"Harry, why do you think Fred and George sneaked out of the Dueling Club?" Hermione asked, her voice tinged with confusion as she lay in her sleeping bag.
"I actually know this one," Harry replied, rolling over. In the dim light of the Great Hall, he caught sight of Hermione's wide, curious eyes. "They think something's off between Ginny and Malfoy. Probably went to ask Hagrid what's going on."
"Ginny and *Malfoy*? You mean *Draco* Malfoy?!" Hermione's voice shot up, drawing a few annoyed grumbles from nearby students.
Harry shot a warning glance toward the complainers, and Hermione gave him a playful shove. Lowering her voice, she asked, "How's that even possible?"
Her mind flashed back to earlier in the Great Hall, where Ginny and Malfoy had been at each other's throats, even coming to blows. The idea seemed utterly absurd.
"You forgot?" Harry said. "That bottle of vodka Ginny gave Lockhart—she got it from Malfoy."
"That's just… unbelievable," Hermione muttered, still processing.
She was about to say more when Percy's voice cut through, sharp and out of place. "Enough chatting! Go to sleep—classes are still on tomorrow!"
Percy's shout echoed over the restless crowd.
"Seriously?" came a skeptical voice from the Gryffindor side. "After all this, we still have to go to class?"
Percy zeroed in on the voice, his brows furrowing. "Lee Jordan! I'd know that voice even if you hid your head in your sleeping bag!" He paused, then added firmly, "As long as Hogwarts is open, classes go on as normal!"
The Great Hall erupted in a wave of boos and muttered complaints.
"What's all this noise?" Snape's icy voice sliced through the clamor, quiet but chilling, like ice dropped into boiling water. The hall fell silent instantly. "Anyone who doesn't want to sleep can help me deal with a bucket of unprocessed slugs."
His gaze swept the room, daring anyone to challenge him. No one did. The silence was so thick you could barely hear breathing.
Snape's lips twitched into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. The twins' earlier chaos had soured his mood, but this moment of control felt satisfying.
Then, Professor McGonagall's warm but firm voice broke the tension. "Sleep, children. Rest easy. The professors will watch over you tonight."
The murmurs in the hall gradually faded, replaced by the occasional rustle of sleeping bags and the soft footsteps of prefects patrolling. Once Percy moved on, Harry glanced at Hermione's sleeping bag. She was curled up, her steady breathing and hair covering her face making it seem like she'd drifted off.
Harry was about to close his eyes when he spotted Fred and George slipping back in through the entrance, moving as silently as a pair of owls. Just then, Hermione's voice, groggy from almost-sleep, came from her sleeping bag. "They're back?"
"You weren't asleep?" Harry raised an eyebrow.
"Was about to, but their footsteps woke me," Hermione said, peeking out and following the twins' sneaky movements. "McGonagall didn't punish them?"
"Doesn't look like it," Harry said, glancing their way as the twins crept to their corner. "But they got caught by Snape outside. Nearly had to chug some Veritaserum."
Hermione frowned. "Snape's always like that… By the way, do you think Angelina's petrification has anything to do with Gemma Farley?"
"Not likely," Harry said, recalling how Farley looked at Wood during Quidditch practice—her focus didn't seem fake. "Plus, when the twins came back, I overheard them muttering about Snape brewing an antidote. We'll probably know the truth soon."
"But the monster in the Chamber…" Hermione started, only to be cut off by a sudden, sharp scream from the corner, shattering the hall's quiet.
Most students were already awake—or hadn't slept at all—and all eyes turned toward the sound. Blaise Zabini was sprawled beside his sleeping bag, his dark robes soaked in a pool of crimson liquid. He clutched his arm, blood seeping through his fingers, his face pale as parchment.
"Oh my gosh!" Hermione gasped. Harry squinted, trying to see better.
Madam Pomfrey rushed over with her medical kit, waving her wand. A silver light hit Blaise's wound, stopping the bleeding instantly. She handed him a small vial of purple potion. "Drink this—it'll help the wound heal faster."
Blaise downed it, his face relaxing slightly. Standing, he brushed the bloodstains off his robes and flashed Madam Pomfrey a casual smile. "Thanks, Madam Pomfrey. Just a scratch—probably caught a pin in my sleeping bag."
He turned to head back to his corner.
"Stop," Snape's cold voice rang out. He'd appeared nearby without anyone noticing. Cutting off Madam Pomfrey, who was about to speak, he said, "A pin in your sleeping bag, Zabini? Do you take everyone here for fools?"
Blaise froze but didn't turn. "I'm telling the truth, Professor."
"Are you?" Snape stepped closer, his eyes scanning Blaise's arm like a scalpel. "That wound's edges are too clean—almost like it was sliced by something sharp… say, a precise Cutting Charm?"
Blaise's shoulders stiffened briefly, but his voice stayed steady. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Snape didn't press further, though his dark eyes brimmed with suspicion. "Severus, you're just letting him go?" Madam Pomfrey asked, frowning as Blaise slipped back to his corner. "There's magical residue on that wound. He should come to the Hospital Wing…"
Snape didn't move. "It's not that simple, Poppy," he said, his voice carrying unshakable certainty. "He's lying. That wound wasn't an accident. He's either being threatened—or he's involved in this 'accident' himself."
Madam Pomfrey sighed, catching his meaning, and dropped her insistence on taking Blaise to the Hospital Wing. The hall quieted again, but sleep was the last thing on anyone's mind.
Harry and Hermione exchanged a heavy glance, both sensing the weight of what had just happened. That scream was no "small scratch," and Snape's knowing look cast a dark shadow over the whole affair.
"Harry," Hermione whispered during a moment when Percy's back was turned, her voice light as a falling feather, "what now?"
Her eyes flicked nervously toward Percy, wary of being caught. Harry, unfazed, leaned closer, his warm breath brushing her ear. "Snape's not an idiot. We don't need to do anything."
Hermione's heart skipped at his nonchalance, but before she could respond, Percy spun around, his brows knotted like twisted rope. "Granger! Potter! Watch yourselves! As a prefect, I'm responsible—"
Harry didn't let him finish. With a quick wink at Hermione, he dove into his sleeping bag, leaving Percy fuming alone.
Blaise, curled up in his sleeping bag, still felt the burning pain of his wound, but worse was the sinister voice echoing in his head. Draco hovered nearby, his voice hesitant. "What happened to you?"
Blaise stayed silent, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the sleeping bag's edge.
"Don't play dead, Zabini," Draco pressed, lowering his voice. "What's going on?"
Blaise's throat tightened, but as he opened his mouth, a sharp, venomous voice pierced his mind like a poisoned icicle. "You want to tell him? Run to Dumbledore and confess? How pathetically stupid."
Blaise groaned, sweat beading on his forehead. He bit his lip, tasting blood, to suppress the urge to scream.
"Good thing I stopped you," the voice mocked, swirling in his mind.
"Shut up…" Blaise growled under his breath, nails digging into his palms.
"Shut up?" The voice laughed gleefully. "You think covering your ears will block me out? We're one now, Blaise. Every breath you take, every drop of blood in your veins—it's marked by me."
Draco, noticing Blaise's trembling, frowned. "Hey, you sure you're okay? Should I get Madam Pomfrey again?"
"No!" Blaise snapped, his voice hoarse and raw. "I'm just tired. I want to sleep."
Draco went quiet, saying nothing more. Blaise exhaled, but the voice in his head pushed him to the edge of suffocation.
"Look at your loyal friend," it taunted. "He doesn't even notice something's wrong. Dumbledore? You think that indecisive old man will check on you? Ha!"
"No…" Blaise whispered, a bead of sweat mixing with a tear. "He's the greatest wizard of the century… Dumbledore will figure it out…"
And Snape—Snape knew dark magic inside and out, could spot a lie a mile away. He'd see something was off.
"Pray they do," the voice said lazily. "Pray they figure it out before dawn."
Blaise gripped his sleeping bag, his knuckles white, silently pleading over and over: *Someone, anyone, please notice something's wrong…*
Snape left the hall and found Dumbledore by a window in the corridor, gazing outside. "Blaise Zabini's got a problem," Snape said bluntly.
Dumbledore turned from the window. "Go on."
Snape described Blaise's odd wound, his evasive behavior, and the faint trace of dark magic lingering on him. "He's scared of something—or being controlled by it," Snape added.
Dumbledore's blue eyes gleamed with concern behind his glasses. "We can't wait any longer, Severus."
He tapped the windowsill lightly, and a flash of gold and red appeared as Fawkes landed on his shoulder, ruby eyes reflecting his master's resolve. "Once the students are asleep," Dumbledore said firmly, "I'll take Blaise myself."
The two hurried to the Great Hall's entrance, waiting silently as time ticked by. Fawkes, sensing the tension, perched motionless on Dumbledore's shoulder. When the hall was filled with the soft rhythm of sleeping students, Dumbledore signaled Snape to stay back and approached Blaise's sleeping bag alone.
He gently stroked Fawkes' feathers. The phoenix let out a clear cry, and golden-red flames flared up. Harry stirred awake, but when he looked up, both Dumbledore and Blaise were gone.