This wraps up the first arc of the story, and I can move on to focus on the main characters now.

The average Porlock is two feet tall when fully grown, and juvenile Porlocks take up to eight years to fully mature... Propping open my copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, I hunched over my parchment, quill in hand. My Care for Magical Creatures Essay was only due next Monday, but it never hurt to start early. The sooner I was done, the sooner I could move on to other things. 'The mane of the Porlock, its most identifiable trait begins developing at the third year.' No, that didn't sound right. Erasing the offending phrase with a quick 'text delere', I thought of new ways to reword it.

Still, my mind wandered back to my encounter with Bell on the way to class yesterday. I hadn't had time to talk to her since, beyond a few greetings being exchanged along the corridors. She seemed to view me in a different light from the other Slytherins: her lips puckered and her forehead scrunched up when Flint and Derrick when she passed them, while she merely avoided eye contact with Malfoy and Warrington, opting instead to walk straight by them and converse with her housemates. She offered a warm 'hello' and exchanged some passing comments about classes, but we never did engage in another conversation. Yet.

I smacked my lips in frustration as I remembered I still had a foot of parchment left to fill on Porlocks. As I skimmed my book, the door swung open behind me, and there was the dull thump of footsteps. Out of habit, I turned back.

Lucian Bole's stocky figure approached me, his brows set in its usual furrow. His eyes darted away the moment they met mine. "You'd best come with me. I think Flint wants to speak to us." There was a sour taste in my mouth, but I stood up nonetheless and followed Bole as he skulked back to the Common Room.

Flint. Quidditch practice was over for the rest of the year, now that we had been knocked out of the tournament. What could he possibly want with us? Snape would be announcing the new captain, and Flint was not the kind of person who would offer us warm words of encouragement to spur us on for the next season. His competitive streak meant that each loss left him bitter and resentful, just like when he had fought those Gryffindors...

Of course. This was about the fight, wasn't it? Malfoy was bound to get it now...

The common room was largely vacated. Flint was standing behind a table, arms folded as he scanned the room. Behind him stood Derrick and Montague. While Montague and Derrick remained largely impassive, Warrington's pointed face morphed into an expression of distaste when he spotted me. Malfoy's back was to me, but I could see beads of sweat running down his platinum blonde hair, his knuckles white as they gripped the table surrounding Flint and him. Hesistantly, I walked up beside Malfoy.

Warrington strolled in from the entrance to his dormitory, arms swinging. There was nothing to his behavior to suggest he was fearful, unlike Bole and Malfoy. The door slammed shut behind him, and Bole flinched at the sound.

"It looks like all of us are here." The grimace on Flint's face softened, but he continued watching us nonetheless. "Let's talk Quidditch, shall we?"

There were a few tense nods, and a dramatic yawn from Montague, and Flint carried on. "Three days ago, the Gryffindors defeated us in Quidditch. Two days ago, we crushed them on their pitch in return." It appeared Flint had a very loose definition of the word 'crushed', but the dangerously quiet edge to his voice meant I knew better than to interrupt. "Yesterday, however, McGonagall approached me, and gave me some devastating news. Today, I have to share it with you."

The swagger Derrick had been carrying himself with faded as he stared at Flint. Warrington clenched his fists, revealing white as he let out a snarl. It seemed they already knew the news.

"For the benefits of the juniors on the team, McGonagall found out about the attack. Someone told her about it, and she was going to suspend me. That was probably going to happen for the rest of you too." Montague gave a grim nod, and Derrick's blue eyes flitted around the room. Bole's pale skin lost even more colour.

Suspend us? Didn't Bell and I tell her we were innocent? And what about Bole and Montague?

"Snape tried to talk her down, and he succeeded. Me, Derrick, and Warrington now have detention for the rest of the fucking year! Every night!" Flint's hand jerked violently about as he gestured, his face reddening. "And I don't know why she deems you innocent, Montague, but he only has three weeks worth of detention." Whirling upon Bole and me now, he snapped, "You two. What have you heard from McGonagall?"

Bole blanched. "I don't know!" he choked, taking a step back. Flint's black eyes were upon me now. "And you, Bletchley?"

I blinked. "She hasn't said anything to me so far, either." Flint's breathing quickened. I tried again, "Perhaps she'll tell us soon."

There was a nearly imperceptible twitch in Flint's left eye. "You're lying," he loudly declared. "She visited all of us during class. She would definitely have time to see you."

I couldn't possibly tell him that I told McGonagall about the incident! Besides, the Gryffindors didn't have their memories wiped. I probably could try pinning the blame on them: at this point in time, I suspected Flint's blind fury would latch onto anything that was thrown at him. This would deflect blame away from Bole and Montague, and more importantly, me.

"Look, Flint. Why're you blaming your own teammates? The Gryffindors could have ratted on you. It's not like you managed to Oblivate them... seeing how Malfoy wasn't there that day. Who's to say they didn't tell McGonagall about the fight, and single you out?" I hoped Flint didn't detect the waver in my voice when I made eye contact with him.

He seemed to give this some thought, his breathing slowing and the red leaving his cheeks. "You have a point, Miles. The Gryffindors probably did it. Any ideas who could have done it?" He turned away from me, and surveyed the entire team this time.

Warrington called out, "Might have been that damn Oliver Wood. He was the last one standing." Montague regarded this new information with a pursed lip.

"I think we didn't get Johnson and Bell. Could it have been them?" Montague chimed in.

You're supposed to be on my side, Montague. Still, I could deflect the blame and direct Marcus's fury elsewhere. "The Weasleys could have done it too. They still had their memories intact, anyway."

"Anyway, it's not like we can fight them again, right? They'd be all over us again. McGonagall and the teachers, I mean," Bole added nervously, not eager for another fight.

Flint's face darkened as he took in the information. He seemed to realize that revenge again would be hard to commit, since he was on a tight leash. The speculation about the culprit's identity didn't seem to be a problem with him anymore either, now that he had calmed down. That didn't change his attitude much, however.

"There's nothing much we can do about it then," Flint concluded. He clenched his teeth again. "Meeting's over. Draco, I'd like to speak to you." Malfoy immediately stiffened, but I paid him no mind as Bole and I headed back to our dormitory. He didn't deserve our pity.

I still wondered what McGonagall would do to Bole and I. Montague, who I had named as a non-aggressor, received punishment nonetheless. Had the Gryffindors named him as an attacker? If that was the case, would they point fingers at me too? I was sure some of them would be eager to incriminate any Slytherin, especially the twins. The Weasley family as a whole seemed to have an irrational hatred of my house, and I doubted they were an exception.

With luck, my plan would still hold, and I would get off lightly. As I headed back to my room to resume work on my essay, I wondered who the whistleblower was. Would I ever find out?

If you have any ideas or requests for future chapters, feel free to contact me and I'll see what I can do about them!