Nothing happened.
Let me reiterate—for the sake of irony, for the sake of clarity.
Nothing serious happened.
Not officially, anyway. No announcements. No scandal. Not even a whisper outside the circle of those who already knew. One of Hogwarts' greatest strengths under Dumbledore's rule isn't its wards or its legacy.
It's silence.
Things happen here all the time. Real things. And you'll never know. Not unless you're meant to. Not unless someone like Dumbledore wants you to.
Take Harry's third year—Buckbeak and the execution fiasco. That had some flair. Big emotional weight. It was packaged like a lesson in empathy. "Protect the innocent." That sort of thing.
People remember that.
But Angelica?
Flint?
They'll be forgotten before the dust even settles.
Even now, Angelica's back in class. Pale, quiet, careful—but present. And Marcus? Suspended. Along with the rest of his lot. Two months. Just enough time to appear serious, to seem just, to give Snape something to growl about in staff meetings and the parents something to fume about at breakfast.
But the real list of who knows the truth? It's short. Snape. Dumbledore. The students involved. Their parents. And me.
The last part—me knowing—that's the detail Dumbledore and Snape are pretending doesn't exist. I know. They know I know. And we all act like I don't.
Because that's how the game works.
The thing is, Dumbledore didn't hand them a suspension. He handed them a sentence. A quiet, brutal one.
Two months away from Hogwarts right before exams? It's like clipping a runner's legs right before the race.
There are no private tutors in this world. No neat little crash courses on magical theory in Pureblood mansions. This isn't some fanfiction where every Slytherin has an uncle at the Department of Mysteries and a vault full of enchanted scrolls.
This is reality.
Medieval, muddy, and vicious.
You learn at Hogwarts, or you don't learn at all.
So yes, they'll struggle. They'll fail some subjects. And the pressure during seventh year will turn their bones to ash.
That's the fantasy everyone tells themselves. That the system will balance out. That actions have consequences.
But that's bollocks.
Because those boys? They're Purebloods. Their families own half the damned Ministry. They'll find work. They'll find wives. They'll slip into influence like their fathers and grandfathers before them. The game was always rigged.
So their punishment?
Completely insignificant.
A blemish on parchment that'll be erased with a handshake and a fat donation.
Meanwhile, Angelica's pain is permanent.
Even if she doesn't remember it.
Even if the memory charm worked.
And that raises a question, doesn't it?
Why didn't St. Mungo's get involved?
Memory magic like that should've triggered alarms. Protocols. Healing teams. Oversight. Instead?
Silence.
Just like the Basilisk attacks last year. Just like everything else Dumbledore doesn't want people to think about. You blink and it's gone. Wrapped up. Tucked away.
So what am I doing about it?
What's my grand, plan?
Nothing.
For now.
I'll do what I've always done—tuck my fangs back in. Keep the claws sheathed. Hide the venom behind my smile. Because if I show them now, they'll see the strike coming. And the bite won't sink deep enough.
But this waiting game won't last forever.
In chess, if one side moves other have to . Back and forth.
But what happens when a third player flips the board?
That's what I'm waiting for.
That moment.
Because when it comes—when the game shudders, when someone tries to seize the board by force—I won't be in the shadows anymore.
I'll be on it.
And the world will learn there's a new player.
I've finished most of the Hogwarts curriculum already. Only Apparition remains, and that's a skill I can master alone using room of requirement .
Two months.
That's what I have.
Two months of silence. Two months of sharpening the blade. Two months in the Room of Requirement, drilling every flick, every twist, every intention behind Apparition until it's a reflex, not a thought.
Because when I move—
Not just move, but truly act—
It won't be on Dumbledore's board.
It'll be on mine.
And I won't be playing to win.
I'll be playing to change the game.