Five minutes earlier…
Alice had the Soul-Shaker Banner cranked up to full blast, slamming wave after wave of soul-chilling dread straight into Marcus Flint and Graham Montague (Bole in this version, I guess). The two Slytherin goons staggered around in the thick mist, totally lost, heads spinning like they'd been hit with a dozen Confundus Charms at once. They could hear Alice's footsteps getting closer—calm, steady, terrifying—but they couldn't even figure out which way was up, let alone fight back.
Flint stumbled backward until his hand finally closed around a doorknob. Didn't matter where it led; he just yanked it open and bolted inside. Montague scrambled in right behind him.
Hook, line, and sinker.
The corner of Alice's mouth curled.
Stupefy.
Stupefy.
Stupefy.
Soul-deep agony exploded in their heads. The two boys ricocheted around the room like human pinballs, crashing into shelves, knocking over jars and bottles that smashed into a glittering, stinking mess on the floor.
Mission accomplished. Alice left the note she'd prepared right in the middle of Snape's desk where nobody could miss it, then slipped out of the office.
Harry, Hermione, and Ron were waiting nervously at the end of the corridor. When Alice stepped out of the mist, all three let out the mother of all relieved breaths.
"So… what now?" Hermione whispered.
Alice grinned. "We scatter. Everyone goes home, finds their mom, and plays dumb. No matter what the professors try—Legilimency, Veritaserum, whatever—we know nothing about what happened tonight. Got it?"
The trio nodded hard. They got it.
Alice cast one last cold glance through the open door at the two boys still groaning on the floor, smirked, and shut the door behind her.
…
Severus Snape pushed the office door open and immediately wanted to cry.
His private stores—months, no, years of rare ingredients—were now a crunchy, slimy carpet under his boots. Flint and Montague were sprawled in the middle of it, gasping like fish and clutching their heads.
Snape's eye twitched. For one beautiful, murderous second he honestly considered Avada Kedavra-ing the pair of them and calling it a day.
Reason (barely) won. This wasn't really their fault.
It was her.
Alice Norton.
He muttered the name like a curse. That first-year girl was rapidly spiraling out of even his ability to predict or control.
His gaze swept the wreckage, looking for anything worth salvaging, when he spotted the note. Neat, girlish handwriting on a single piece of parchment.
He picked it up.
Three seconds later, Severus Snape—potion master, Legilimency expert, and all-around terrifying human being—was quietly reevaluating his entire life.
The girl who wrote this note wasn't his student.
This was the head of the ancient and notoriously ruthless Norton family speaking to him as an equal.
Before he could process that, the air beside him popped. Snape sidestepped on pure instinct—just in time for Albus Dumbledore to Apparate exactly where he'd been standing.
Of course he did. Because Hogwarts had an anti-Apparition ward for everyone except the Headmaster, apparently.
Snape's lip curled. "Nothing gets past you, does it?"
Dumbledore surveyed the disaster zone that used to be Snape's office, one eyebrow raised in mild surprise he didn't bother hiding very well.
"Now, now, Severus," he said cheerfully, "is that any way to speak to an old man? Respect your elders."
Snape just glared.
Dumbledore's gaze landed on the two boys still whimpering on the floor. "I felt an extremely powerful surge of dark magic. I thought it prudent to investigate." He tilted his head. "It seems I wasn't wrong?"
Snape hesitated half a second—then spilled everything he'd pulled from Pansy's memories earlier that night. Theodore Nott's "accident." Alice's absolute conviction that Flint and Montague were behind it. Tonight's revenge. The fact that Potter, Weasley, Granger, and Parkinson had all been involved.
Dumbledore blinked. Once. Twice. "That… is certainly an eclectic little crew."
Snape gave a curt nod. "We investigated Nott's death and ruled it accidental. I told Norton that. She didn't buy it. She never has."
"And when I mentioned dark magic just now," Dumbledore said slowly, "you looked surprised—because you're certain Alice didn't use any."
"I know dark magic, Headmaster. Whatever she hit them with, it wasn't that."
Dumbledore hummed thoughtfully, then knelt beside Flint. His eyes unfocused as he slipped gently into the boy's mind.
He came up frowning.
Their recent memories were an absolute mess—shredded, overlapping, like someone had taken a blender to the last half hour. No way to tell what spell or artifact Alice had used.
But then—buried in Montague's memories—Dumbledore caught a flash of a very familiar turbaned figure.
Quirrell.
Interesting. Because the last time he'd checked Montague's memories after Nott's death, Quirrell hadn't been there at all.
Dumbledore's face grew grim. He stood.
"Theodore Nott's death may not have been the accident we thought. Handle this scene, Severus. I have… other arrangements to make."
And with another soft pop, he was gone.
Only when he was sure Dumbledore had really left did Snape unclench his fist and smooth out the note again.
Elegant handwriting stared up at him:
Professor Snape,
This is Alice Norton, Head of the Norton Family, speaking. I'd like to propose a deal. The terms are as follows: