pocket. The glass was cool, and inside sloshed a thick, shimmering amethyst liquid — I recalled this little trick had been used to knock me out more than once.
In my right hand, I held my wand, and with two quick flicks, both helpless idiots, blinded for half an hour, found themselves bound by the Incarcerous spell. Then I crouched down next to Rookwood, turned him over, and simply removed the Petrificus with the counter-spell.
Of course, feeling the limited ability to move, he started screaming and writhing like a caught caterpillar, but the Silencing Dome had already been set up by Merula. I just had to put them to sleep. Taking advantage of his screaming, I dripped two drops into his mouth, enough to keep him asleep until morning.
By the way, he even threatened that his father was a Death Eater. Which, by the way, was true — his father was currently sitting in Azkaban... forever. He had been Voldemort's spy in the Department of Mysteries. If he knew who he was threatening... the Dark Lord's entire inner circle would laugh their heads off.
The same procedure awaited Edgar Crone. After we ensured they were both asleep, I thanked Merula for her help and promised I wouldn't forget her service.
She pretended very well that she pulled off stunts like this almost every day, but I could see she was on edge. Finally, telling us not to cross the line too much, she left.
Who did she mean by 'us'? Oh, she meant me and Isabel, who would be here very soon. Checking that both were definitely unconscious, I decided to vent a little while I waited for her.
"Ah, my dear friends, if only you knew how often they knocked me out like this," my voice sounded quiet, almost gentle in the deathly silence of the room. "In that hut. Bound as I was, they constantly fed me that marvelous potion." I gently shook the vial, and the liquid inside swayed, casting purple reflections on their faces. "One drop was enough to knock me out for six hours. The Answorths were very kind to me!"
Smirking, I let the pause drag on, not even understanding who I was performing for. The door, which neither of us had locked with the charms these two idiots had placed, was now closed with a simple locking spell — for my peace of mind.
Whiling away the time, I waited for the second participant in this cruel mistreatment of "children."
And soon, after four knocks, the door was opened with a simple Alohomora, and Nox quickly entered the room. Her jet-black hair was pulled back into a tight, impeccable bun, not a single strand out of place. In her hands, she carried a bundle of dark, soft leather and a long silver stylus for drawing. Then we got down to business.
"I take it everything's clean," she said shortly, sweeping the room with a single glance.
I nodded. Words were unnecessary to understand that she meant the ritual cleanliness, not physical cleanliness. We both knew why we were here, because today I had held a Council meeting where I initiated everyone into my latest Ingenious Plan. Well... I only initiated them into the first stage, but that was necessary!
In short, we both understood the cost of failure and the necessary measure of caution. I unfolded the leather bundle — inside lay small chalk stones, just stones with pre-carved runes, a mixture of crushed obsidian and silver powder, and several dried, strange-looking roots. In short, everything we needed today.
Together, in complete, almost ritual silence, we worked and worked for a long time. Isabel often knelt, her fingers with the ease of a virtuoso drawing lines on the floor. The silver stylus left a thin groove in the stone, in which magic was already felt. I stood over her, checking the drawing in a battered folio I had taken from another fold of my robe. This ritual had come into my hands quite some time ago, and finally, the perfect moment for its application had arrived.
"The balance probably needs to be adjusted a little. What do you think, maybe change the angle of the anchors?" She pointed the stylus at one of the forming segments of the complex ritual circle... well, complex for us. "The acceptance channel needs to be strengthened here. Otherwise, the resonance will be too strong. It could... trigger the last cycles in a row, and that..."
"Will end badly, I know," I finished her sentence, then leaned down myself and began changing the position of the stones with engraved runes, also adding a pinch of silver powder to a specific curve in the line.
Our knowledge and skills were fragmentary, but years of painstaking study of the dustiest tomes here, in the library, and of our home knowledge, had made us decent amateur Ritualists. Of course, we were still dilettantes in the eyes of even the apprentices of the Ritualist Guild, but for our purpose, this fusion of skills proved sufficient.
We were drawing a circle for one of the most sophisticated and... elegant curses I had been able to find in the last couple of years: Somnium Visus — The Curse of Prophetic Nightmares. Its advantage, for these two, was that it didn't maim the body. Yes, indeed, it didn't even leave bruises!
It reached directly to the source of all human fear — the mind, or rather, the subconscious. Showing the brain terrifying dreams, the curse would constantly thrust the victim's face into their deepest, most irrational horrors, making them absolutely real during sleep. And then, like a skilled gardener, the curse directs the shoots of this sown terror, this wild, subconscious hatred and panic... towards a strictly defined figure from memory. Towards the one or those I specify during the ritual's creation.
And there it was — a way to sow discord in the motley crew led by Vance, by simply making Vance the object of hatred and panic. However, in that case, the curse would fall on very unsuitable ground and would quickly, literally within a couple of days, lose its effect, not being fed by the victims' fear emanations to gain momentum.
Because they would quickly figure out that something was wrong with them, even if it was only a chance. I wanted guaranteed revenge! That's why I decided to do the opposite. To achieve the exact opposite effect, it was enough to make the object of hatred and panic... myself.
Just yesterday, I had been angry at the whole world, from Dumbledore, who, by the way, even on this damn Thursday hadn't forgotten to wait for me near the stairs, to those assholes I had pointed out to Merula literally yesterday.
And today, I just wanted to provoke their anger, and then shut them up with this curse as my little revenge, but everything worked out even too well, considering the further stages of my Plan. Because the plan didn't end with revenge; revenge was only the first stage.
When the last rune was completed, and the circle closed with a faint, sigh-like hum, the room changed. The air grew heavier, as if saturated with an invisible dew. The lines on the floor now glowed with a dull, ominous crimson, like hot coals beneath ashes. In the center of this shimmering pattern lay the two, their faces slightly contorted, even though their consciousness was far away. Their brains were already beginning to absorb the poison we had prepared for them.
We exchanged glances. In Nox's eyes, I saw only cold, almost clinical curiosity of a scientist observing an experiment. In mine, I knew, only icy satisfaction was reflected. The satisfaction of a spider that had not only caught the flies but had also finished weaving its perfect, invisible web, in which they would thrash until dawn, and for a long time after that day.
According to my calculations, if they didn't detect the curse, it could last up to a month, or even longer. All this time, these two, subconsciously, would associate their increasingly frequent nightmares with me. How pleasant it was to know that! Very, very pleasant!
Without further words, we gathered our tools. Then we cleaned the room of any traces of the ritual, put them on their beds — fortunately, we had enough sense to assume they were walking towards their respective beds, meaning the only bed with belongings on the right belonged to Rookwood, and the left one, accordingly, to Crone.
We gave the room one last look and, ensuring everything was clean — only two bodies lying on their beds, doomed until dawn to drink from the cup of nightmares they themselves, through their arrogance, stupidity, and attempts to play by the wrong rules, had raised to their own lips — we left.
The door closed behind us, this time with their own cascade of charms already in place. Now the room was closed to us. We walked down the corridor. The corridors were, of course, empty, except for the nighttime lighting, because while we were performing the ritual, curfew had fallen... about two hours ago. So, all that remained for us was to wish each other good dreams and go to sleep. Although for me, it was just a few steps, while Isabel had to trek all the way to the girls' wing.
However, upon entering my room, as expected, I found no one. After all, there was still someone else in our native Slytherin who was worthy of revenge, and at that moment, he was surely experiencing the worst minutes of his life. For this task, not only Cassius and Blackmore but even the laziest and most sleep-deprived Marcus Avery had forgotten about sleep.