A Snake Hanging FROM A TREE

The weeks crawled by, and as always, Hogwarts buried the past beneath the steady hum of routine. Whispers of that night faded, smothered by Transfiguration lessons, Quidditch matches, and the ever-turning machinery of school life. But for Cael, normalcy was nothing but a bitter lie.

In the Gryffindor dormitory, on a crisp morning heavy with frost, Cael sat by the window with Fred and George Weasley and Lee Jordan. Weak sunlight bled through the panes, gilding the floorboards in gold — but their conversation carried no warmth.

Fred leaned in, his grin curling with dangerous amusement.

"So? What's the grand plan, Cael? Kidnap him? Drag him into the woods like he did to you? Bit poetic, don't you think?"

George shook his head, lips quirking with mischief.

"Nah, nah — something funnier. Curse his robes. Make it look like he's strutting around the castle stark naked. Picture McGonagall's face when she catches him."

But Cael's expression didn't flicker. His eyes were colder than the frost creeping along the windowpanes. His fingers traced the edge of his wand, voice low, steady, carved from stone.

"No. I've had time to think. If I want him to pay — properly —" His gaze darkened, sharp as broken glass. "It starts with fear. Let him choke on it. Then? A taste of what he did to me. Not enough to get caught… but enough to make him remember."

Lee Jordan leaned closer, brow raised.

"He's a Slytherin prefect. Harder to catch than a loose Bludger. We'll need the right moment."

Fred snapped his fingers.

"Prefect patrols. Of course. When they're patrolling around at night near the common rooms. I think that's the best chance ?"

Cael nodded, his voice like ice.

"We need to find out when Frey's on duty. Then we will Execute the plan.."

It didn't take long. By dinner, Lee darted over to their table, breathless, eyes alight with news.

"Frey's patrolling tonight. Third floor corridors. He's paired with some Hufflepuff prefects, and…" His voice dipped to a conspiratorial whisper. "…he takes the late shift. Alone."

The plan clicked into place like gears in an old clock.

⸻

That night, the castle slept beneath a veil of silence. Stone walls breathed cold air, torches guttering as Cael, Fred, George, and Lee slipped from Gryffindor Tower, shadows at their heels, guided by the Marauder's Map.

"Filch is down by the dungeons. Hufflepuffs near the Great Hall," Fred whispered, eyes scanning the map. His finger hovered over a lone dot pacing the third floor. "There he is. Frey."

Cael's pulse thrummed like war drums, but his grip on his wand never wavered. They descended the staircases like ghosts — careful steps, shallow breaths.

They found him near an empty stretch of the third floor. Frey patrolled the corridor, mumbling to himself like a lunatic , His prefect badge gleamed faintly against his robes, which showed his authority — and his arrogance.

Cael slipped forward, silent as breath, wand raised. The hours of practice simmered beneath his skin. His voice, when he spoke, was barely more than a whisper.

"Mopinus."

The spell hit Frey square in the back. His body seized, limbs rigid, face contorted in a frozen snarl. Before he could hit the ground, George darted in, pulling a black sack over his head.

"Check the map," Lee hissed.

Fred's eyes flicked to the parchment.

"Clear."

They moved fast — through hidden passages, silent arteries of the castle, until moonlight kissed their faces and the cold gnawed at their bones. They emerged by the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the lake rippling like black glass beneath the stars.

With practiced efficiency, they hoisted Frey upside down from a gnarled tree. Ropes bit into his wrists and ankles as his body swayed in the wind, muffled grunts seeping from beneath the sack.

Fred uncorked a small vial — its contents swirling an eerie, sickly green. He poured it slowly over Frey's head.

"What's that?" Lee asked, eyes narrowing.

Fred's smirk was razor-sharp.

"Hogsmeade brew. Induces auditory hallucinations — the worst fears. Right in his skull. He'll hear monsters… whispers… whatever crawls under his skin."

Cael's wand was already poised. He cast an itching Curse— a subtle, creeping curse that bloomed across Frey's skin like invisible nettles, relentless and maddening. They gagged him next, silencing his protests, leaving him with nothing but the chill of the night, the itch burrowing beneath his skin, and the shrieking, phantom horrors that only he could hear.

The lake was standing frozen behind them, and cold wind's waves whispering to the trees as Frey twisted, helpless.

George crossed his arms.

"Well, that was embarrassingly easy. Fifth year… prefect… pathetic."

Fred snorted.

"Same lot, every time. Purebloods, 'superior,' 'untouchable' — they're arrogant, lazy, predictable."

Cael sneered, eyes glinting with cold calculation.

"That's their weakness. Their superiority complex. They think blood makes them better. Magic makes them invincible. It makes them vulnerable — easy to manipulate, easy to remind them exactly how fragile they are."

Fred's chuckle was low, sharp.

"He'll piss himself before sunrise."

Lee tilted his head.

"You think this'll scare him straight?"

Cael's expression never shifted — unreadable, ice-bound.

"This?" His voice was quiet, dangerous. "This is nothing. Just the first reminder. Every time he thinks it's over… it won't be. Step by step — I'll show him exactly what fear feels like."

With the Marauder's Map guiding them, they melted back into the castle, shadows slipping through the corridors unnoticed, their breaths light, their hearts steady.

But as they slipped down the final stretch of hall, none of them saw the tall figure standing deep in the shadows. Silent. Unmoving. Eyes glinting faintly beneath the flickering torchlight.

The figure had seen everything.

And said nothing.

 And outside Frey was hanging upside down from the tree with itching body and scary nightmares