CHAPTER 30

Having leapt from my hand, the owl took off with a powerful flap of its wings, soaring through one of the many openings in the wall and vanishing into the now-darkened sky.

"It's almost curfew," Justin said, glancing up at the sky. "Time to head back."

"Indeed. Let's go."

The descent was, like the ascent, uneventful and unremarkable. But once we reached a dimly lit corridor, things took a more thrilling turn.

"Well, look who we have here…"

I'd recognize Malfoy's smug voice anywhere. Turning toward it, I saw him, flanked by his two ever-present hulks and a decent-looking brown-haired boy—his fellow Slytherin and classmate.

"Mr. Malfoy, what an unpleasant surprise—I won't lie," the elf in me surfaced again.

I can't help it when such blatant rich brats stand before me… And what a word—"rich kids"—popped into my head unbidden.

"It's mutual. Isn't it risky for two…" Malfoy sneered, eyeing us with disdain, avoiding my gaze due to the "arrogant" elven mask I'd donned, so irksome to anyone with even a shred of pride.

"…Mudbloods to wander Hogwarts at night?"

"Afraid? Of you?"

I'd already begun weaving the simplest, most effective magical construct for such encounters. The elf had used it so often during his travels that it nearly etched itself onto the floor beneath my foot. No, it's not some grand defense or attack spell—cunning is the heart of a lone elf's tactics. Even in a direct clash, you just need to rile them up, distract them, and…

"Even if it were us," Malfoy drew his wand, pointing it at me.

His cronies hesitated, and the brown-haired boy looked at him with confusion, though he slowly drew his own wand. Naturally, I didn't flinch—I stared straight at the blond. Justin fidgeted behind me. No one rushed to strike first.

"You insulted me recently. You'll pay for it. I didn't even have to hunt you down."

"Hector, we're in obvious trouble," Justin muttered.

"I see," I cut off his nervous chatter, "that you know nothing of Mr. Malfoy's ilk. Their threats are like winter thunder borne on the wind—rumbling in the distance, stirring needless alarm. But sometimes thunder's just thunder."

My words clearly irked Malfoy, and even the previously puzzled brown-haired boy showed indignation on his face. Now to distract them.

Glancing past the Slytherins, I offered a polite smile to the empty space and dipped my head in a slight greeting.

"Professor Snape…"

The boys scrambled to hide their wands in their robe sleeves and spun around. Of course, no one was there—just the darkness of the night corridors, faintly lit by moonlight filtering through high windows and scattered by clouds.

That was my cue to activate the construct beneath my foot. The air quivered for an instant, and I stepped back. Placing a hand on Justin's shoulder—he'd frozen, expecting an attack—I whispered, "Let's slip around the corner."

"But—"

The Slytherins whirled back, indignant, but their eyes darted to each other. Instantly, they began hurling spells at one another, shouting.

"*Stupefy**!"

"*Petrificus Totalus**!"

"*Everte Statum**!"

And on it went, spell after spell. Panicking, they dodged as beams crisscrossed the air. Justin and I retreated into the stairwell leading to the Owlery, safe from the chaos.

A few moments later, silence fell. I poked my head out first, surveying the aftermath. Nothing critical—just the brown-haired boy swaying on his feet before collapsing unconscious, the final touch of the construct's effect. It had made them see me or Justin in place of their own allies, prompting them to attack each other. No specifics, no illusions—just a nudge of confusion and a mental suggestion, letting their minds fill in the blanks. It always worked. And there's always a "last hero"—a simple sleep effect in the construct takes care of them.

"Let's go, Justin."

We stepped out and continued down the corridor.

"What was that, anyway?"

Hmm. Technically, second-year textbooks feature a similar single-target spell meant to redirect aggression from swamp spirits and ghosts.

"Defense Against the Dark Arts, second year. You should've taken it."

"Mmm… Doubt it…" Justin shook his head as we hastened away from the scene. "Our teacher was awful."

"Yeah? Hm… Come to think of it, I didn't see a second-year Defense Against the Dark Arts book among Hermione's stash—just a series of novels by some Lockhart. Decent adventure tales, though too full of self-admiration."

"That's him. He taught DADA—a terrible teacher. Turned out he was claiming credit for the feats in those books."

"So what?" I asked, surprised. "They're just stories."

"But he passed them off as real. Even got awards for them."

"That's truly dishonorable then. Literature's one thing—personal glory and gain are another."

As we neared the common room, Justin asked, "Will the Slytherins be alright?"

"Don't know."

"Uh…?"

Stopping at the barrels—one of which was the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room—I looked at my friend.

"Nothing from my actions. But someone could help them harm themselves further. Depends if they're found before they wake."

"They're not the best people…" Justin knocked on a barrel, and the passage opened. "But I don't wish them ill either."

"And that's what they wish for you—and me, and folks like us."

"Shame. By the way…" Justin paused in the entryway, lowering his voice to a whisper. "…what if they ask us?"

"Tell it straight—the pure truth, but trim the excess."

"Ah, got it. My dad told me about something like that."

We finally entered the common room. I'd love to say it was business as usual, but no—a meeting was clearly underway. And our Head of House, Pomona Sprout, was there too. It seemed she didn't just wear snug robes and a wide-brimmed hat in class; her dark brown robe wrapped tightly around her, graying curls peeking out from beneath the brim.