Chapter 35

Their minds were empty, yet Draco—or perhaps the diadem—could feel it: the pull, the desire, the insatiable hunger. At first, it was faint, like the distant echo of a storm brewing on the horizon. But as he ventured deeper into Diagon Alley, it grew stronger—a gnawing presence that clawed at the edges of his consciousness. The diadem pulsed against his chest in sync with the rhythm beneath the cobblestones, its whispers weaving through his thoughts like threads of venomous silk.

"Today is the day," the diadem hissed.

Draco's jaw clenched as he ducked into the shadow of a crumbling storefront, pulling his hood lower over his face. His disguise wasn't perfect, but it had been enough to protect him during his months hiding in Knockturn Alley.

A crumpled copy of The Daily Prophet lay discarded near his feet, the headline screaming up at him: "Trial of the Century: The Pureblood Slayer Summoned for Justice Amidst Rising Tensions." He didn't need to read the article to know what it said. Potter's trial had been the talk of the wizarding world for days, and today Harry would stand before the full Wizengamot.

The air in Diagon Alley felt suffocating, thick with anticipation and fear. Wizards and witches hurried past him, their faces pale and drawn, glancing over their shoulders as though expecting someone—or something—to leap out from the shadows. Aurors patrolled the streets in pairs, their wands drawn and eyes scanning the crowd with practiced precision.

As Draco approached the towering entrance to the Ministry courthouse, he paused taking in the scenery. The building loomed above him, its marble façade gleaming unnaturally under the dim light of the overcast sky. Aurors stood guard at the doors, their stances tense, hands hovering near their wands. Crowds of people stood on the outside, everyone wanted to see the spectacle and the trial of the Pureblood Slayer. He couldn't simply walk through the front entrance. If anyone looked too closely, they might see past the glamor charm to the boy whose wanted poster hung among death eaters and Dumbledore alike.

He scanned the area for an alternative route, his sharp eyes catching every detail. To his left, a side alley led to what appeared to be a service entrance, likely used for deliveries and maintenance workers. It wasn't heavily guarded—only one auror stood there, leaning casually against the wall, scrolling through some parchment-like device.

"There."

Slipping into the shadows of the alley, Draco barely registered the uneven chill of the cobblestones beneath his feet. All that mattered now was getting inside undetected. As he neared the service entrance, he paused, pressing himself flat against the brick wall. From this angle, he could see the lone auror more clearly—a young man, perhaps fresh out of training, judging by the slight awkwardness in his posture and the way his wand hung loosely at his side.

Draco reached into his pocket, pulling out a small vial filled with shimmering silver powder. He uncorked it carefully, letting a pinch fall onto the ground before whispering a soft incantation under his breath. The powder ignited silently, creating a faint illusion of movement further down the alley—a shadowy figure darting between crates. The auror's head snapped up immediately, his attention diverted.

"What the—?" the young man muttered, straightening and squinting into the darkness. After a moment's hesitation, he stepped away from the door, moving cautiously toward the source of the disturbance.

Draco didn't waste a second. While the auror's back was turned, he slipped past him, his movements fluid and silent. The service door opened with a quiet click, revealing a narrow corridor dimly lit by flickering torches. He slid inside, closing the door behind him with painstaking care. For a moment, he leaned against the cool stone wall, allowing himself a brief exhale.

The interior of the courthouse was even more oppressive than the streets outside. High ceilings stretched endlessly upward, adorned with ancient runes that pulsed faintly, casting eerie shadows across the cavernous hall. Rows upon rows of stone benches spiraled downward toward the center of the room. The murmurs of the gathered witches and wizards filled the space, a cacophony of judgment and dread.

Draco pressed himself against the wall, keeping close to the uppermost row where members of the press sat. Few paid him any mind—most were too engrossed in the man leading the spectacle.

Tom Riddle.

Clad in crimson robes trimmed with gold thread, Riddle commanded the room. Even from this distance, Draco felt the weight of his presence. For a fleeting moment, Riddle's sharp gaze swept across the crowd—and locked onto Draco's. The Minister of Magic sat beside him, though less prominently, his gaze scanning the crowd with an air of jubilant satisfaction.

Draco forced himself to remain still as Riddle's probing gaze lingered, searching for answers. Satisfied—or perhaps distracted—Riddle gestured to the aurors to begin the proceedings. It didn't help that somewhere, hidden beneath layers of earth and stone, countless pairs of dead eyes watched him, and he could hear their hunger.

According to most, Harry disappeared before breakfast even began a day ago. There had been no official word of it—no announcements or explanations—and even now,. It was hard to know what was really going on, especially since all news had to be cleared and reviewed by the headmaster before release, resulting in news articles that were often weeks late.

Nonetheless, The air in the corridors had been tense ever since, buzzing with whispers about what was happening—what it meant not just for Hogwarts, but for the world at large.

Daphne tried not to let her thoughts linger too long on what they might be doing to him. They were supposed to be prepared for anything—but no amount of preparation could stop her from envisioning Harry alone, isolated, whether he was real or Tonks. It didn't matter which Harry it was; the image haunted her all the same. She forced herself to focus instead on putting one foot in front of the other as she walked alongside Hermione.

Hermione's voice cut through Daphne's haze. "Why does Milicent want to meet with you?" Her tone carried a sharp edge of concern.

Daphne nodded absently, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. "She's been in tears for days. I think she just needs someone to talk to."

"I don't like the idea of any of us being alone right now," Hermione said, her eyes darting down the corridor as if expecting trouble at every turn.

They turned a corner, their footsteps echoing softly against the cold stone walls. Ahead, two Aurors stood guard outside Professor McGonagall's classroom. The sight of them made Daphne's chest tighten uncomfortably. She forced herself to look away, focusing instead on the task ahead.

"I know," Daphne replied, her voice low but determined. "But I can't sit back while people are in danger. We need more information on the Carrow twins and this group. If we don't figure out who's who, we won't be able to stop them from hurting anyone else." Her words came faster now, tinged with urgency. "I might be able to find something useful."

Hermione stopped walking abruptly, causing Daphne to pause as well. When she turned back, Hermione's brown eyes were sharp, piercing. "Be careful," she said firmly. "This isn't some harmless game, Daphne. These people aren't messing around."

"I know," Daphne interrupted, though there was an unmistakable tremor of uncertainty in her voice. Still, she managed a small smile, hoping it looked more confident than she felt. "Don't worry. I'll be fine. Ten minutes then I'll meet you in the wing."

"Just… promise me you won't take any unnecessary risks," Hermione pressed, her gaze unwavering.

Daphne nodded, her expression hardening. "I promise."

Hermione studied her for a moment longer before nodding reluctantly. "And if you need anything—anything at all—start the alarm."

With that, Hermione turned and headed down the corridor, leaving Daphne alone with her thoughts. She watched until Hermione disappeared around the corner, then exhaled slowly, steeling herself for what lay ahead.

The heavy doors of the Wizengamot court creaked open, drawing every eye toward the entrance. The aurors entered first—faces stern, wands at the ready—as they dragged Harry Potter into the chamber. His hands were bound tightly with magical restraints, his disheveled appearance betraying the weight of his circumstances.

The whispers that had been circulating like a low hum through the crowd—speculations, accusations, murmured sympathies—all fell silent in an instant. It was as if the very air had been sucked out of the room. The only sound now was the echoing cadence of the aurors' footsteps as they brought him to stand before the assembly.

Riddle allowed a thin, satisfied smile to grace his lips as he stepped forward, positioning himself at the center of the chamber. His voice was low and deliberate, each word chosen with surgical precision as he addressed the gathered Wizengamot.

"Wizengamot," he began, his tone commanding yet measured, "Today we gather not to indulge in misplaced sentimentality or hero worship but to confront a man whose actions have fractured the very foundations of our society. Before us stands Harry James Potter—accused of crimes so grievous they defy comprehension: murder, conspiracy, treason. Crimes that strike at the heart of everything we hold sacred."

He paused, letting his words hang heavy in the air, their weight pressing down on every soul present. Murmurs rippled through the room; some nodded in agreement, while others shifted uneasily in their seats. Riddle's gaze swept across the assembly, cold and unyielding.

"Consider the stain of murder," he continued, his voice rising slightly."Think of Ginny Weasley—a young life brimming with promise, extinguished without mercy. A daughter, a sister, a friend—taken from this world by an act of calculated cruelty. Consider Sirius Black, whose death was no accident but a deliberate betrayal, extinguished without justice."

The room seemed to grow colder as Riddle pressed on, his unnaturally bright blue eyes glowing under the dim light. "But let us not forget the massacres that have shaken even the strongest among us—the Fawley and Nott families, homes once filled with laughter and legacy reduced to ash in a single, merciless stroke. Lives extinguished without remorse. These were not random acts of violence; they were planned, executed with precision to send a message: No one is safe. "

Riddle turned sharply, pacing deliberately before the assembly, his movements precise and predatory. He pointed accusingly at Harry, his voice ringing out like a gavel striking its block. "This man attempted to assassinate me in broad daylight—for his masters, to showcase their power and expose the impotence of bureaucracy within these walls. And then there is treason itself—the gravest charge one can levy against any citizen. For what greater betrayal could there be than to turn against your own people? To attack those sworn to uphold justice and protect this fragile society we have built together? But let us not forget that Harry James Potter did not simply kill; he terrorized. He became Voldemort's instrument of chaos, carrying out his master's vile schemes without remorse. And why? Because he believes in nothing—not honor, not loyalty, not even humanity. All he knows is destruction."

Riddle stepped closer to the Wizengamot, his piercing gaze locking onto each member as though singling them out individually. "Do you think these atrocities exist in isolation? That they are mere anomalies?" He laughed bitterly, the sound reverberating off the stone walls. "No. They are part of something far greater—a tide of chaos unleashed upon us by those who would see this world and its institutions burned to the ground. And yet…" He paused, letting his words sink in, his tone softening but no less menacing. "...we are expected to believe that such crimes can go unpunished. That those responsible should walk free while we pick up the pieces of their wreckage."

Riddle straightened, his posture commanding yet deliberate. "Hear me clearly today—for what we must do here will be a defining moment in this war. Its reverberations will echo not only throughout our nation but across our entire world. Let it be known that Voldemort's reign of terror ends now. No longer will we live shackled by conspiracies and fear—pureblood families targeted, ministry officials silenced, alliances shattered. This is our stand against chaos and oppression."

He paused again, allowing his words to resonate. "We are gathered here not merely to pass judgment on one man but to affirm the principles upon which our society was built—and to ensure its survival. Today, we draw the line. Today, we declare that no one—not even Harry James Potter—is above justice. Fear has ruled us for too long," he declared, his voice rising slightly, cutting through the tension like a blade. "But fear can also be wielded—not as a tool of oppression, but as a weapon against those who seek to destroy everything we hold dear. We cannot falter now. Not when so much hangs in the balance."

Riddle leaned forward ever so slightly, his piercing gaze sweeping over the assembly once more. "Let this day mark the beginning of a new era—an era where power answers to accountability, and justice prevails over tyranny. What happens here today will shape the future of our world. And I ask you all: Will you let history remember you as cowards who stood aside? Or as defenders of truth and order? Will we stand today and declare that no one will make us feel unsafe in our communities, with our families, and in our homes?"

With a final, sweeping gesture, Riddle raised his voice, addressing the entire chamber with unwavering resolve. "Therefore, I, Tom Riddle, Head of Magical Law Enforcement, call for the execution of Harry James Potter - The Pureblood Slayer. We must send a message to his master, we must send a message to the world, and we must win the war against the Dark Lord. The evidence is clear. The evidence is substantial. The evidence requires you to choose your allegiance once and for all. "

As he finished, the chamber erupted into murmurs, the weight of his words lingering in the air like a storm cloud ready to break. Tom Riddle stood tall.

Daphne made her way through the dimly lit corridors of the Slytherin dormitories, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpets beneath her feet. The air was heavy with an uneasy quiet, broken only by the faint creaks of old stone shifting in the castle's depths.

Reaching the door, Daphne pushed it open cautiously, expecting to find Millicent waiting inside. Instead, the room was empty—neat but unoccupied. A faint trace of lavender lingered in the air, a remnant of Millicent's perfume, but there was no sign of her presence beyond that. Frowning slightly, Daphne stepped back into the corridor, closing the door behind her.

Deciding not to waste time waiting around, Daphne turned and headed further down the hallway. Perhaps Millicent had gone to one of the other common areas or someone else's room instead. As she passed another door slightly ajar, a flicker of movement caught her eye. Pausing, she hesitated for a moment before pushing it open wider, curiosity getting the better of her.

What she saw froze her in place.

Pansy Parkinson sat slumped on the edge of one of the beds, her usually immaculate appearance replaced by a disheveled mess. Her hair hung limp around her face, which was pale and gaunt, almost sickly-looking. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and there was a hollow emptiness in her gaze that unsettled Daphne more than she cared to admit.

"Pansy?" Daphne said, stepping further into the room. "What are you doing here?"

Pansy didn't respond immediately, her head tilting slightly as if processing the sound of Daphne's voice. When she finally spoke, her tone was flat, devoid of its usual sharpness or venom. "I could ask you the same thing," she muttered, not meeting Daphne's eyes. "This is my room too, isn't it?"

Daphne frowned, taking in the scene. Pansy looked like a shadow of herself—frail, fragile, and utterly unlike the brash, arrogant girl she knew.

"You don't look well," Daphne observed bluntly, closing the door behind her. "Are you... okay?"

A bitter laugh escaped Pansy's lips, though it lacked any real humor. "Do I look okay?" She shook her head, running a trembling hand through her tangled hair. "It doesn't matter. None of it matters anymore."

Daphne hesitated, unsure whether to push further or leave things be. "Pansy," Daphne began cautiously, taking a step closer. "What happened? You're not... yourself."

At this, Pansy's head snapped up, and for the first time since Daphne had entered, their eyes met. There was something hollow in Pansy's gaze—like a light had gone out behind her dark irises. Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but no sound came out. Instead, she looked away again, her fingers nervously twisting the edge of the blanket draped over her lap.

"You wouldn't understand," Pansy finally whispered, her voice barely audible. "No one does."

Daphne crossed her arms, trying to mask her unease. It was unsettling, almost surreal. Normally, Pansy wore her arrogance like armor, deflecting anything that might pierce through. But now, that armor seemed to have crumbled entirely.

"Try me," Daphne said firmly. She took another step forward, closing the distance between them. "Whatever it is, you can tell me."

For a long moment, Pansy said nothing. Her hands stilled, resting limply on her knees, and her shoulders sagged as though the weight of the world was pressing down on her. Then, in a voice so quiet it was almost swallowed by the silence of the room, she spoke.

"I don't remember," Pansy admitted, her words trembling. "Anything. Most days, I wake up and feel like I'm missing a piece of myself. Like... like there's this big, gaping hole where my memories and my soul should be." She paused, swallowing hard. "And there's these nightmares of…dead people—I remember…" Her voice trailed off, her eyes distant as though searching for fragments of a past she couldn't retrieve.

Daphne's frown deepened, a chill running down her spine.

"Do you think..." Daphne started, choosing her words carefully, "that maybe someone made you forget? On purpose?"

Pansy's head jerked up sharply, her eyes wide with alarm. "What are you talking about?" she demanded, her voice rising slightly. "Who would do that? Why would anyone—"

She cut herself off abruptly, her expression shifting from confusion to suspicion. For a fleeting second, Daphne thought she saw a flicker of recognition in Pansy's eyes, as though she was fighting against the answer she knew.

"I don't know," Daphne admitted, "But if someone did this to you—if they took something from you—they need to pay for it."

Pansy stared at her, her breathing shallow and uneven. Tears welled up in her eyes, though she blinked them away furiously, refusing to let them fall. "It's too late for that," she muttered bitterly. "Even if I wanted answers, I don't know anything…I-"

Daphne's gaze hardened as she leaned closer to Pansy, her voice dropping into a low, deliberate tone. "The Carrow twins," she said firmly, watching for any reaction in Pansy's face. But even as the name left her lips, something about it felt incomplete—like a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit. Daphne paused, her brow furrowing slightly as silence settled between them.

And then it hit her.

Her eyes widened ever so slightly, and her jaw tightened. "Draco," she whispered, almost to herself, but loud enough for Pansy to hear.

Pansy froze. Her hands clenched around the edges of the blanket, knuckles whitening as though trying to anchor herself against an invisible storm. She opened her mouth to protest, but no words came out. Instead, her gaze darted away from Daphne's piercing stare, landing on some distant point beyond the room's walls.

"No," Pansy finally managed, her voice trembling with forced conviction. "It wasn't him."

"Don't protect him, Pansy. Not after everything he's done." She took another step forward, closing what little distance remained between them. "Do you think he cared about you? About anyone?"

Pansy flinched at the harshness in Daphne's words, but she still refused to meet her eyes. Her fingers twisted nervously at the fabric of the blanket, betraying the turmoil brewing beneath her fragile exterior.

"He… he wouldn't," Pansy stammered weakly, though there was little conviction behind her defense. "He wouldn't do this to me…"

"Wouldn't he?" Daphne shot back, her voice rising slightly. "Everyone knows, He's always used you—for sex, for information, for whatever scraps of power he could squeeze out of you—and when he's done, he discards you like trash. Isn't that why you cheated on him with Theodore?"

Tears welled up in Pansy's eyes again, spilling over despite her best efforts to hold them back. Her breathing grew erratic, chest heaving as she struggled to keep herself together. "I don't…You don't understand," she choked out, her voice breaking under the weight of her emotions. "You don't know what it's like…"

"I do know," Daphne interrupted sharply, leaning down until their faces were inches apart. "I know exactly what it's like to feel powerless, to be trapped in a world where everyone wants something from you. But I also know this: if Draco Malfoy is responsible for what's happened to you—if there's even a chance he's the reason you're sitting here—you owe it to yourself to stop protecting him. Stop making excuses for someone who never loved you, who never cared about anything except his own survival."

Pansy shook her head violently, tears streaming down her cheeks as she pressed her hands to her temples, as though trying to block out the truth Daphne was forcing her to confront. "I can't…" she whispered hoarsely. "If I say it… if I tell you… you'll turn me in."

Daphne sighed, straightening up slightly. For a moment, she studied Pansy with a mixture of pity and frustration before speaking again. "Listen to me," she said, "I don't care enough about you to save you or condemn you. All I want is the truth. Whatever you know, whoever you're protecting—it ends here. You deserve better than to carry this burden alone."

For a long moment, Pansy sat in silence, her body trembling as sobs wracked her frame. Then, slowly, she reached beneath the bed, pulling out a small, ornate box hidden in the shadows. With shaking hands, she pricked her finger on the edge of the box, letting a single drop of blood fall onto the lock. The mechanism clicked open, revealing its contents.

Inside lay a worn leather journal, its pages yellowed with age. Pansy hesitated, clutching it tightly to her chest before finally extending it toward Daphne.

"It's a list," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "Some of the names seem random, but... every name listed here belongs to someone who died last year."

Daphne glanced at the list, her eyes narrowing as she recognized Cormac Mclaggen crossed out name among the entries. But it wasn't just the names that caught her attention—it was the handwriting. The later set of names was written in Pansy's unmistakably looping scrawl, but it was the first set that made Daphne's stomach drop. The initial entries were penned in a sharp, angular script that Daphne recognized all too well—Theodore Nott's handwriting.

The Chamber of the Wizengamot was alive with chaos, a cacophony of voices rising and falling like an angry tide. The air crackled with tension as witches and wizards in their plum-colored robes shifted uncomfortably in their seats, some whispering furiously to one another while others stared ahead, faces grim and resolute. Tom Riddle sat at the center of it all, his crimson robes gleaming under the dim torchlight, a smug smirk etched onto his face. His unnaturally bright blue eyes scanned the room with predatory satisfaction, drinking in the discord he had so carefully orchestrated.

It's time. The Diadem said.

Draco's heart pounded against his ribs. He clenched his fists tightly, trying to steady his mind, though the diadem's presence was overly oppressive. Beneath his feet, the faint rumbling persisted—a low, ominous vibration that seemed to emanate from deep within the earth itself. It was subtle enough to go unnoticed by most, but Draco felt it acutely, as if the ground beneath them were holding its breath, waiting for something catastrophic to happen.

The parliamentarian rose slowly, his voice cutting sharply through the din. "Silence!" he bellowed, raising his wand high above his head. A flash of silver light erupted from its tip, illuminating the chamber momentarily before fading away. The murmurs ceased almost instantly, leaving only the heavy weight of anticipation hanging over the assembly.

"There will be two votes," the parliamentarian continued, his tone formal yet tinged with gravity. "The first vote shall determine whether the accused, Harry James Potter, is guilty of the crimes laid before this court: murder, conspiracy, and treason. Raise your wand to cast light for the affirmative—guilty. Lower your wand for the negative—not guilty."

He paused, allowing his words to sink in. Every eye in the chamber turned toward the members of the Wizengamot seated in their elevated semicircle. Their expressions ranged from stern determination to uneasy hesitation, and Draco could feel the collective unease radiating off them like heat waves. Even those who had spoken passionately during the trial now seemed burdened by the enormity of the decision they were about to make.

"For clarity," the parliamentarian added, his gaze sweeping across the assembly, "should the verdict be guilty, we shall proceed immediately to the second vote: whether or not to recommend execution."

A shiver ran down Draco's spine. Execution. The word echoed in his mind, cold and final.

"Let us begin," the parliamentarian declared, raising his wand once more. "All those in favor of finding Harry James Potter guilty of the charges brought before this court—raise your wands."

For a moment, there was silence. Then, one by one, wands began to rise. Silver light filled the chamber, casting eerie shadows on the stone walls. Draco watched as the majority of the Wizengamot lifted their wands, the illumination growing brighter with each addition. Some hesitated, their wands trembling slightly before joining the rest. Others kept their wands lowered, steadfast in their dissent, but they were vastly outnumbered.

Draco's stomach churned as he counted the lights. Too many. Far too many. The verdict was clear even before the parliamentarian spoke again.

"The accused has been found guilty," he announced, his voice ringing out with finality. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, some triumphant, others mournful. In the center of the chamber, Harry stood motionless, his jaw set in defiance despite the chains binding his wrists. His green eyes burned with fury, locked onto Tom Riddle, who leaned back in his seat, his smirk widening into something almost feral.

The parliamentarian raised his hand, calling for silence once more. When the chamber fell still, he addressed the assembly again. "We now move to the second vote. All those in favor of recommending the execution of Harry James Potter—raise your wands."

This time, the hesitation was palpable. Several members exchanged uneasy glances, their earlier confidence wavering. But then, one by one, wands began to rise again. The light grew brighter, harsher, until it seemed to swallow the room whole.

"Get up. Move. Now."

Draco obeyed instinctively, slipping quietly from his seat. His movements were deliberate yet unobtrusive as he made his way toward a shadowed alcove near the edge of the chamber.

Beneath his feet, the rumbling intensified. It was no longer subtle; the vibrations traveled up his legs, shaking the very bones in his body.

At first, it was small—a faint line snaking across the surface—but within seconds, it widened, spreading outward like the roots of a tree. Gasps erupted from the crowd as others noticed the fissures too, their panicked voices blending into a chorus of alarm.

"What is the meaning of this?" the parliamentarian demanded, his voice trembling as he pointed his wand at the growing fissure.

Tom Riddle stood abruptly, his composure faltering for the first time. "No—He's called for an attack on the Ministry!" His voice cracked with panic, rising above the din. "Aurors, Kill Harry Potter now! Kill him before—"

Before he could finish, the ground beneath them gave way with a deafening roar. Dust and debris filled the air as chunks of stone tumbled into the abyss below. Screams erupted throughout the chamber, echoing off the walls like a symphony of terror. Chaos reigned supreme as people scrambled to escape, pushing and shoving in blind panic.

And then came the silence—a brief, unnatural stillness that settled over the ruins like a shroud. For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though the world itself had stopped breathing.

Then, from the depths of the chasm, came the sound that sent dread coursing through every vein in Draco's body. It was a low, guttural growl, followed by the unmistakable scraping of claws against stone. Shadows writhed and twisted in the darkness below, coalescing into forms both grotesque and horrifying. One by one, they emerged—Inferi, their hollow eyes glowing with malevolent intent, their rotting flesh hanging in tatters from skeletal frames. They poured into the chamber like a flood, their movements jerky yet relentless, driven by some ancient, unyielding force.

Draco turned, exiting the chamber as the initial wave of Inferi surged forward, their grotesque forms clawing through the chaos. Screams echoed through the air—sharp, desperate, and cut short—as people were overwhelmed and dragged into the carnage. The sound of snapping jaws and tearing flesh filled the chamber, a horrifying symphony of terror that followed him into the shadows.

As Daphne stared at the journal, something else clicked in her mind—a realization so sudden and horrifying that it hit her like a physical blow. This was the same type of paper, the same kind of ink, almost the same list that Astoria had found scraps of in the Slytherin bathroom months ago.

And now, staring down at the journal in Pansy's trembling hands, Daphne realized the truth: Tracy Davis had been set up.

Her vision blurred, the room spinning slightly as nausea overwhelmed her. She staggered back a step, one hand instinctively reaching out to steady herself against the wall.

Pansy pulled the journal back slightly, cradling it against her chest once more, her knuckles whitening around its edges. "I don't know how I got this," she whispered. "I can't remember why… or when. I only found it after Draco left, but it's got my writing…. What if…" She trailed off, swallowing hard.

Pansy's voice cracked under the weight of her own fear, and she looked down at the journal as though it might suddenly come alive in her hands. Her fingers trembled where they clutched the worn leather cover.

"What if what?" Daphne managed to choke out, her voice strained as she forced herself to focus on Pansy despite the storm raging inside her. She took a small step closer, careful not to startle Pansy further. "What are you afraid of?"

Pansy hesitated, her gaze darting toward the door for a fleeting second before returning to the journal in her lap. "What if… I'm the one who wrote it?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the faint creaks of old castle stones shifting somewhere in the distance. "What if I'm responsible for something I can't even remember doing?"

"You're saying you think you might have been involved in whatever this is," Daphne said carefully, gesturing toward the journal without reaching for it again. "But you don't know how or why."

Pansy nodded, tears welling up in her eyes once more. "It's my handwriting—that part I recognize. But there's so much here I don't understand. Names I don't remember writing. Dates I wasn't even sure I knew." Her voice grew tighter, more frantic. "And then there's his handwriting…".

The door swung open. Millicent Bulstrode stood in the doorway, her wand already drawn and pointed directly at Daphne. Before Daphne could react, Millicent shouted, her voice cracking under the strain: "Avada Kedavra!"

A jet of green light shot toward Daphne, who instinctively threw herself sideways, narrowly avoiding the curse as it slammed into the wall behind her, leaving a scorched mark where she had been standing just moments before.

"What are you doing?!" Daphne yelled, scrambling to her feet. She clutched her side where she'd landed awkwardly after dodging the curse, pain shooting through her arm as she moved. It was only then that she noticed the warm liquid trickling freely down her forearm. Glancing at it, she realized too late that a shard of broken stone had sliced into her flesh during the fall. Blood seeped steadily from the wound, but there was no time to tend to it—her focus remained fixed on Millicent.

Pansy stepped forward abruptly, positioning herself squarely between Millicent and Daphne. Her arms were outstretched—not defensively, but defiantly—a barrier neither girl could ignore.

"Millicent!" Pansy screamed, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Millicent's wand trembled in her hand, tears streaming unchecked down her face. Her voice cracked under the weight of desperation as she spoke. "All you had to do was accept the mark, Daphne," she choked out, her words trembling like fragile glass. "They knew you wouldn't. They said you wouldn't. And if you didn't…" She faltered, unable to finish the thought, her breath hitching in her throat. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to continue. "If you didn't, they were going to make me kill you. I have to—I have to kill you. They'll…" Her voice trailed off, tears streaming freely down her face as she stared at Daphne with a mixture of terror and apology.

Before anyone could react, Floria stepped forward from behind Millicent, her movements fluid and deliberate. In one swift motion, she raised her wand, her lips curling into a smile as she spoke in a low, venomous tone: "Avada Kedavra."

A flash of green light erupted from her wand, striking Millicent squarely in the back of the head. The force of the curse sent her sprawling forward, lifeless, her body crumpling to the ground. Blood sprayed outward, painting the air with a grisly mist that spattered across both Daphne and Pansy, staining their clothes and skin.

Floria lowered her wand slowly, her smile widening into something sadistic, almost gleeful, as she surveyed the carnage she'd wrought. Her cold eyes flickering between Daphne and Pansy, savoring the fear had elicited.

Hestia stepped forward then, followed closely by a group of masked students clad in their Slytherin robes. The dark fabric of their attire billowed faintly as they moved, surrounding the two girls.

"The Dark Lord's justice has begun," Hestia said, stepping beside her sadistically smiling sister. Locking eyes with Daphne, she smiled. "All will receive their verdict."

Post-Chapter Thoughts:

- Probably the most action-packed chapter we've had so far. We'll have a lot of fun over these next few chapters. Probably a great time for a re-read and I need to do the re-write of earlier chapters...ehh.

- If you haven't, I'd check out Sons of Voldemort, another AU. it'll be a whole lot tighter of narrative and I feel like everything I learned from DA, I've 'perfected' in SOV. Considering this story is actually 12 years old, that's not saying much (The original can still be found on my old page from 2013).