A Tale of Rivals
by Elk99
A/N: This is a bit of a long chapter - bit we also finish out year three. I really liked how this chapter came to be and did not want to wait anymore before posting. Some of you have waited long enough!
The next big event was the upcoming Slytherin match against Hufflepuff. It would be Slytherin's final game of the season.
They had faced Ravenclaw back in January, but Edmund hadn't played. He'd been benched due to the injury he'd sustained over the break, and Derrick had taken his place. Neither Harlan nor Flint had been satisfied with the result. Slytherin had won—barely—but they should have won by a much larger margin. And with two losses already on the books, the Quidditch Cup was beginning to look more like a fading dream than a plausible outcome.
The Ravenclaw match had been their best shot to pile on points. But now they were staring down Hufflepuff—and Hufflepuff meant Sullivan Fawley. And Sullivan Fawley meant ironclad goalposts.
They weren't going to score much. Everyone knew it.
So Flint doubled down.
He worked them mercilessly—morning and evening practices that left the team sore, windburned, and tight-limbed with exhaustion. Flint, Warrington, and Pucey bombarded Bletchley with Chaser fire until his hands went raw. Edmund and Harlan were assigned full-time Bludger duty, launching volley after volley to hone their aim and pressure. Higgs drilled speed maneuvers until his fingers numbed, called in repeatedly to break up Chaser formations and play distraction. It was all designed around one thing: breaking through Sullivan's defense.
Flint was betting everything on brute force and chaos. There was no Plan B.
After Thursday's final practice, he gathered them in the locker room—mud-splattered, breathless, bruised—and laid out the strategy one last time. No rousing speech, no final words of inspiration. Just diagrams, directives, and a brusque dismissal: the day off Friday, to rest and recover. A tactical gift, not a generous one.
That night, the Slytherin common room was quieter than usual. Too quiet.
Without training to occupy their minds or drain their nerves, tension pooled like smoke beneath the stone arches. The fire crackled low in the hearth. A few first-years whispered over parchment, their glances drifting toward the team with a reverence laced with unease. No one laughed. No one dared to ask how they were feeling. Even the prefects had gone unusually still.
In the far corner, Edmund sat with a forgotten mug of tea going cold at his elbow, sketching looping broom routes and Bludger paths into the margins of a Herbology chart he hadn't even opened—moonseed propagation, if the title at the top was to be believed. The edges were now overrun with spirals and counter-bludger arcs, a tactical fever dream blooming from the margins like vines of ink. They didn't talk much. There wasn't much to say.
Everyone knew what they were up against.
Slytherin hadn't lost the Cup in years. In Edmund's first year, they had taken it decisively. Last year, the season had been cut short by the petrifications. This year, they'd come in with high expectations—and now, with two losses and only one match left, the trophy was hanging by a thread. Not just a match, this game was a last stand.
For Flint, it was legacy.
For the House, it was pride.
And for Edmund… it was family.
He stared down at the sketched arc of a Bludger feint, his mind replaying the drills, the screaming wind, the sharp gleam of his brother's gold-trimmed robes under the pitch lights. Sullivan didn't go easy on anyone, and he wouldn't go easy on Edmund. Not for sentiment. Not even for blood.
This match wouldn't win them the Cup. The Cup seemed to already have slipped through their fingers.
The morning of the match dawned cold and clear, with sunlight spilling like frost over the grounds. The castle had the hush of anticipation about it—an undercurrent of excitement that thrummed in the stone and lingered in the stairwells. Even the portraits along the walls seemed more alert than usual, whispering behind painted hands as students passed by in hushed, hurried clusters.
In the Slytherin locker room, the team dressed without much fanfare. Flint barked a few last-minute reminders—tight formations, stay alert, trust the rotation—but even he seemed subdued, like all the shouting had been spent in the days leading up to this.
By the time they were ready, the team looked like something out of a polished promotional still: seven figures in sleek green, silver trim catching the light, boots laced tight, gloves tucked, eyes sharp. Edmund tightened his armbands with practiced precision, then adjusted his goggles up onto his forehead, scanning the others. Matthews gave him a slight nod from across the benches. Warrington cracked his knuckles. Pucey was already flexing his grip on the Quaffle.
Together, they filed out.
They waited a beat at the edge of the Great Hall entrance, letting the hum of breakfast swell to just the right pitch before stepping inside as one. It was something Flint had insisted on—late enough to ensure a dramatic entrance, early enough that they didn't miss food. Edmund had always rolled his eyes at it. Today, he understood it.
As they crossed the threshold, the Hall seemed to shift. Heads turned. Conversations paused.
And then the clapping began.
It started, as expected, with the Slytherin table—loud, proud, almost thunderous—but it didn't end there. A few Ravenclaws near the front clapped too, and then some Gryffindors—slow, unsure, but genuine. Edmund caught sight of Sally Anne and Lavender at their table, both applauding. Terry Boot gave him a nod. Even Hermione Granger offered a brief clap before turning back to her toast.
It wasn't everyone, and it wasn't universal. But it was something. And for Slytherin House, that something was new.
Edmund kept his face composed, but he felt the shift in the air. The work he'd done over the past year—the careful words, the subtle gestures, the moments of bridge-building when no one else had seen them—had not gone unnoticed. Slytherin wasn't cheered like Gryffindor yet. But it wasn't booed either.
The team walked the length of the hall with heads high and expressions carefully blank, as if applause were expected, not earned. But there was pride in their stride. Quiet, unspoken pride.
They slid onto the end of the Slytherin table, making room for each other with practiced familiarity. Plates were filled, mugs of tea and pumpkin juice passed down. No one talked much—no need to waste breath on nerves—but the mood wasn't grim. It was focused.
Edmund picked at a slice of toast, more to keep his hands busy than out of hunger. Across from him, Bletchley was buttering three scones at once with military efficiency. Higgs was downing a boiled egg like it had offended him personally.
Flint, seated at the head of their row, kept his eyes fixed on the enchanted ceiling—today a bright, cloudless blue. A good omen, maybe. Or maybe just a sky.
Edmund glanced once toward the Hufflepuff table. Sullivan wasn't there. That wasn't a surprise. His brother liked to eat early, in quiet, before slipping away to go over last-minute tactics alone. A similar ritual, mirrored on opposite ends of the castle.
He wondered if Sullivan was thinking about him, too.
Probably not.
Edmund took a long sip of his tea and let the moment stretch. This was the calm. The breath before the whistle. And soon, it would all begin.
Quidditch wasn't about poetry. It was about momentum, blood, wind, and precision.
But in that sliver of stillness—surrounded by teammates, the weight of green on his shoulders, and applause still echoing faintly in his ears—Edmund Fawley allowed himself a small, private thought:
Let it be a good game.
It was a good game—but it would not be enough.
Edmund and Harlan had their roles, clearly defined and executed with ruthless precision. Edmund was assigned one target: his brother. Harlan, meanwhile, had orders to rain chaos on the Hufflepuff Chasers. They had run through the drills all week—where to strike, when to hold back, when to unleash. Now, it was all reflex.
The two teams assembled on the pitch, tension humming in the air like electricity before a storm. They all watched as Flint and Sullivan Fawley strode to the center of the field, each extending a gloved hand. The shake was brief—curt, not cold—but something passed between them nonetheless. A flicker of respect. Or maybe just shared awareness that this would be the last time the two captains faced each other on a broomstick. Win or lose, this was Flint's last match at Hogwarts.
Flint turned and stalked toward midfield. Sullivan peeled away and flew with effortless control toward the goal hoops, the familiar flash of gold on his wrist catching the morning sun. Edmund caught his brother's eye and offered a brief, solemn nod. He didn't know if it was seen.
What he did see, just before pushing off for warm-up, was a glint of green in the stands. His eyes scanned the crowd—and there she was. Sally Anne. Hair wind-tossed, cheeks pink from the cold, perched between Lavender and Parvati. But it wasn't just her smile that struck him. It was what she wore.
Over her Gryffindor jumper, layered deliberately and defiantly, was a Slytherin Quidditch jersey. Not just any jersey.
His jersey.
Edmund nearly laughed out loud. Instead, he dipped into a dramatic, exaggerated bow—wandering dangerously close to theatrical, and loving every second of it. She blushed, rolled her eyes, and waved two fingers. He felt like he could have flown without a broom.
Then—tweet. Madam Hooch's whistle sliced through the air.
The match had begun.
Adrian Pucey snatched immediate possession of the Quaffle and hurled it to Warrington, who in turn passed it to Flint. Their formation was already slicing across the pitch like a blade. On the far end, Harlan zeroed in on the Hufflepuff Chasers—Henry and Tubbins—and sent a Bludger screaming into their path. They scattered, losing momentum. Pucey saw the gap and rocketed toward it.
Flint caught the long pass and leaned forward, ready to shoot.
At the same time, Edmund spotted the second Bludger curving dangerously toward Higgs. He intercepted cleanly, redirecting it with practiced force—not toward the Beaters, not toward the midfield. Toward Sullivan.
He watched the arc. It was perfect.
Flint released the Quaffle, a hard right-angled shot toward the far hoop. Sullivan saw it—dived—and blocked it clean, just as the crowd roared.
But he hadn't seen the Bludger.
It struck him hard in the ribs, and Sullivan crumpled mid-air for a half second before righting himself. The stadium let out a collective gasp. Edmund's heart stuttered.
Damn it, he thought, hand tightening on his bat. You flew right into it, you idiot.
Madam Hooch's whistle shrieked again, sharp and urgent.
Timeout.
Players slowed, some circling, others landing. Sullivan clutched his side as the Hufflepuff medic jogged onto the pitch. Flint's jaw was set. Edmund hovered near midfield, breath fogging in the morning air, his pulse roaring in his ears. He didn't regret the hit—it had been part of the plan. But he hadn't meant for it to land like that. Not like that.
Across the pitch, Sullivan lifted one gloved hand to wave the medic off.
Still in the game.
Edmund exhaled slowly. The crowd buzzed with renewed energy. It was going to be a long match.
And it had only just begun.
Sullivan was out of it. That was for sure. He let more goals in this match then he had all season. And Edmund had to keep sending bludgers his way. Sullivan had caught on to the play by now and knew to avoid Edmund's shots, but he also knew he couldn't not defend the goalposts. Slytherin crept ahead as Sullivan flagged. Higgs tailed Diggory, not just following him, but getting in front of him – not even trying to catch the snitch but to just distract the Hufflepuff Seeker from ending the match before Slytherin had accrued their points.
Slytherin continued to claw its way ahead. Goal by goal, pass by pass, they chipped away at what had once seemed an insurmountable wall. Pucey and Warrington moved like twin serpents, weaving through defenders with brutal elegance. Flint flew like a man possessed, barking orders mid-dive, circling back to plug gaps, hurling the Quaffle with precision that bordered on rage.
Meanwhile, Edmund and Harlan had their own work cut out for them. Bludgers raged across the sky like curses. Edmund rode tight and fast, his bat an extension of his arm, launching strikes not with violence but with intent. Every one meant something. Every shot had purpose. Harlan, heavier and louder, swept the air with reckless abandon, scattering Chasers and Beaters alike. Together, they created patterns—unspoken choreography that disrupted every Hufflepuff advance.
Sullivan stayed in the game, but he wasn't himself.
He blocked as many as he missed, but the difference was visible. His balance was off. His dives were sharp but not surgical. There was hesitation in his reach—a moment of flinch where there used to be instinct. And still, he pressed on.
Edmund didn't pull back.
He couldn't.
Every time the Bludger came his way, he sent it screaming toward Sullivan's end of the pitch. Not always directly at him—sometimes near, sometimes close enough to draw him off guard—but always strategic. Always planned. He couldn't afford to think of the bruises blooming beneath his brother's jersey. Couldn't think of the winces. The winced moments. He had a job to do.
Above them, the Seekers danced.
Higgs wasn't chasing the Snitch so much as shadowing Cedric Diggory, mirroring his dives and feints with uncanny closeness. He just needed to let Slytherin to run up the score. Every second counted. Every pass, every fake, every swing of a bat below had to be worth it.
The scoreboard crept forward. Slytherin 260. Hufflepuff 170.
It wouldn't hold.
The problem was, it had been too long. The Snitch had been in play for nearly an hour, and though Higgs was fast, Diggory was better. Sharper. Smarter. Patient.
Sullivan had just blocked another shot—a brutal curve from Flint that had nearly slipped past his shoulder—when a shout erupted from the far end of the pitch.
A flicker of gold.
Diggory dove.
Higgs followed, close behind, but there was no surprise in his movement. No jolt of recognition. He wasn't pretending anymore. He had seen it too.
The stadium held its breath.
They dropped like stones—plummeting through the open air, wind tearing past them, the stands a blur of color and noise. Edmund surged higher to get a clear view, heart pounding. For a split second, it looked like Higgs might close the gap.
But it wasn't enough.
With a stretch, a final lunge, Cedric's hand closed around the Snitch.
The roar that erupted was deafening.
Madam Hooch's whistle blew sharp and final. Flags waved. Hufflepuff banners exploded in midair with enchanted glitter. The score flashed across the board—Hufflepuff 270, Slytherin 260—and then locked into place.
Slytherin had lost.
The team landed slowly, like leaves falling one by one. Some staggered. Some sat. Pucey hurled his gloves into the mud. Bletchley sank to his knees and stayed there.
Edmund touched down last.
He didn't speak. Didn't curse or slam his bat into the ground like Derrick would have. He just removed his goggles, wiped the sweat from his brow, and looked across the field.
Sullivan was still on his broom, hovering near the hoops, shoulders slumped but still upright. Diggory had already dismounted and was being lifted into the air by a pair of jubilant Hufflepuffs.
For a moment, amid the rising cheer and fluttering banners, Edmund thought the world might tilt sideways.
Not because of the score.
Because he had done everything right—and it still wasn't enough.
And yet, he'd known this would happen.
That didn't make it easier.
The Slytherin section in the stands had gone quiet, stunned into stillness. But in the Gryffindor section, amidst the red and gold roaring that Slytherin had not scored enough to win the Cup, he saw a flash of green and silver—his jersey still on Sally Anne's shoulders. Her hands weren't clapping. But they weren't covering her face either. She was standing… watching him.
For a long second, Edmund looked back up at her and eventually gave her a smile that he hoped she could see. Slowly, he turned and walked to join the rest of the team.
They didn't speak as they headed off the pitch. Flint led the way, shoulders squared, face like stone. No one dared address him. Not now. Pucey walked beside Warrington, muttering curses under his breath. Harlan slapped Edmund's back once, brief and solid.
And still, no one said it, because they didn't have to. It was a good game, but it had not been enough.
Edmund and Harlan walked back from the Slytherin changing rooms together. The mood had been somber. Flint had patted each of them on the back, thanking them for all they had done over the season. Before he allowed himself to get emotional, he grabbed his broom and went out for a fly. Edmund suspected their Captain wanted to savor these last days of Quidditch one more time. He and Wood, the Gryffindor Captain, would be gone next year, and it would be a new era for Slytherin Quidditch.
"It was a good season Ed," Harlan said to him as they walked back up to the castle, having changed out of their uniforms and into collared shirts, slacks, and outer cloaks. "We'll get them next year."
"Aye," Edmund muttered, pulling his grey cloak tighter around his person in a vain attempt to shield himself from the wind that had suddenly picked up. "It'll be different without Flint next year. Who do you think Snape will ask to be Captain?"
"My bet is Warrington," Harlan said. "At the beginning of the year I would have said Bletchley, but Cassius has really become a team player this year."
That was very true. Cassius Warrington had been wary of both Edmund and Harlan and kept mostly to himself in the Common Room. He had been one of the people who Edmund suspected was sympathetic to Draco Malfoy, but had never voiced so outright. This year however he had taken pains to at least be civil with everyone on the team. Miles Bletchley, was a pretty jovial guys himself, but Edmund knew he did not share Warrington's drive to win.
"We'll see how it goes," he said eventually.
As they entered the Entrance Hall, where families who had come to watch the match were still present, interspersed throughout, Edmund spotted his parents and grandfather talking with Sullivan near the passage that led down to the dungeons. Conveniently stationed, Edmund thought privately. As he and Harlan reached the rest of his family, Edmund allowed himself to be hugged by his mother while Harlan shook hands with Ned and Simon Fawley. "Well played to the both you," Ned said, looking at Edmund and Harlan. "You work well together and fine beaters."
"Thank you, father."
"Thank you, Lord Fawley."
"Well played to the both of you," Sullivan agreed, shaking Harlan's hand and giving Ed a brief hug. "Though I have to say those bludgers hurt worse when its your own brother shooting them at you."
"You managed to hold your own," Edmund commented drily.
"Barely," Sullivan chuckled. "Cedric caught the snitch when he needed to."
"Where does this place you for the Quidditch Cup?" Simon Fawley asked his eldest grandson.
"We play Gryffindor in the last game of the season," Sullivan said. "We need to absolutely slam them, which is going to be very hard. Wood has done a good job whipping them into shape this year."
"It doesn't hurt that they have the best seeker," Harlan noted. "Say what you will about Potter, he is not the youngest seeker in a century for nothing."
The five of them continued talking for a bit. Simon Fawley told some stories about the last Governors meeting while Ned mentioned he'd been traveling quite a bit to Bulgaria for some Ministry visits, while Elodie Fawley made sure to invite Harlan to the Promenade for a weekend in the summer. Eventually they said their goodbyes, the Fawley parents and grandparent heading back to Promenade-on-Finn, while Harlan and Edmund went to the dungeons and Harlan took the opposite corridor to the basement. It had been a tough game, but it was also time to embrace the rest of the year and all it offered.
2 April, 1994
Hotel Graustein, Graz
My dearest Edmund,
I've just come in from a snow-drenched walk through the Old Town and am now watching Master Vitoff argue with a Carpathian Healer about the comparative efficacy of gorse-root versus lungwort in restorative elixirs. It's quite something. They've been at it for forty-five minutes and have conjured no fewer than six floating diagrams and one (currently sulking) sentient lung.
Naturally, it made me think of you.
I heard about the Quidditch match. Master Vitoff read about it in The Prophet and crowed so loudly I nearly hexed him into the corridor. I'm the Hufflepuff of the two of us, but for some reason since taking me on as his apprentice, he has become very interested in House Quidditch. Speaking of, did I mention last time that I discovered he's a Koldovstoretz graduate? I always just assumed he went to Durmstrang like most Germans. Apparently, back when he went to school (in the twenties), quite a few Germans went to Koldovstoretz. I guess it wasn't until Anton Vogel's disgrace in 1932 that the school's popularity among Germans faded. And honestly—I don't blame them. I wouldn't have wanted to send my children to the alma mater of the Supreme Mugwump who nearly handed the ICW over to Grindelwald.
But back to the match… That final scoreline doesn't tell the full story, of course—no match score ever does. But from what I gather (and I do gather), you and Matthews held the line beautifully. That hit on Sullivan was strategic and clean, even if it rattled your insides more than his. And for what it's worth? I'm sure he'd rather be bruised by you than by Matthews.
But I'll stop before I get too elder-sisterly and you start rolling your eyes. (Don't think I can't see it, even from Graz.)
On a more serious note—how are you feeling? I know you'll say "fine" or "manageable" or "nothing to worry about," but I'd appreciate some actual detail. Are the full moons worsening the scent-triggering, or are things stabilizing? Have your senses settled since February? Has Professor Lupin been helpful?
I'll be in Edinburgh on the 9th, and I should be able to pop over to Hogsmeade that weekend. Sullivan's last letter tells me you've got a scheduled Hogsmeade visit that day. Let's catch up properly then—the three of us, maybe eschewing the Three Broomsticks and going to Hengist's. In the meantime, I'm sending a care parcel with some Austrian chocolate, a vial of bergamot sleep oil from the apothecary here (it's stronger than what they stock at Hogwarts), and a sketch I did of Vitoff mid-lunge during the gorse-root debate. It's not flattering, so don't show anyone unless you want your ears hexed off.
Hold steady, Edmund. I'm proud of you.
Love always,
Merry
P.S. I've talked to Mum. It's also high time we meet this Sally Anne Perks. You do realize the two of you were photographed? It's in Witch Weekly.
Edmund had indeed seen the Witch Weekly photograph. Gemma had left it for him after one of their duels. She had found it quite funny. Edmund had not shared the humor and was blessed that none of his friends had mentioned it. While he knew Daphne would not bring this up, he had not been so sure about Blaise or Theo. He'd half-expected Blaise to wave it at breakfast like a banner. Miraculously, he hadn't. Perhaps even Zabini had his limits.
Gemma had finally finished warding the room that had Housed the Society of Seaxneat. She had been using runes and other charms to keep the room private and her runic layout was finally complete – and as promised, she passed control of it to Edmund. "A place for your little Roman Senate to conspire," she'd said, dry as bone. "Try not to set anyone on fire."
Without Quidditch, Edmund's time had freed up considerably. He worked with Professor Lupin from time to time until the Defense Professor told him he seemed to have his inner wolf under control. Edmund was so grateful to Professor Lupin, and the man had promised that even over the summer he would only be an owl away. Lupin had said it quietly, almost in passing—but it had meant more than Edmund could say. Just an owl away. Edmund had for the most part gotten used to his new superior sense of smell, but the hardest thing he had discovered was that since his hospitalization, occlumency came much more difficultly. His defenses looked distorted whenever he entered his dreamscape, and knew he would probably have to spend time over the summer taking them down and rebuilding entirely. His mental walls, once marble and mirrorlike, now warped like glass left too long in fire. Dreams leaked in where they shouldn't. Memories took strange shapes. He had said as much – discretely – in his last letter to his grandfather, and Simon Fawley had responded empathetically, telling him there would be plenty of opportunities to rebuild and test his defenses back home in Ireland in the summer.
He had also started to make plans for the summer. His father had informed him that it was time to start learning a new language. Edmund's latin and gaelic were stellar, but his French, Japanese, and Swahili left much to be desired and his mother had agreed to take him to France for June and July. His mother had decided it was high time he could hex someone in five languages. Edmund had not disagreed. Elodie Fawley herself was taking a break from her duties in the Wizengamot and was interested in being in Paris for 'the season.' She and Edmund would stay in Place Cachée, the Parisian equivalent to Diagon Alley, at the Hôtel d'Ecossais, a private residence connected to Madam Fawley's MacMillan family. They'd return to Ireland to go to Slievenamon, where Sally Anne would come with them. Later Adrian, Theo and Blaise were going to come to the Promenade for a weekend once Edmund was back, and then a significant number of his friends would be coming for the Quidditch World Cup, including Sakiko and Benjamin.
Meredith had come to Hogsmeade as promised, and he and Sullivan had walked down to Hogsmeade together to meet her. Hengist's was an old-money establishment in Hogsmeade, named after Hengist of Woodcroft, the wizarding village's founder. Ned Fawley often conducted his business in Scotland at Hengist's, as opposed to their grandfather who said that there was nothing that could turn him away from the Three Broomsticks. It was certainly cheaper, though none of the Fawleys considered such a sentiment to be that critical.
Lunch between the siblings had been overdue. The three of them had not been alone together since Merry had graduated Hogwarts after Edmund's first year – and even then Edmund and Sullivan had not been on great terms in those days. Meredith mentioned that Howard and their father had gone out to dinner when Ned Fawley visited Berlin. Edmund and Sullivan agreed that he was probably asking for Ned's blessing and assured Merry that there was no way their father would have withheld it. Sullivan himself was now stepping out with Margo McDougal, a seventh year Hufflepuff, one year above him. While she was graduating this year, she'd be traveling with her mother next year to Rome. It was not uncommon for pure-blood women to spend a year on the Continent after graduation, though Merry had done so for work rather than social custom. Edmund had a feeling Sullivan would be visiting Rome over the Christmas Holidays next year.
Conversation of course at some point came around to Sally Anne and Edmund was as honest as he could be. Sullivan very much voiced his approval of her and helped Edmund disentangle himself from Merry's awkward and penetrating questions, especially when she asked how Daphne felt about it all. Edmund had originally planned to bring Sally Anne to Hengist's but had deferred in order to find a time to introduce her to his family over the summer. She had already met Sullivan, who had introduced himself to her after Edmund had formalized their relationship. Merry was particularly pleased that she'd be joining them for the solstice at Slievenamon.
The rest of the year went by in relative quiet. Gryffindor narrowly beat Hufflepuff in the last match of the season, but were far enough ahead on points to handily win the Quidditch Cup. Edmund couldn't help himself—he went up to Harry Potter in the corridor a few days later and shook his hand. He deserved the lauds. Exams breezed by relatively easily. Edmund had been a bit nervous to take an OWL for Ancient Studies in his fifth year but it had gone over surprisingly well. The Ministry examiner, Professor Bagshot, a relative of the famed author of A History of Magic, was pleased with his grasp on theory and only asked him to demonstrate the difference between ancient Cornish runic layouts from Norse layouts found in Scotland. As always, he aced his Charms practical and he got through his transfiguration practical well enough. Professor Lupin's obstacle course was challenging but also fun, and Edmund was confident he had done well upon its completion.
The only thing to drag down his spirits towards the end of the year was news that Professor Lupin would not be returning. Slowly, it came out that someone had let slip that Professor Lupin was a werewolf. Edmund's grandfather Simon had told him in a letter that a staff member had let slip Lupin's 'monstrosity,' and from there, word reached a parent. A handful of concerned parents had then written to the Governors. Simon Fawley had resisted taking action, but Lupin had apparently resigned. Edmund resented him ever so slightly for not fighting back, but at the same time knew very well that to do so would be exhausting and maybe even scandalous.
Malfoy had spent enough time crowing about it, as if he had something to do with the news coming to light. Edmund genuinely did not know whether that was true or not but had had enough of the blonde ponce's arrogance that he decided it was time to take action.
The Great Hall was loud with the kind of clattering, sun-drenched cheer that only arrived when exams were finished and trunks had begun to close. It was Thursday evening—the second-to-last dinner of term—and the enchanted ceiling had taken on the gold and rose hues of an early summer sunset. Someone had charmed the napkin stacks to fold themselves into miniature phoenixes. Peeves, thank Merlin, had been banned from the Hall until departure day.
At the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy was on his usual posturing perch, arms spread in casual command of his end of the bench, sneering through a monologue that had grown louder with every bite of his treacle tart.
"I'm just saying," he said to an audience that included Pansy Parkinson, Crabbe, Goyle, and a thoroughly checked-out Daphne Greengrass, "it's not like the Governors had a choice. Letting a werewolf teach was irresponsible from the start. Father said—"
Edmund didn't look up from his plate.
He didn't have to.
Blaise was two seats down, sipping pumpkin juice like it contained state secrets. Tracey was across from him, pretending to be invested in an essay rubric she wasn't actually reading. Helen had passed him the final charm schematic the night before during pudding, hidden inside a folded page of Magical Architecture Monthly.
The spell was subtle. Silent. Not one of the usual joke-shop hexes, but a carefully adapted variant of a diagnostic fluid-manipulation charm from a seventh-year textbook on human Transfiguration. Helen had suggested it. Edmund had adjusted the runework. Tracey had field-tested it—on Ignatius Selwyn, who still didn't know why he'd needed to change trousers last week.
The incantation required only a whisper and a thumb-press along the wand's handle. Invescare humorem. Convince the body it had already released.
Adrian, Harlan, and Theo had started laughing just loudly enough to mask Edmund's whispered incantation. Edmund cast it under the table, without looking, mid-sip of his tea.
Malfoy was still going on—now something about how Snape had "done his best, considering the circumstances," which meant Snape had wisely avoided publicly defending Lupin.
And then, a pause.
Not long. Barely a heartbeat.
But enough.
Malfoy's face twitched—just slightly. He shifted in his seat. Glanced down.
And then went very, very still.
A silence began to spread outward from him like ink in water. Students nearby turned. First Pansy. Then Goyle. Then two second-year Ravenclaws across the aisle who craned their necks and immediately began to choke on their rhubarb crumble.
A dark stain had begun to bloom on the front of Malfoy's trousers. Slowly. Inexorably. Horribly.
Edmund didn't smile. He didn't even blink. He reached for the salt as though nothing had happened.
At the Ravenclaw table, someone let out an audible gasp. At Gryffindor, Parvati Patil shrieked with laughter so violently that she knocked over a goblet. Even Ernie Macmillan from Hufflepuff, who had spent most of the term cultivating Prefect-of-the-Year energy, had to bury his face in his sleeves.
Malfoy stood up with a gasp—an indignant, strangled noise.
"This—this is sabotage!" he cried. "Someone hexed me! This isn't funny!"
He was going red in the face. Students from every direction were now openly staring. A fourth-year Hufflepuff dropped a fork. Someone from Gryffindor whispered, "Did he just—?" and couldn't finish the sentence.
"Father will hear of this!" Malfoy shouted, then immediately regretted it, as the sound of his own voice bounced across the enchanted ceiling.
From the Slytherin table, Blaise raised his goblet of pumpkin juice—smooth, unbothered, perfectly timed.
"Careful, Malfoy," he said, not even loud. "Might want to try the little Lords' room before dinner next time."
It was over.
The Great Hall exploded.
Even Professors Flitwick and Sinistra exchanged wide-eyed glances. Sprout looked away, her shoulders shaking. McGonagall stood up as if to intervene and then—very quietly—sat back down.
Malfoy turned and bolted, wet robes swishing, footsteps echoing down the hall in rhythmic, damp panic.
By the time dessert arrived, two Gryffindors had nearly fallen off their bench from laughing, and someone had spelled the words "Malflow" to float briefly above the Slytherin table before Snape hexed them out of the air with a look that could have curdled cream.
Edmund said nothing. He ate his meal slowly, methodically, pausing once to butter a roll.
Later that night, in the common room, Blaise nudged a sugar quill in his direction.
"A classic," he said quietly.
"Textbook," Tracey agreed, not looking up from her game of Exploding Snap with Helen.
Edmund didn't reply. He simply folded his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, letting the firelight flicker across the stone walls and thinking, for the first time in days, that he might sleep well tonight.
Later that night, Draco Malfoy woke with a jolt as a thick wetness spread across his skin.
He sat up, confused and nauseated, and instantly realized he was not in his dormitory. The air was cool and damp, and the walls shimmered with old stone. Around him, an unfamiliar room flickered dimly under the green glow of enchanted braziers. The fire burned low, casting shadows like claw marks.
He looked down.
Blood.
His robes were soaked in it—thick, sticky, dark red. He opened his mouth to scream.
Incarcerous.
Ropes of shadowy black cord snapped into being, binding him at the wrists and ankles. They shimmered with a metallic gleam, writhing like serpents as they tightened.
Silencio.
His voice vanished. Panic bloomed in his chest.
From the shadows, nine hooded figures stepped forward—cloaked, faceless, encircling him with ritual precision. Their robes were long, their cowls deep, and the one who stood at the center wore a silver-lined hood. Draco tried to meet their eyes—but there were no eyes. No mouths. No faces. Only void.
The central figure spoke, voice magically distorted—layered, inhuman, echoing like a storm filtered through steel.
"Draco Lucius Malfoy," the voice said. "You have disgraced the name wizard and taint the very magic that rests within you."
Draco's mouth trembled. He shook his head, frantically struggling against the cords. He tried to speak and nothing came out. Eventually he felt the silencing charm fade away.
"Please," he sobbed, his voice hoarse and useless against the Silencing Charm. "My father—he has money—he can pay you! Just—just let me go!"
The figure did not move.
"We are not interested in your father's blood money," the voice continued. "We are here to offer a warning. Change is coming to Hogwarts. We will be watching to see if you coincide with the future… or not."
"Please—please! I'll do anything!" Draco cried, the words raw with terror now. He was sobbing outright, and he was sure—humiliatingly, definitively—that he had wet himself again.
A small vial was placed before him. It glowed stormy blue with flickers of violet, like a bottled thunderstorm. Draco didn't recognize the potion. He couldn't identify a single property.
"Drink the potion, Draco Malfoy," the hooded figure ordered. "Drink the potion—and next year, mind yourself."
The ropes fell away.
Draco didn't hesitate.
Hands shaking, he grabbed the vial, uncorked it, and raised it to his lips. There was no time for logic, no room for escape. He couldn't reach his wand. He couldn't run.
He drank.
The potion was warm and slightly metallic, with a faint note of cardamom. It slid down smoothly, leaving a gentle burn in his throat.
And then the world tipped sideways.
He crumpled.
Darkness took him.
Gemma Farley stood over the sleeping forms of Crabbe and Goyle and turned to Edmund, visibly annoyed.
"Sweetheart, you have no idea how much you'll be in my debt after this, do you?" she asked.
The two of them were alone in the dormitory. Blaise had been swiftly dispatched the moment Gemma had barged in, her wand already drawn and her cloak trailing behind her like a closing curtain.
"You know I'm already in your debt, Gemma," Edmund replied neutrally. "You've done so much for me already."
Gemma looked at him carefully.
"You knew they were Draco's allies," she said softly. "Why would you ever have brought them in?"
"I was angry," Edmund muttered. "I wanted vengeance. For what Corner did to Daphne."
"Silly," Gemma said, shaking her head. "You acted weakly. You didn't need them for what you did to Corner."
"I realize that," he admitted, the words quiet, nearly inaudible. "I'm still asking you to help me correct my mistakes."
Gemma studied him, eyes sharp and unreadable. Then her expression softened—dangerously so.
"Beg for it."
Edmund stiffened. Swallowed. "Please, Gemma… help me."
She raised an eyebrow. "Ehh…"
"Please, Gemma!" he said, more forcefully this time. "Please help me."
She looked at him a long moment, her silence absolute. It was her last night at Hogwarts. This would be her final act on school grounds. She smiled—briefly, cruelly, almost fond—before turning her back to him and facing the two sleeping boys.
She raised her wand.
"Obliviate."
Blaise Zabini had run into Professor Flitwick on his morning rounds and quickly informed him Draco Malfoy was missing from the dormitory. He told him that Edmund had tried to wake Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, but something was making the two nonresponsive. Blaise confessed that he and Edmund were concerned someone like Sirius Black had broken into the dormitory.
Flitwick immediately sent a message to Snape, McGonagall, Dumbledore, and Sprout before marching back with Blaise to the Slytherin common room. As they entered the third-year boys' dormitory, they found Meredith Fawley and Octavian Keating, the former seemingly consoling a shuddering Edmund.
Octavian reported to Flitwick that Edmund had run into Gemma in the common room and asked for her help. Eventually, Gemma had gone to get him as well.
Flitwick cast several diagnostic spells over Crabbe and Goyle and was just finishing his last pass when Severus Snape barged in.
"Are they all right?" the Potions Master asked, striding forward.
"Ennervate," Flitwick said quietly, and removed his wand from their faces as both boys began to stir.
"Mister Crabbe, Mister Goyle," Snape said, taking over. "Are you all right?"
"Uhh… why wouldn't we be, Professor?" Goyle asked groggily, looking around at the unusual scene.
"Mister Keating informs us you were nonresponsive," Snape said. "Meanwhile, Draco Malfoy appears to have been taken from the dormitory."
Snape turned to the others. "Mister Malfoy was found in the Restricted Section of the Library. He claims he was covered in blood—but of course, he was found with no evidence of any stains and reportedly has suffered no injuries."
"Was it Sirius Black, Professor?" Edmund asked, voice just barely trembling. He used every ounce of his occlumency training to project a careful blend of fear and confusion.
Snape looked at him slowly, dark eyes searching. Edmund felt the brush of Legilimency—brief, cold, and inconclusive.
"I cannot say, Mister Fawley," Snape said at last. "Keating, take Crabbe and Goyle to Madam Pomfrey for a checkup. Hopefully they can still make the train back to London this morning. Miss Farley, please ensure that no one else has heard about any possible intrusion in the common room."
With that, Snape left the dormitory. Flitwick followed close behind, but not before pausing beside Edmund.
"Are you all right, Mister Fawley?"
Edmund took a deep breath. "I think so, Professor. Or at least—I will be."
Flitwick patted him on the knee, then followed Snape out.
He was followed by Octavian, gently guiding a still-dazed Crabbe and Goyle toward the exit.
When the door shut behind them, it was just Blaise, Meredith, and Edmund left in the room.
"Well," Edmund muttered, brushing a bit of lint off his sleeve, "that went well."
The train rocked gently on its northbound track, the rhythmic clatter of wheels a lullaby for tired minds. Summer stretched out beyond the window—fields gold with afternoon light, hedgerows flickering past like ghostly sentinels of the year gone by.
Edmund sat by the window, one knee drawn up, chin resting on it. The corridor beyond was a blur of laughter and snacks and last-minute owl arrangements, but their compartment was quiet.
Daphne was curled into the opposite bench, asleep with a book folded on her chest. Blaise had gone to find chocolate. Tracey and Helen were already whispering in the next car about what everyone would wear to the World Cup.
He stared out the window, watching his reflection waver against the landscape.
"Hey."
Sally-Anne stood in the doorway. Her hair was loose. She looked like she'd run to catch her breath and then decided not to speak after all.
Edmund turned his head.
She didn't say anything at first. Just walked forward, reached down, and placed something in his lap.
A single lilac bloom, pressed between pages of his old Herbology chart.
"For the summer," she said.
He nodded. Didn't trust himself to speak.
"See you at the solstice," she added, smiling.
And then she was gone.
The train rolled on, warm and sunlit. And Edmund Fawley closed his eyes.
Next year, he thought. Next year.
A/N: And there ends Edmund Fawley's Third Year. Fourth Year is going to start pretty heavy on the world building but then delve a bit into Edmund's relationship with Harry.