Solara Lovegood and the Shadow of the Dragon
Chapter XVII: The Hall of Anger
"Another wonderful Saturday, wouldn't you say, Vhagar?" Solara murmured through a languid yawn, stretching her limbs after a restorative night's sleep. Her ever-stoic feathered companion chuffed softly in reply, her sharp golden eyes flickering open briefly before she ruffled her plumage and resettled beneath the emerald gloom of the dormitory.
Solara glanced around at her dormmates. Two were still fast asleep—Millicent "the Bull" snoring with the vigor of a full-grown man. Pansy Parkinson lay motionless in her bed, her face curled into a perpetually angry grimace, even in sleep. The conspicuous absence of her blue-eyed shadow, Daphne Greengrass, prompted a flicker of curiosity, but Solara reasoned the girl had likely risen early to break her fast, sharing her own proclivity for quiet mornings.
With a soft sigh, Solara slipped out of bed, fingers absently squeezing the knitted hat draped over her bedpost. Her head felt oddly bare without it, but November had come and gone, and December had reared its frigid head. While she could still wear the hat outside, her Head of House had ensured she adhered to the dress code while indoors—part of their agreement.
She quickly gathered a change of clothes before making her way toward the Slytherin bath, her entourage of nine trailing behind. Unlike last time, she took extra precautions, erecting a protective barrier around herself and casting a quick Specialis Revelio—a habit instilled after Professor Flitwick had entertained her tale of the lavatory incident. His theory suggested that something within the shower stall had been charmed in some manner to induce memory loss, though the precise spell remained a mystery.
Despite the uncertainty, he had taken the opportunity to expand on the complexities of magical tampering, explaining how subtle, layered enchantments could manipulate perception, distort recall, or even erase moments entirely. The possibilities ranged from simple Confundus variants to far more insidious memory modification spells. Solara had absorbed his words with sharp interest, though his warnings of caution had fallen on deaf ears. The best way to learn, after all, was through application.
And so, she diligently tested the handles and showerhead before stepping into the steaming water. Her caution served her well—this time, she did not wake up in the hospital wing. She had grown complacent in her new life, a failing she intended to rectify immediately.
The warm water and the sharp scent of the enchanted soap invigorated her, washing away the last remnants of sleep. By the time she returned to the dormitory, she was clean, dressed, and prepared for the day. Her book bag rested securely against her hip, packed for the hours ahead, her knitted hat nestled within, while her neatly folded sleeping clothes awaited collection by the ever-diligent Hogwarts house-elves.
"Do you wish to fly, Vhagar?" she asked softly, curling her fingers into the owl's silken feathers.
The great owl tilted her head, then hopped gracefully onto Solara's left shoulder. Her robes had been purposely padded at the shoulder to withstand the pressure of sharp talons and bear the weight of the large bird without issue.
Humming contentedly, Solara left the dormitory, her steps light as she passed Millicent and Pansy, both still lost in the depths of slumber. Upon reaching the Slytherin common room, she found her nine companions lounging idly, awaiting her return. The children surrounding her regarded the large bird with awe, its golden eyes sweeping over them warily—a silent warning to keep their distance.
The girls she already knew well, and as for the three boys—aside from Anton—she had finally learned their names: Theodric Eisenfaust, Octavius Blackwell, and Gideon Wrenmoor. The three were a step above Crabbe and Goyle in intelligence, though their combined bulk left much to be desired. Still, they were competent enough as protectors and, if nothing else, served as useful dueling partners. Plus, Solara found the immigrant Eisenfaust boy humorous.
"Ah, vould you look at zat! She has finally deigned to grace us vith her presence," Theodric drawled, his Germanic accent thick, each syllable clipped with precision. His hair, a curious shade of Burgundy, gleamed under the dim light of the common room, and his sharp blue eyes held an amused glint as he regarded her with mock impatience.
"Yes! I have returned to you, my minions!" Solara declared, raising a hand as if addressing an army. Her stance was rigid, her poise impeccable—if she could not find work as Minister for Magic, Supreme Mugwump, or even an Auror of ill repute, she half-considered her last resort: becoming a professional mummer. Besides, she reasoned, a bit of playful theatrics served well to grease the wheels of friendship, subtly weaving her influence into the eager young minds that trailed in her wake. It also provided a means to observe the subtle tells of a traitor in her midst—though, despite her best efforts, no such evidence had yet emerged.
"Yet before we break our fast in the Great Hall, we must first unleash the dragon, who eagerly seeks to stretch her wings and take to the skies in search of prey," she continued without pause, her tone as grand as ever, with no one the wiser to her inner musings.
Vhagar flapped her wings animatedly, responding to Solara's words with as much enthusiasm as an owl could muster.
"Yes, yes, Your Highness," Alcedine scoffed with a mock bow, her voice dripping with sarcasm. The remark earned a round of laughter from the others before they gathered their belongings and clambered out of the common room, making their way through the dimly lit dungeons before finally emerging into the crisp morning air just outside the great doors. The snow-covered clearing stretched before them, leading toward the Gamekeeper's Hut and the shadowy expanse of the Dark Forest beyond.
"Hunt well," Solara murmured, pressing her forehead gently against Vhagar's own in a silent exchange of trust. With a powerful beat of her wings, the majestic creature ascended, climbing higher and higher until she became nothing more than a distant speck against the pale winter sky.
Satisfied, Solara turned on her heel and strode back into the sheltered confines of Hogwarts, where the promise of a hot meal in the Great Hall awaited her.
The hall was sparsely populated as usual, the attendance even thinner than normal. It seemed students had fallen into the habit of sleeping in as the Saturdays slipped by. While others might have lamented the quiet, Solara found the lack of activity agreeable; fewer bodies meant fewer interactions—something she dreaded more with each passing day as the incessant chatter of her peers began to wear on her patience.
A handful of students from each House lingered at their respective tables. Hermione sat alone at the Gryffindor table, her nose buried in a book as she absentmindedly ate French toast. Upon noticing Solara's arrival, she looked up and waved enthusiastically. Solara reciprocated the gesture with a small smile and a nod, followed by Nockhull and Grangle, while Alcedine and Hawthorne merely inclined their heads. The rest of their group had already begun tucking into their meals—eggs, toast, bacon, and sausages piled onto their plates. Solara lightly tapped the book bag at her hip, signaling her readiness for their study session after breakfast. Hermione grinned in understanding, briefly lifting her own book bag before tucking it out of sight.
At the far end of the Slytherin table, near the high table, Daphne Greengrass sat with her usual composed demeanor, her features unreadable as she delicately picked at a modest breakfast of porridge and toast with honey. Solara's gaze lingered briefly on the other girl, noting her calm and distant air, before moving toward her usual seat.
Her own plate nearly mirrored Greengrass's: a bowl of porridge topped with a drizzle of honey, toast on the side. Beside it sat a steaming cup of tea, the faint aroma of bergamot curling upward with the wisps of rising steam.
"Specialis Revelio," she intoned quietly, flicking her wand over her porridge, tea, and toast—another habit she had developed after her unfortunate bout with treachery in the form of possibly tainted food. Squinting a suspicious eye at her bowl, she reached for another spoon, scooped up a bit of porridge, and turned to Grangle, who sat to her right.
"Try some?" she asked.
The boy turned, looking momentarily confused before narrowing his eyes. "If this is cursed or poisoned in some way, you owe me. I don't know what yet, but I will eventually," he muttered before taking the spoon from her hand. He hesitated for a moment, then gulped and shoved the spoonful of porridge into his mouth. He paused, tasting it, his features brightening slightly before he hummed in approval and swallowed.
"I must say, that was quite delicious. Perhaps I should start eating porridge," Grangle mused—just before clutching his stomach with a strangled groan. "Arghhh!" he hissed, doubling over dramatically.
Solara felt her face flatten, her silver eyes narrowing as the children around them startled in alarm. "I'm going to punch you in the gut and give you real stomach pain if you don't cease with your mummery, fool," she deadpanned.
The sickly boy straightened instantly, looking sheepish. "Sorry," he grinned—only to be rewarded with a sharp punch to the shoulder from little Alcedine, who had leaned out from her seat to deliver the blow.
"Stupid," she muttered.
"Bah! Zat vas terrible! No commitment! No passion!" Theodric scoffed, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "If you vill fake pain, fake it properly! Ze agony! Ze torment! Make us believe it, ja?" He threw a dramatic hand to his forehead, tilting back as if about to swoon.
Wrenmoor and Blackwell snorted in agreement, and the three dissolved into laughter, alongside Davis and Hexley, whose golden curls bounced with each intake of breath.
"Shut it, Theo," Alcedine barked, evidently unimpressed with his antics.
"My Fahzzer vas an actor und singer in Germany," he declared loftily, puffing out his chest. "Zee crowd in Germany vas—how do you say—tough? I like to dramatize und critique, to remain in gut form, as my Fahzzer vould say."
"Well, it's very annoying," she shot back, folding her arms.
"Ah, ja, but Fräulein, my Fahzzer did attract my Mutter, who vas a vitch," he countered, grinning. "She fell for him ze moment she heard him in Zee Phantom of zee Opera at Semperoper. He played ze Phantom, natürlich—his voice vas so moving, ze entire hall vas captivated. Ach, but none more so zan my dear Mutter, who said his voice carried magic even zho he vas a muggle." He waggled his brows at her with exaggerated flair. "Perhaps you fear falling under my spell, ja?"
Alcedine merely snorted and lobbed a grape at him, scowling as it bounced off his forehead.
Theo gasped in mock offense, clutching his chest as though mortally wounded. "Unglaublich! Such violence! I see now—you are zee true villain of zis story."
"Keep talking, and I'll make sure you get the tragic ending," the little bespectacled one muttered, rolling her eyes.
Satisfied that her spell—and Grangle's overacted dramatics—had detected nothing, Solara ate quickly but methodically, savoring the warmth of the meal while her mind raced ahead to the day's plans—namely, their continued investigation into memory charms and mind magic in her search for the truth behind her missing memories.
Her studies with the Headmaster had been invaluable in teaching her how to isolate and examine memories, though she still had a ways to go before mastering the technique. Yet, for all her progress, the recollections of the lavatory remained stubbornly elusive, slipping through her mental grasp like oil—black, slick, and impossible to pin down no matter how fiercely she tried.
With her meal finished, she sipped the last remnants of her tea, silver eyes flicking toward the Gryffindor table. Hermione was already watching her, brown eyes alight with eager curiosity, plate long since empty. Solara gave a subtle nod, and Hermione returned it before grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. Setting her teacup down, Solara folded her napkin neatly onto her empty plate and rose from her seat, the others following suit. Eisenfaust, Blackwell, and Davis groaned as they did so, clearly regretting their overindulgence.
Across the hall, Hermione took Solara's glance as her cue and made her way toward the exit. Adjusting the strap of her own book bag, Solara followed, weaving deftly through the few lingering students, her entourage close behind.
"So, it's your turn today. What will it be? Investigation? Schoolwork? Or those defensive spells we learned last week?" Hermione asked as they stepped into the corridor. Her tone shifted with each option—exhaustion for the first, genuine excitement for the second, and clear apprehension for the last.
The apprehension, Solara knew, stemmed from their previous defensive spell session—a disaster in every sense of the word. Hermione had been flung backward by a surge of unbalanced magic when Solara attempted Protego Horribilis, crashing into the snow-covered ground with an unceremonious thud. Solara, meanwhile, had been knocked flat on her back, her vision briefly swimming with stars. When she finally stirred, it was to the sharp sting of Hermione slapping her awake, the Gryffindor's brown eyes alight with irritation, a fresh cut lining her lower lip.
The others had stood back, wisely keeping their distance, as if afraid to approach the angered lion.
"Do that again, and I'm going to strangle you, Lovegood," Hermione had warned darkly, her voice tight with frustration. Solara had merely blinked up at her in dazed confusion, all the while thinking back to Flitwick cautioning them both against practical application before they were ready. As expected, Solara had only half-listened—much to Hermione's exasperation.
"Hmmm, perhaps…" Solara began, rounding the corner with Hermione beside her, the others in lockstep behind them.
Before she could finish her thought, a charging figure barreled toward them, thundering down the nearly empty corridor like an overfed bull, eyes locked on the Great Hall with single-minded determination to gorge on its offerings.
"Out of the way, Mudblood," Millicent Bulstrode snarled, shoving Hermione aside with a force that sent the smaller girl sprawling onto the cold stone floor. A startled yelp escaped Hermione as she hit the ground, her book bag tumbling open, parchment fluttering wildly as ink bottles and textbooks clattered across the corridor with a resounding echo.
Pansy Parkinson's shrill cackling split the air. "Oh, that's priceless!" she howled, clutching her side. But she wasn't alone. Behind her stood Draco Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, their faces alight with amusement. Marcus Flint loomed beside them, his brutish features twisted in a smirk, and Solara noted with mild surprise that he had deigned to associate with such childish antics, given he was a fifth—or was it sixth?—year.
The entire group erupted into laughter, their jeers bouncing off the stone walls.
Solara's silver eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, the fire in her chest flaring into a white-hot blaze. Before Millicent could lumber past, Solara's hand shot out, gripping the larger girl's thick arm in a vice-like grip, her fingers digging in with far more strength than her lean frame suggested.
The laughter died almost instantly as Solara glared up at the larger girl with a fury that turned her silver eyes molten.
"Apologize to her, you miserable, portly cow," Solara hissed, her voice low and venomous, each syllable lashing like a whip.
Millicent's face darkened, her expression teetering between fury and unease as she struggled, her bravado wilting under Solara's piercing glare. Behind her, Pansy's smug grin faded, and even Draco and Flint's amusement seemed to dim. Their faces quickly twisted into dangerous scowls, no doubt preparing some retort to reassert control over the situation in the desolate hall.
Meanwhile, Hermione scrambled to her knees, her cheeks flushed a furious shade of red, though whether from humiliation or anger, it was impossible to tell. Her hands shook slightly as she reached for her fallen quill, fingers tightening around it. But before she could even move to gather the rest of her scattered belongings, the others were already there.
Alcedine scooped up her parchment, briskly stacking it into a neat pile, while Davis retrieved the ink bottles, checking for leaks before handing them back. Hexley and Grangle snatched up her books, dusting them off before gently pressing them into her arms. Nockhull, Blackwell, Hawthorne, and Wrenmoor flanked her instinctively, forming a subtle but impenetrable barrier between her and Solara's contemptuous housemates—a silent, unspoken message that Hermione was under their protection, whether she realized it or not.
Even Theodric, ever the dramatist, took it upon himself to retrieve her wand, lifting it high with an exaggerated flourish, as though presenting a royal scepter to its rightful sovereign. "Fräulein," he intoned with theatrical gravitas, his accent thick as he dipped into a sweeping bow, one hand pressed to his chest as if he were some noble courtier in service of a great queen.
"If only he knew," Solara mused inwardly.
Hermione blinked, momentarily stunned, before hesitantly reaching for her things. Her fingers brushed over Alcedine's as she took the parchment, and the other girl gave her a single, firm nod—silent, but reassuring. A flicker of quiet gratitude flashed in Hermione's eyes, her anger still simmering but tempered now by something else. Her grip on her books remained tight, her hands still trembling slightly as she looked up, waiting—watching—to see how Solara would handle the confrontation.
She composed herself well in that brief moment before her instincts screamed in warning.
"Protego!" she shouted, flicking her wrist just in time to conjure a shimmering barrier, Bulstrode stumbling awkwardly in her other hand as she incanted the spell. A pink-hued spell surged toward her from somewhere behind Malfoy and his ilk, its caster unseen. It struck her shield with a crackling hiss, detonating into a fine, rose-colored mist that settled over them all in an eerie, glimmering haze.
A brief silence followed as she sniffed the air, searching for any telltale scent of potions or hexes. Nothing. No sulfur, no cloying sweetness, no acrid sting. And yet, the magic clung to her skin like static, an almost imperceptible hum beneath the surface.
No one else seemed to notice anything amiss, so she shook her head in dismissal, assuming it to be nothing more than harmless residual magic.
But then her gaze drifted toward the space where the attack had come from.
Empty air.
Not a gap between bodies, not a shadowed alcove. Just an open space of polished stone floor, untouched by footsteps, as though no one had stood there at all. The realization sent an uneasy prickle down her spine.
Slowly, she turned her attention back to her audience—first to Bulstrode, whose arm remained ensnared in her right hand, then to Hermione, and finally to Draco.
And she saw it.
Something familiar. Something she had seen in the eyes of men, deep in the grime of battle.
A shift.
The red haze of bloodlust.
Bulstrode stirred in her grasp, her strength returning with a sudden jolt. Solara tightened her grip, twisting the larger girl's arm behind her back and locking her more securely in place, using her like a shield. She did not fail to notice the twitching wand arms of her fellow Slytherins, hesitation dancing between their fingers.
Pansy's deadly frown deepened, her gaze tinged with crimson, as was Draco's. Behind him, Crabbe, Goyle, and Flint stood like looming sentinels—his ever-present lickspittles.
Then, in a flash of movement, Pansy's wand flicked up.
The corridor erupted into mayhem, the pink shimmer turning red and still dancing in the pale sunlight that filtered through the windows of the hall.
Hermione shot forward, placing herself between Solara and the malignant flower, Protego already forming on her lips just as a light green streak of Diffindo lashed from Parkinson's ugly little wand. The spell grazed the protective shield, veering into the ceiling and leaving a jagged scar in the stonework.
Solara's focus momentarily wavered at the sight—just long enough for Bulstrode to buck her head back. A mass of thick hair and skull slammed into her face, pain bursting behind her eyes. Stars danced in her vision, and she barely had time to react before her instincts took over once more.
With a sharp kick to the back of the larger girl's knee, she forced Bulstrode to buckle. Then, with all her might, she shoved Millicent forward—straight into Pansy.
They collapsed in a tangled heap.
Pansy, stunned by the sight of Millicent's bulk barreling toward her, had no time to react before she was crushed beneath the other girl's weight.
But Draco and his retinue had already begun casting spells.
An Expelliarmus from Flint sent Grangle's wand flying from his grasp. Undeterred, the small boy lunged forward, determined to tackle the much larger Slytherin. Flint barely budged, his initial surprise giving way to laughter—laughter that was short-lived.
Octavius and Wrenmoor charged in next, throwing their combined weight into Flint's midsection. With a loud oof, the Slytherin finally lost his footing, crashing onto the floor beneath a dogpile of her loyalists. A flurry of hair-pulling, eye-poking, and frantic slapping ensued as the three smaller boys did their best to hold the older student down.
"Za battle has begun!" Theodric bellowed, his deep voice booming over the chaos. A Stupefy shot from his wand, striking Goyle square in the chest and sending the burly Slytherin toppling over like a felled tree, his arms flailing before he hit the ground with a heavy thud.
Solara had just stepped back from the tangled wreckage of Bulstrode and Parkinson—both groaning on the floor, their robes in disarray—when a flicker of movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention.
Draco.
But his wand wasn't trained on her.
It was aimed at Hermione, who stood frozen, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Her eyes—still clouded with a crimson haze of lingering fury—remained locked on something unseen, as though her mind had yet to register the next threat.
"Rictusempra!" Malfoy shouted, his own eyes burning with that same eerie glint.
"Expelliarmus!" Hermione countered instinctively.
The spells struck their targets in perfect synchronicity. Draco's wand was ripped from his grip, spinning through the air before clattering onto the stone floor, while Hermione collapsed onto her knees, her body trembling as laughter spilled from her lips in uncontrollable bursts. She clutched at her sides, her gasps turning desperate, as if she were choking on the very force of her mirth.
Malfoy's stunned expression lasted only a second before his features twisted in frustration. He whirled on his heel, already moving toward his fallen wand.
"Immobulus!" Solara incanted sharply.
The spell struck him mid-stride, and he froze in place, his body locked in a rigid stance, one foot hovering just above the ground.
Satisfied, Solara turned her attention to her bushy-haired friend, kneeling beside her as Hermione writhed in a fit of giggles, her laughter verging on frantic. With a precise flick of her wand, Solara muttered a firm Finite, and the laughter died into ragged, gasping breaths.
Hermione groaned, pressing a trembling hand to her forehead, sweat beading along her brow. But just as quickly as her dazed exhaustion set in, it was consumed by something far darker. Her face twisted in fury, her breath still ragged, but now driven by something primal.
"I had him!" she spat, voice laced with venom. "Now get off me!"
Before Solara could react, Hermione shoved her backward. The force sent Solara stumbling, nearly landing flat on her back before she caught herself, rising swiftly to her feet. Confusion flickered across her face as she took in Hermione's sudden and uncharacteristic rage.
The Gryffindor ignored her entirely, storming forward, her grip on her wand tight enough to turn her knuckles white. The red shimmer that had taken root around them had not faded—it had thickened into a deep crimson, shifting like a living thing, pulsing in time with her rapid breaths.
"Finite Incantatem," she said coldly, wand aimed at the helpless Malfoy.
The moment the spell was lifted, he staggered forward, regaining momentum and throwing himself toward his wand once more.
Solara barely had time to react before Hermione turned on her with a snarl.
"I can't let you kill him, Granger," Solara warned, her voice sharp with unease, eyes darting toward Malfoy to ensure his inevitable retaliation did not catch them unaware.
"I'm not going to kill him, Lovegood. I'm just going to teach him a lesson!" Hermione growled, her eyes feral, voice nearly unrecognizable beneath the raw fury that laced it.
"This is not like you, Granger! Do you not see that red… haze?! Does anyone?!" Solara demanded, casting a sharp glance around them.
No one answered. The corridor behind her was in utter chaos.
At her back, the scuffling had erupted into an all-out brawl. Grangle, Blackwell, and Wrenmoor struggled against Flint, fists and elbows flying in a brutal clash. Eisenfaust and Goyle had locked into a vicious duel, their grunts mingling with the sharp cracks of colliding spells. Nearby, Pansy, Bulstrode, and Crabbe had either joined or rejoined the fray—Bulstrode wiping a fresh trickle of blood from her lip as she lunged back into the fight. They bore down on Alcedine, Nockhull, Hawthorne, Hexley, and Davis, who met them with equal ferocity.
Sparks from spells—some controlled, others wildly misaimed—lit up the air in erratic bursts of red, blue, and yellow, casting flickering shadows along the corridor walls. Somewhere, a suit of armor clattered to the ground, and the acrid scent of burning fabric filled the air. A shriek rang out as someone—likely Blackwell—took a hex to the face, but the fighting raged on, unchecked.
And still, the crimson shimmer coiled in the air, an oppressive force tightening its grip on those who inhaled it, making their movements wilder, their eyes fevered.
"Everyone cease this madness!" Solara shouted over the fray.
A resounding "SHUT IT!" answered her in unison.
Then, as if moving with a singular mind, they all turned their wands on her.
Her eyes widened. "Protego!" she incanted immediately, just as a flurry of spells burst forth.
"Flipendo!" Granger and Draco growled, twin arcs of blue streaking toward her.
"Diffindo!" Pansy, Alcedine, and Hawthorne snarled, their wands sending jagged slashes of green light.
"Mucus ad Nauseam!" Blackwell and Wrenmoor's curses shot out, their virulent green glow promising misery.
"Verdimillious!" shrieked Nockhull, Hexley, and Davis, bright emerald sparks crackling in the air.
"Reducto!" roared Flint, his wand releasing a violent surge of indigo.
"Stupefy!" Eisenfaust's voice rang out, his stunning spell streaking forward.
The only one not attacking was Grangle, who was scrambling for his lost wand, much like Malfoy had done earlier.
The barrage struck her shield with resounding cracks, light refracting wildly as her Protego held—barely. Solara clenched her jaw, her mind racing for a counterattack. If she tried to cast offensively, she would drop her only protection, but her shield would not hold forever. Each impact sent a tremor through her bones, the sheer force of the combined assault rattling her resolve.
She needed an opening.
But the torrent of dazzling lights showed no mercy, battering her Protego with relentless force. She could already see faint fractures spidering along the shimmering barrier. It was only a matter of time before it shattered entirely, leaving her at the mercy of her possessed classmates.
Then—through the rippling light—she noticed something.
One by one, the children were dropping. Their attacks grew sluggish, their stances faltering as they crumpled like marionettes with cut strings. The spells against her shield became less frequent, their power waning until, at last, only Flint remained standing.
Sweat poured down his face, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His wand trembled in his hand as he weakly mumbled out a final "Reducto"—a feeble attempt at defiance—before his knees buckled and he collapsed in a heap on the cold stone floor.
Solara barely had time to collect her thoughts as the haze began to dissipate. She exhaled sharply, her grip tightening around her wand, when the familiar voice of her Head of House echoed down the corridor.
"What in Merlin's name is going on here?" Professor Snape roared.
Solara turned on her heels just in time to see his robes billow dramatically as he strode forward, dark eyes burning with barely restrained fury. His gaze swept over the scene, taking in the unconscious students with a mixture of disgust and sharp calculation. "This isn't your personal little dueling club, Lovegood—this is a school!"
"It wasn't me, Professor. Some—" she began, only to be cut off as he swept past her, dropping into a crouch beside Malfoy.
Snape pressed his fingers to Draco's clammy brow, his expression darkening as he flicked open the boy's eyelids, studying the glassy, unfocused stare. His nostrils flared slightly, his hand pausing mid-air as if he could feel the remnants of the magic still clinging to the air. His lips thinned into a severe line.
"What type of magic was this?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous as he turned to her.
"I don't know, Professor. Me, Granger, and the others bumped into Draco and his friends, and then—"
"The Headmaster and I will deal with you later," he snapped, cutting her off. His attention was fully on Draco now, his expression unreadable, but there was something else—something beyond mere annoyance at a disturbance. Concern.
Snape's fingers twitched ever so slightly as he studied Draco's pallid face, his sharp eyes flickering with something close to unease.
"Help me get them to Pomfrey," he ordered.
With a sharp flick of his wand, he cast a levitation charm, lifting the unconscious Slytherins effortlessly into the air. Solara did the same with Hermione, and together, they hurried toward the hospital wing, Snape striding ahead with an urgency she had rarely seen from him. His face was impassive, but his grip on his wand was ironclad, his knuckles white.
It was not long after that she found herself in a very familiar office, seated across from the Headmaster as he listened to her Head of House rant.
"There she was, standing in the middle of the hall. Children clinging to life all around her. The remnants of a rage curse of some sort lingering in the air," Snape spat, his voice sharp with anger. He turned only briefly to cast a withering glare at her—one she met with an equally unyielding stare, her silver eyes unwavering. "She should be expelled immediately!"
"I am aware that Draco is your godson, Severus, but do not let that cloud your judgment," Dumbledore said evenly, raising his hands in a partially successful attempt to placate the fuming Potions Master. His tone remained calm, but there was a quiet firmness beneath it.
Snape's jaw clenched. "Cloud my judgment?" he repeated icily. "Headmaster, I found her standing amidst a field of unconscious students! Magic was still thick in the air—dark, volatile, and untraceable. That alone warrants immediate disciplinary action."
Dumbledore merely tilted his head, observing him with his usual measured patience. "The children are on the mend, are they not? None the worse for wear and only suffering a mild case of dehydration?" he asked, though he already knew the answer, having arrived at the infirmary shortly after she and Snape had delivered the afflicted students to Madam Pomfrey.
"They are," Snape admitted begrudgingly, the words dragging from his mouth like they pained him to say.
"And you have yet to allow Ms. Lovegood her chance to speak on the matter. To defend herself," the old wizard countered, his eyes twinkling with something keen and assessing.
Snape's nostrils flared as he exhaled sharply, his fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to grip his wand. "I hardly see what explanation could justify—"
"I believe," Dumbledore interjected smoothly, lacing his fingers together atop his desk, "that it would be prudent to hear her version of events before we pass judgment." His tone was pleasant, yet the weight behind it was unmistakable.
For a long moment, Snape was silent, his dark gaze locked onto Dumbledore's with thinly veiled frustration before he finally gave a curt nod.
Dumbledore turned to Solara, his expression expectant but patient. "Now, Ms. Lovegood, I believe it is your turn to speak."
"Headmaster," she began, straightening her posture into something more presentable. "Granger, my housemates, and I were leaving the Great Hall after breaking our fast, intending to go to our grove by the Gamekeeper's hut for study. However, as we turned the corner into the hall where Professor Snape found us, Millicent Bulstrode shoved past Granger, knocking her and her belongings over without so much as an apology. In fact, she appeared ready to ignore the accident entirely and continue on—until I grabbed her arm and stopped her. Words were exchanged before someone cast a pink spell from somewhere behind Draco, aimed at me. I erected a Protego charm to protect myself, and when the spell struck, it exploded into a pink mist that gradually began to redden. Then... everyone suddenly went mad."
"A pink mist? Hmmm… Chaos appears to be your faithful companion, Ms. Lovegood," he mused, steepling his fingers before him.
"So it would seem," she murmured, frowning slightly as she studied him, trying to gauge his reaction. There was no immediate amusement in his tone, only contemplation.
Snape, meanwhile, remained rigid, his dark eyes flickering with irritation as he processed her account. "A pink mist," he repeated, voice edged with skepticism. "And you expect us to simply take your word that it was not your own spellwork gone awry?"
She inhaled sharply, reigning in her frustration. "Professor," she said, carefully measured, "for what reason would I have to harm them? Granger and I have been friends since the start of the year, and the others nearly as long. As for Draco and his friends—while I am not particularly fond of them—I was assured they would no longer trouble me." She cast an accusatory glance at her Head of House.
Snape's expression darkened. "Careful, Lovegood. Some would think you were blaming me for this travesty."
"Perhaps I should save us the trouble of drawing this out any further," she shot back, knowing full well that a reprimand and a swift sentence of detention were poised on the man's lips the moment they left the Headmaster's office. "Use the Pensieve, Headmaster," she grumbled. "While I do not relish the idea of anyone sifting through my memories, I believe this one is prudent to examine—especially while it remains fresh in my mind. It should help absolve me of any doubts regarding my innocence in this matter."
She kept her tone firm, though inwardly, she bristled at the implication that her Head of House considered her a suspect rather than a victim.
Snape's lip curled slightly, as though the very notion of entertaining her plea was distasteful. "How convenient," he drawled, his tone laced with skepticism. "Memories can be altered, blurred at will. Even the freshest recollections are prone to manipulation."
Dumbledore, however, raised a hand before Snape could continue his tirade. "A fair concern, Severus, but not something so easily accomplished by a first-year," he acknowledged, before turning his gaze back to Solara. "Yet I have found, in my many years, that the truth has a stubborn way of revealing itself—especially when one does not seek to suppress it." His blue eyes studied her keenly, as though already measuring the weight of her words against the truth he expected to find.
Snape folded his arms, the set of his jaw indicating he was far from convinced. "Even if we were to entertain this, Headmaster, and her memory corroborates her claims, we are still left with the troubling fact that an unknown spell—a curse, no doubt—was cast in the heart of the castle."
"For the second time, I might add," Solara interjected, her voice cool but firm. "I have been attacked twice, once by witches or wizards unknown also using an equally 'unknown' spell. To say nothing of the troll, of course. Tell me, Professor, how many times does one have to be targeted before we stop pretending these are mere coincidences?" She leaned forward slightly, her silver eyes glinting with restrained ire. "I'm beginning to have my doubts about the safety this school manages to afford its students." She sat up straighter, crossing her arms, her frown deepening.
Dumbledore nodded, the lines on his face deepening. "Indeed. Which is precisely why we must investigate with open minds, not assumptions." He looked back at Solara, his voice gentle but firm. "Very well, Ms. Lovegood. If you are willing, we shall review your memory in the Pensieve."
Solara exhaled slowly, suppressing the discomfort that came with offering up pieces of herself for scrutiny. It was necessary. She gave a slow nod. "I am."
"Then let us proceed," Dumbledore said, standing gracefully and gesturing toward the cabinet where the Pensieve lay waiting.
The Headmaster retrieved the Pensieve, placing the ornate basin on the desk between them. Its surface shimmered with swirling silver mist, the very essence of countless memories held within its depths. He turned to Solara, his expression unreadable yet patient.
"I assume our lessons have made you familiar with the process, Ms. Lovegood?" he asked.
Solara nodded, though her fingers curled slightly against her robes. "Of course."
She had spent four whole Sundays trying to excavate her memories of the lavatory, refining her ability to recall precise details. She had also watched Dumbledore extract his own memories before, yet doing it herself—peeling away a moment of her own mind—felt far more intrusive. There was always an unease that coiled in her stomach at the thought of something so intimately hers being drawn out, scrutinized, dissected.
Dumbledore settled into the chair beside her, his movements calm. "I shall guide you, as before," he assured her, his voice a quiet balm against the tension knotting in her shoulders. "Close your eyes, and focus. Visualize the memory clearly, let it rise to the surface, and draw it forth," he instructed.
She obeyed, inhaling deeply and shutting her eyes. The moment in question—Hermione stumbling, the pink spell cutting through the air, sharp words exchanged, the ensuing brawl, the relentless barrage of magic, and the crimson glow in the eyes of her peers—flooded her thoughts. It was disorienting, almost dizzying, but she forced herself to hold onto the details.
"There," Dumbledore murmured. "Hold onto it. Keep it steady."
Solara's breath hitched as she felt his magic brush against her mind—not invasive, not forceful, but coaxing, guiding. A strange sensation, like silk unraveling from a spool, tugged at the edges of her thoughts.
She exhaled as a thin, silvery strand began to emerge from her temple, drawn out by Dumbledore's steady hand. The memory shimmered and swirled, suspended between them for a fleeting moment before he directed it gently into the Pensieve.
Solara blinked as the sensation faded, her head feeling momentarily lighter, as though some unseen weight had been lifted. She swallowed, steadying herself, watching as the silvery tendrils unfurled and mixed with the other wisps of thought, until the surface stilled, gleaming invitingly.
Dumbledore gestured toward it. "Ladies first."
She steeled herself and leaned over the basin, allowing the magic to pull her inward.
The world tilted.
A rush of cold air stole her breath, and suddenly, she was back in the corridor, standing among her past self and the others. The memory unfolded around her in vivid clarity—pale sunlight passing through the windows of the hall, the flecks of dust in the air, and every sharp intake of breath.
She watched as she turned the corner with Hermione and the others, her past self's voice cutting off midsentence as Bulstrode collided with Granger. The Slytherins stood in a loose formation, their faces alight with laughter.
Solara strode past them, nearing the place where she had seen the pink spell emerge. Her past self's voice echoed eerily through the memory as she demanded an apology, but the real Solara stood fixed to the spot, her eyes scanning every detail of the hall, searching for whoever had cast the spell that had sent her classmates into a frenzy.
Then, after a moment, she saw it.
A ripple in the air, just a few feet behind Draco. Faint, but there. Almost imperceptible.
Solara's eyes narrowed. "A Disillusionment Charm," she muttered to herself.
The figure shifted—a flicker of movement betraying their position. A pale hand emerged from the empty space, gripping a wand she had never seen. Before Solara could process anything further, a pink flash erupted from the tip.
She recoiled at the sudden burst of light, blinking rapidly. And in that instant, the ripple was gone. Whoever had been standing there had vanished, slipping away before she could track which direction they had fled, as a pink haze settled over her.
Solara clenched her fists in frustration, burning the details into her mind, before the memory blurred at the edges and dissipated.
And then she was back.
The cool air of the Headmaster's office pressed against her skin as she pulled away from the Pensieve, exhaling sharply. She hadn't realized she had been holding her breath.
Dumbledore watched her carefully. "Well?"
Solara turned, her fingers still curled into tight fists. "I was right. There was someone else in that hall—just behind Draco," she said, her voice taut with restrained anger. "They maintained a fairly decent Disillusionment Charm—at least until they cast whatever that pink spell was." Her mind raced, piecing together possibilities. "You mentioned a rage curse, Professor? Or could it be some variation of a Confundus Charm? I've read that some of them manifest with a pink hue," she asked, her gaze flicking between the hook-nosed Potions Master and the Headmaster of Hogwarts.
Neither answered immediately. Dumbledore merely hummed in thought, his piercing blue eyes twinkling with something unreadable. Then, without a word, he leaned forward and dipped his face into the Pensieve, vanishing into the swirling silver depths.
Solara sat back, watching as the great wizard disappeared into her memory, awaiting his return.
The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the office as Solara waited, her gaze never straying from the Pensieve. Minutes passed, stretching unbearably long as Dumbledore remained immersed in her memory.
At last, the Headmaster straightened, his eyes distant as he withdrew from the basin. He remained silent for a beat, as if weighing his thoughts.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quietly severe.
"You are correct," he said, his gaze settling on her. "There was another presence in that corridor—and a rather strange cloud of residual magic lingering after you shielded yourself from your invisible assailant's spell. It appeared to be a variation of a Confundus Charm, not a rage curse, though it was exceedingly potent—one that did not merely confuse but incited fury. The effects on your peers were… extreme." He paused briefly before continuing. "And whoever cast it is either a master of Disillusionment or very near to it, considering how well hidden they were. But their intent was unmistakable."
His gaze flickered toward Snape before returning to Solara. "This was no act of simple mischief, Severus. Whoever orchestrated this knew precisely what they were doing."
Snape, arms still folded, exhaled sharply through his nose. "Let me see it," he said, his voice clipped but steady.
Dumbledore gave a brief nod, stepping aside as Snape strode toward the Pensieve. Without hesitation, the Potions Master leaned forward and plunged into the swirling memory.
More tense moments passed, the silence thick between them. Solara studied the Headmaster's expression, searching for any sign of his thoughts, but as always, his face remained carefully composed.
Then, with a sharp inhale, Snape emerged from the Pensieve, straightening abruptly. His dark eyes were sharper than before, his jaw taut. He remained motionless for a long moment, his expression unreadable—except for the faint twitch of his fingers at his side. A subtle sign, Solara suspected, of barely restrained anger.
Dumbledore watched him patiently. "And?"
Snape's gaze snapped to the Headmaster. "Whoever cast that spell had considerable control over their magic," he said, his tone cold and precise. "It was deliberate. Calculated. Not the work of some overeager student fumbling through an incantation."
He took a step back, his robes billowing slightly with the motion. "The intent was clear. That spell was designed to drive her mad—turn her against the others." His voice darkened, a rare edge of something dangerous slipping through. "Her quick thinking—casting Protego—shielded her from the worst of it. But her peers… they were not so fortunate."
His lips pressed into a thin line, his voice darkening as he continued. "If anything, it seemed the effects were muted for her. The residual effects of a partially dispelled charm should not have been that strong. Which means, had she been fully exposed, the magic would have driven her to the point of self-destruction… but only after she had…" He hesitated, his dark eyes lingering on Solara, his voice catching in his throat. "…injured her classmates."
Solara did not blink. "You mean murdered them," she clarified, unflinching. She knew full well that certain words were not entirely appropriate for a teacher to utter in the presence of a student, but she was not a child, at least not in mind, and she would not let them soften the truth.
Snape's nostrils flared slightly, but he did not refute her words.
She inhaled sharply, sitting up straighter. "Had they endured a bit longer, or my reaction had been only a moment delayed in defending against them, then I likely would have perished. Whoever cast that spell expected my end one way or another—either at the hands of my classmates or by my own. Only luck and a fair bit of skill prevented my expiry in that hall."
Dumbledore, who had remained silent throughout their exchange, let out a thoughtful hum, before he spoke. "Ms. Lovegood, do you recall our previous discussion regarding your investigation into the Chamber of Secrets?"
Solara's brows drew together at the sudden shift in topic, but she nodded. "Yes. I told you I had tracked Greengrass's movements to the second-floor girls' lavatory before I hit a dead end." She paused, narrowing her eyes slightly. "Why? Do you believe this to be another connection?"
Dumbledore inclined his head. "There does seem to be a pattern. I had my suspicions, but your findings confirmed something of great importance." His hands folded before him on the desk, fingers lightly steepled. "I did not reveal this to you before, as I had yet to gather sufficient evidence, but recent discoveries suggest that particular lavatory may house something far more significant than an ordinary dead end."
"Hmmm…" Solara tilted her head, curiosity sharpening her features. "And I had wondered why it had been closed up. The wards around it were curiously strong for a simple lavatory 'renovation.'" She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Is it what I think it is? The entrance to the Chamber of Secrets?"
Dumbledore neither confirmed nor denied, but his eyes twinkled with something unreadable.
Snape scoffed, though there was no true derision in it. "For someone with your reckless penchant for chasing danger, I would have expected you to reach that conclusion sooner."
Solara ignored the jab, her mind already working through the implications. If the entrance was indeed within the lavatory, then Daphne Greengrass had to have known something—or at the very least, had been led there for a reason.
Her eyes narrowed slightly as a new thought formed. "Do you believe Greengrass to be my unseen adversary, Headmaster? Or is it as I originally suspected, and she a mere puppet?"
Dumbledore regarded her carefully before speaking. "We have spoken with Ms. Greengrass, and as she told you, she has no recollection of anything unusual concerning you—save for the conversation you both shared after your first flying lesson." His voice was measured, yet there was an underlying note of intrigue.
"A rather odd thing," Snape added, his arms folding across his chest. "Particularly for girls who share the same dormitory."
Solara's expression darkened slightly. "I do not speak with her because I do not trust her. I have been wary of her since the library."
"Which she apparently has no recollection of," the Headmaster softly pointed out.
She hesitated, then continued. "But I know she was in the Great Hall when the rest of us were eating."
Snape's brow arched. "Did she leave before you?"
"Not that I remember," Solara admitted, though she could see where this line of questioning was headed. She frowned. "But the wand in the memory was not hers. I have never seen any of my housemates wield a wand like that before."
A silent, knowing look passed between Snape and Dumbledore before they turned their attention back to her.
"There will be an inquiry," Dumbledore said at last. "But it will be done at our discretion, and only after those who were with you in the corridor have awakened to give their accounts." His gaze settled on her with quiet expectation. "I trust you will remain silent on this matter, Ms. Lovegood?"
Snape gave a slow, deliberate nod. "It would not do well for your would-be assassin to realize they are being hunted before we are ready to strike." His words were drawn out into a slow drawl.
Solara exhaled through her nose, understanding the gravity of their request. She was no fool—if someone had gone to such lengths to kill her, then they would not hesitate to try again should they suspect the walls were closing in.
She met Dumbledore's gaze and gave a single, resolute nod. "I understand."
The old wizard gave a soft smile. "Three times in just as many months. You seem to enjoy visiting my office, Ms. Lovegood."
Solara snorted.