The night, which usually brought peace and silence to the ancient corridors of Hogwarts, passed restlessly for the inhabitants of Slytherin. A loud explosion that shook the dungeons echoed in every corner of the House, sowing panic and fear. By morning, when the first tentative rays of sun began to pierce the narrow castle windows, it was clear: the night had brought serious consequences.
Thirteen students, members of a secret gathering of older students, were urgently taken to the Hospital Wing with various injuries and concussions. Among them were those who had received burns from magical fire, numerous bruises and contusions from flying debris, deep cuts from the wreckage of a stone table, and those suffering from severe shock. Madam Pomfrey, the tireless Head Nurse, scurried between the beds all night, her steps quick and decisive. She muttered curses under her breath about "these stupid children who are constantly getting into trouble," skillfully applying healing ointments, rapid recovery spells, and cold compresses. The air in the Hospital Wing was heavy with the pungent smell of antiseptic, mixed with the cloying aroma of chamomile draught.
In the morning, as soft golden light flooded the ward, illuminating the white sheets and gleaming medical instruments, the injured Slytherin students finally began to regain consciousness. Their faces were pale, and their eyes were red from lack of sleep and pain. Gemma, despite a throbbing headache and a noticeably swollen cheekbone, was the first to get out of bed. Her dark green robes were crumpled, and her hair was disheveled, but even in this state, she tried to maintain the remnants of her arrogant composure. Her gaze was hard and determined. She slowly, almost demonstratively, approached the bed of Marcus Flint, who was sitting with his head in his hands, and stared at him sternly. In her look was a mixture of disbelief, anger, and an unvoiced accusation that seemed to weigh heavily on Marcus. Under her piercing gaze, Marcus, like a cornered kitten, instinctively shrank, pulling his head into his shoulders.
"And what was that, Marcus?" Gemma's voice was quiet but piercing, like an ice shard, every word distinctly articulated in the air. "How much did he promise you to betray us? How could you do that? A pure-blood member of the Flint family, submitting to some...?" She did not finish, but the contempt in her voice made the meaning obvious.
Marcus got up from the bed, his face pale as a sheet, and his movements uncertain, as if he had just woken from a nightmare. He frantically waved his hands, trying to ward off the accusations. "Guys, I'm not to blame! I really don't know what happened! I... I remember walking to the Common Room, and then... then everything's a blur. I honestly don't remember how it happened! Believe me!" His voice broke into a hoarse whisper, carrying genuine pleading bordering on despair. Yesterday felt like a fragmented dream, full of anxious gaps and dark blanks in his memory. His head was splitting, and fragments of other people's thoughts wandered in his mind, as if an invisible, alien will was touching his consciousness, leaving only a vague, oppressive feeling.
Gemma fell silent, her gaze becoming even more suspicious, her cold eyes evaluating Marcus's every word. At that moment, one of the injured, a tall boy with scorched eyebrows and a bandaged arm, pushed himself up on his elbows, his face twisted in a grimace of pain and fury. He began to yell at Marcus, his voice full of indignation and outrage.
"What are you talking about?! We all saw it, Flint! You did it yourself! You! You pointed your wand right at the table and shouted the spell! We all saw it! How could you?! You're a pure-blood! Heir to an ancient line! How could you submit to some mudblood, and then lie about it?!"
The last word, "mudblood," sounded especially loud, saturated with pure-blood contempt. And then Gemma sharply raised her hand, interrupting the yelling Slytherin, her eyes suddenly blazing with cold, calculating fire. A terrible, but logical, realization flashed through her mind.
"Silence!" her cry was sharp, suddenly carrying a piercing, ominous certainty. "I think I understand what happened! Our little genius—Victor Moss—has learned an Unforgivable Curse, and it looks like he has perfected the Imperius!"
A gasp swept through the ward. The word "Imperius" spread across the room, causing a wave of shock, then instant relief, and only then—a grim, ominous joy. This explained everything! It wasn't betrayal, but compulsion. One of the girls, a third-year with a bandaged arm and a pale face, asked nervously, "Gemma, are you sure? Doesn't he realize what awaits him after using an Unforgivable Curse? He could end up in Azkaban!" Her voice trembled with fear, but unmistakable anticipation of revenge was already detectable.
Gemma smirked, her lips twisting into a cold, predatory smile despite the throbbing pain in her cheekbone. "It seems he doesn't know. Or he thinks he's the smartest one... But this is good. Very good. Soon our little friend will be going to feed the Dementors!"
The rest of the Slytherins, gradually recovering from the initial shock, their faces still pale, now sported malevolent grimaces. Dementors... This was the most terrifying punishment in the wizarding world because it took not freedom, but the soul, leaving only an empty shell. The thought of such a terrible punishment for the first-year they hated warmed their souls, filling them with twisted pleasure.
At that moment, the door of the ward quietly creaked open, and Professor Snape entered. His robes silently glided across the floor, creating the impression of a sudden appearance, as if he had materialized from the shadows. His face, as always, was impenetrable, but in the depths of his black eyes, one could discern his usual irritation. He slowly surveyed the ward, pausing on the Slytherins as if assessing the damage, and then his gaze settled on Marcus and Gemma.
"Awake, are we?" Snape's voice was low and even, but full of an authoritative tone that instantly silenced everyone. "Can someone explain to me what happened last night?"
Gemma immediately straightened up, trying to project the image of a confident prefect despite her disheveled state. "Professor, allow me!" Her voice was convinced. "We believe someone used an Unforgivable Curse on Marcus and forced him to do it! The Imperius Curse!"
Snape frowned, his eyebrows meeting over the bridge of his nose. "Are you certain?" His question was full of doubt.
Gemma nodded confidently. "Yes, Professor. And I believe it was Victor Moss."
Snape slowly approached Marcus's bed. His gaze was fixed and penetrating. He placed the tip of his wand on Marcus's head, and for a second, absolute silence fell over the ward. Snape closed his eyes, his face becoming even more focused as he delved into the student's consciousness, using Legilimency. After a while, he withdrew his wand, his frown eased, and his face became completely impassive. He looked at Gemma and the other Slytherins, who were smirking, anticipating triumph.
"Is this supposed to be funny, in your opinion?" Snape asked, his voice quiet but sounding like a clap of thunder, which instantly wiped the smirks off their faces.
Gemma stammered, her self-assurance instantly vanishing, replaced by bewilderment. "What do you mean, Professor?" she muttered barely audibly.
Suddenly, footsteps and a bold, unmelodious singing could be heard outside the door. It was obvious that whoever was approaching was in a very good mood. The door swung open, and Victor burst into the ward.
"Rise and shine, Vietnam!" he shouted cheerfully, but upon seeing Snape, he instantly froze. His smile vanished, and his eyes widened. He assumed a respectful stance. "H-hello, Professor... Did you also come to check on our poor comrades?" he said, trying to make his voice sound innocent and sympathetic.
At that moment, Marcus, seizing the opportunity, again pointed at Victor and desperately yelled, "There, Professor! It's him! He used the Imperius on me!"
Victor looked at him, at Gemma, at their smiles. And then he couldn't take it anymore. He threw his head back and burst into uncontrollable, genuine laughter. The laughter was so infectious and inappropriate that everyone in the ward exchanged glances, not understanding what was happening. They expected anything but such unrestrained amusement.
Snape looked sternly at Victor, his eyes narrowing. "This is no longer funny, Mr. Moss! And you, stop this farce! No curse was used on Mr. Flint! None!"
Gemma, emboldened but with a hint of disbelief in her voice, still tried to object. She laughed uncertainly. "Professor, are you sure?"
Snape slowly turned his head and looked at her. His black, beady eyes narrowed, holding a coldness that chilled the blood. "Are you questioning my competence, Miss Corner?" His voice was so quiet that it was barely audible, yet every word sounded like the crack of a whip.
Gemma instantly paled. She fell silent, her self-assurance instantly evaporated, and she lowered her head, looking at the floor like a chastised kitten.
Victor finally finished laughing. He caught his breath, wiped away the tears of laughter, and said, addressing everyone in the ward as if performing on a stage before an appreciative audience: "God, why such jokes? Now my stomach hurts. You all should be performing in a circus, not studying at Hogwarts. Such talent is going to waste!"
Snape surveyed them all again, his patience clearly wearing thin, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Enough of this circus. Gemma, Marcus, when you are discharged, go straight to my office. Without delay." His gaze stopped on Victor. "And you, Mr. Moss," he said, his voice filled with a hidden threat, "come to see me after classes."
Victor, without flinching, adopted an exaggerated military 'attention' stance: he stood ramrod straight, sucked in his stomach, pressed his arms to his sides, and loudly, like a brave soldier, said: "Sir, yes, sir!"
Snape narrowed his eyes, his gaze piercing Victor, as if trying to decipher his true intentions and understand whether this first-year was mocking him or was truly so abnormal and fearless. "Now, you should prepare for your lessons. And do not be late."
Victor did not change his stance. "Yes, sir! Prepare for the lesson!" he replied even louder, his voice seeming to ring with amusement.
Snape stared intently at him, his lips pressed into a thin line. Then he let out a heavy sigh, full of hidden irritation and unexpressed powerlessness. He waved his hand, as if shooing away an annoying fly, and, turning, exited the ward, his black robes dramatically billowing behind him.
Victor looked at the rest of the Slytherins sprawled on their beds. Their faces expressed a mixture of fury, humiliation, and helplessness. Some looked at him with pure hatred, others with chilling horror. He smiled broadly and said, his voice full of playful malice that seemed to spread throughout the ward: "Alright, get well soon, CLOWNS! We're not saying goodbye. I'll see you around." With those words, he turned around easily and, whistling a cheerful tune, left the Hospital Wing, leaving a trail of bewilderment, humiliation, and fury behind him.
A heavy, oppressive silence hung in the ward, broken only by the occasional groans of the injured and stifled breathing. The Slytherins, humiliated and defeated, lay and stared at the empty doorway. There was no Imperius. This meant that Marcus had done it himself, of his own free will, or, even worse, under some other, incomprehensible and undetectable form of control. And that damn Moss had not only escaped punishment and ruined their meeting but had also managed to ridicule them.