It had been a few relatively quiet days for me—if you ignored the lingering tension of half the Slytherin house trying to hex my head off every other week. I'd been minding my business, attending classes, refining my runic theories, and casually outpacing the rest of my year academically and physically. Nothing unusual, really.
After dinner, I made my way back toward the Gryffindor Tower, my mind lazily wandering through the layers of equations I was working on for magical reinforcement charms. The Fat Lady's portrait swung open with its usual creaky groan, and I stepped into the common room—
—and immediately paused.
The air was wrong.
Crowded. Tense. Nearly every Gryffindor student was gathered near the fireplace, pressed into tight clusters. Low murmurs buzzed like a disturbed beehive, and the mood was... heavy.
Ron pushed past me, craning his neck. "Oi, Seamus," he called, weaving through the students until he reached him. "What's going on?"
Seamus's face was pale, pinched around the mouth. "Angelica," he said grimly. "She was found in the girls' bathroom... unconscious. Looks like a suicide attempt."
That made the room dip into silence.
A beat later, whispers exploded again.
"Who found her?" "Was it potions?" "Did she leave a note?" "It's the Slytherins, I swear—"
And then, as if summoned by the news itself, McGonagall entered the common room, flanked by Professor Flitwick. A stretcher floated between them, silently gliding through the centre of the crowd. Angelica lay on it, eerily still.
My eyes locked onto her body.
She looked... limp. Fragile. Her limbs were too relaxed, her head lolling slightly to one side, the blankets wrapped too neatly—as if to cover something.
I didn't need to be Pomfrey to know something wasn't right. I'd seen her, just days ago, through the curtain in the hospital wing, barely conscious while McGonagall and Snape whispered furiously nearby. I'd seen Percy's panicked thoughts, the scene in the corridor—
My jaw tightened. There were too many dots. And I hated the way they were beginning to connect.
Ron nudged me. "Mate, what do you think happened?"
I didn't answer. Instead, I scanned the room, my gaze falling on a group of older girls huddled together on the far side, whispering urgently.
Perfect.
I muttered under my breath, casting a silent Audite Occultum—a spell I'd fine-tuned from old runic frequencies. Not the most polite thing to do, eavesdropping on your housemates, but desperate times and all that.
"—I'm telling you, it's not just a rumour anymore," one of the girls was saying. "Susan said she heard from a Hufflepuff who overheard Snape and Flitwick arguing about memory charms. Angelica doesn't remember anything."
"Memory charms?" another whispered. "You think she was—"
"I think someone's covering something up. And I think it's the Slytherins. Remember last month when she hexed that fourth-year in green for pinching her arse? She's had run-ins before."
"I heard she was found with her clothes all over the place."
My blood chilled, though my face remained still. The pieces weren't just falling into place—they were slamming together with a clarity that made my stomach churn.
I turned off the spell and made my way over to Neville, who was seated in the corner, looking like he hadn't slept in a week. He didn't even notice me at first—just stared blankly at the carpet.
"Hey, Nev," I said softly. "You alright?"
He blinked, then shook himself. "Yeah. Yeah, just... it's awful, isn't it?"
I nodded. "Come on. Let's go back to the dorms, yeah?"
He didn't protest, just followed quietly. But as we ascended the stairs, my mind kept working—analysing, connecting, strategising.
=========
I slipped through the castle halls like a shadow—barefoot, silent, unseen. The map in my hand pulsed faintly with magical life, revealing patrols like flickers of candlelight. Filch was bumbling around the second floor with Mrs. Norris—poor sod never changed. Sprout was in the greenhouses, and even Flitwick had taken to late-night rounds. Dumbledore must have tightened the noose after Angelica's attempt.
But none of that mattered. My feet knew the way. The map faded from my hand as I slid it into my robe and stepped into the hospital wing, the door gliding open with a whisper of sound.
Angelica lay still—too still. The kind of stillness that doesn't come from sleep, but from exhaustion. Her face was pale, far too pale, and even in rest, her body was curled ever so slightly… defensive, like she was expecting a blow.
A simple non-verbal spell masked the telltale glow of Legilimency, and I gently entered her mind.
I braced for resistance—trauma doesn't let strangers waltz in. But Angelica's thoughts were like a house with the front door left swinging open in a storm.
The first thing I felt… was fear.
She'd tried to die. I saw her trembling hands, the vial, the shaky breath she took before drinking it. I moved past it. I wanted to find the cause. The why.
Her memories flashed in rapid motion—her waking up in hospital, the kind lies McGonagall told her, the way Madam Pomfrey fussed over her and tried to pretend everything was fine. But she wasn't fine. And she knew it.
The next bit made my blood freeze.
Whispers in the corridors. Jeering. Catcalls. And not the playful sort. Words with teeth. Words that stripped dignity. Words that dug up the trauma and rubbed salt into it.
"Oi, Angelica, forgot your skirt again?"
"S'pose you enjoyed it, eh?"
That voice—I knew that one. Marcus Flint.
His face, rough and brutish, sneering at her across the corridor, making a show of lewd gestures while the other Slytherins chuckled like the pack of cowards they were.
She'd tried to ignore them. To pretend it didn't matter.
But her body remembered.
Every time she walked alone, her breath would quicken. She'd glance over her shoulder. She'd flinch at sudden movement.
And then… she broke. Not in one moment, but piece by piece, until there was nothing left to hold together.
I pulled out of her mind slowly, carefully. She stirred in her bed but didn't wake.
I stood there for a long time.
Watching her sleep.
Then turned on my heel and walked back out into the castle.
Back in the dorm, the air was heavy with snores. Ron had managed to twist himself in his sheets again. Neville's feet were poking out from under his blanket. I climbed into bed slowly, my mind still reeling from everything I'd seen.
Marcus Flint… .
I knew now. This wasn't about petty rivalry or schoolyard bullying. This was different. This was evil—not the Dark Mark sort, but something uglier. Something closer.
He broke her. And they laughed about it.
I pulled the blanket over myself and stared at the ceiling.
"Right then," I muttered, my voice barely audible even to myself. "Let's start with Flint and find his why ?."