Draco Malfoy lunged for Marcus Flint, trying to stop him—but he was a heartbeat late. A vicious jinx lanced off Flint's wand, knifing in at a nasty angle towards Hermione.
Flint barked at Draco, annoyed. "What are you doing! I was aiming for that mud— for her face. Now it'll only hit her neck!"
Draco stared at him like he'd seen a ghost. "You idiot. You've no idea what you've just done. Don't you dare drag me into this!"
Then he yanked out his wand, smacked himself with it, and yelped, "Ah! I'm fainting—none of this is my fault!" He collapsed beside the wall.
Flint sneered. "Spineless Malfoy. Is that one of Daddy's tricks? All you Malfoys are cowards."
His eyes slid back to Hermione, hungry for the sight of sores blooming across her skin.
Hermione had barely time to register the incoming curse—too late to dodge—when a familiar figure stepped in front of her.
"Theodore—? No!"
She watched, stunned and tear-bright, as Theodore Ashbourne took the jinx head-on. It shattered on the golden sheen ringing his body without leaving so much as a scratch.
Theo turned, gentle. "I'm fine, Hermione. Little hallway hexes—can't even make my nose bleed."
It wasn't bravado. With Adamantine Body, Unclouded Mind layered over him, Flint's gutter magic couldn't have dented Theo even if Professor Snape himself had cast it—so long as it wasn't true Dark work.
Hermione exhaled hard, legs weakening with relief. If Theo had been hurt because of her—
Theo's gaze cooled to ice as it lifted to the Slytherins. He'd meant to leave "kids scuffling" to kids. But a high-year sneak-hexing a first-year, slurring her blood in the same breath?
Brats like that needed training. The kind you remembered.
His ancient staff cracked against the flagstones—boom—drowning every incantation in the corridor.
Ten-Thousand Transformations surged through his wandwork. Slytherin hems writhed to life. Some spilled into hissing serpents that reared and tasted the air at their owners' faces. Others thorned into briars that dug just deep enough to make them yelp. For the ones who'd kept it to "open duelling only"—Gemma Farley among them—cloth braided into ropes and cinched them upright, locked in place like practice posts.
Silence fell. Dozens of eyes found Theo as if seeing a young Dumbledore—then thought better: even Dumbledore hadn't shown Transfiguration like this as a first-year… had he?
Gemma, trussed but clear-eyed, swallowed. She'd seen more than most students. This level, at this age—Gryffindor hadn't just enrolled the Boy-Who-Lived; they'd got someone who might rival, even surpass, the greatest.
Her cheeks burned. So much for the Cup… I'll be the prefect recorded for losing the streak.
"What do you want?" she managed.
"Nothing dramatic," Theo said mildly. "Slytherin calls itself noble, but I'm not seeing the etiquette. Consider this remedial posture class. Stand straight. Prefect sets the example."
Colour flooded Gemma's face.
Theo's attention shifted to the only two Slytherins he hadn't bound: the "unconscious" Draco—mercy for quick wits—and Marcus Flint.
Flint looked dazed, suddenly out of his depth.
"You're Slytherin's Quidditch captain—a Chaser, right?" Theo asked, strolling up. "Ever take a Bludger to the jaw? Or catch a Beater's bat by mistake?"
"N—no…"
Theo's staff, Ruyi Bang, whipped sideways.
CRACK.
Flint spun, crashed to the stones, and spat five, six teeth in a bloody clatter.
"There," Theo said, voice flat. "Now you've got the experience. Also, your mouth stank—clearly dental. I've… helped you replace a few."
The corridor held its breath. If anyone had come for the Boy-Who-Lived before, they'd leave remembering the other first-year in red and gold.
Professor Snape arrived on a billow of black, eyes sweeping the bound Slytherins and Flint scrabbling for teeth. His gaze stabbed to the blood beading Theo's staff.
"What is the meaning of this! Who gave you leave—"
Relief flashed in Slytherin eyes. Their Head of House would set this right.
Harry stepped forward—green eyes wide, two perfect tears trembling exactly where Theo had instructed.
"Professor," Harry said, small and stricken, "it really wasn't Theodore's fault. Slytherin started it. Especially Flint—he deserved it. He hexed at us first—and he called us something horrible."
Snape's nostrils thinned. "What," he said softly, dangerously, "did he say?"
Harry's voice dropped. "He… he called us Mudbloods, sir."
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