12

Wizards think they're untouchable. Invincible. The apex of the food chain in a world full of Muggles and lesser beings. They raise their wands and expect every threat to vanish, every problem to disappear with a simple Evanesco.

But magic doesn't make us stronger.

It makes us dependent.

On spells, on potions, on the illusion that we're in control.

Magic gives us tools, yes, but it also takes away our ability to save ourselves. Because when magic fails... what's left of us? I wonder if anyone truly realizes that. If Harry understands it. If Mattheo does. Or if I even understand it myself.

Maybe not. Maybe we all think we can just snap the chaos in our lives away, like dust on an old page in the library. But chaos doesn't just disappear.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live a life without a wand. Without magic. Without all the rules and legacies and burdens.

Would we be more ourselves? Or would we be even more lost than we are now?

And here I am. Sitting in the Great Hall. Sleeping bags scattered across the floor, whispered conversations, uneasy glances.

The school has been evacuated.An intruder, they said. An enemy.

But how do you tell enemies from friends in a world that lies to itself?

The smell of blood haunts me. It's burned into my skin, my clothes, my mind. Even here, in the Great Hall, surrounded by hundreds of students, I can't escape it.

Cassia. My owl.

My gentle, loyal creature who's been with me since my first night at Hogwarts.

Her head was severed.

Placed on my bed like some cruel monument.

Her eyes hollow, her feathers drenched in red.

And the blood... oh, the blood. It was everywhere.

It poured like a curse down the walls of my room, dripping from the furniture, pooling on the floor.

The walls were covered in blood. Splattered everywhere.

The words on the wall... I can't forget them.

»A Potter's blood is only the beginning, my love.«

Whoever wrote that knew exactly what they were doing.

The handwriting was grotesque, distorted, like the letters had been clawed into the blood with bare hands. It wasn't just a threat. It was a message.

A message for me.

And now I know for certain—it isn't Mattheo who's tormenting me like this.

It's the Dark Lord himself.

I sit on my sleeping bag as the world moves around me. Students whisper, stealing glances at me. Their curiosity feels like a thousand needles pricking my skin. I hear the murmurs, the hushed gossip.

»That was in her room.«»She's a Potter; what did you expect?«»It must have something to do with her father... or You-Know-Who.«

But I don't move. I just sit there, frozen, my hands clenched tightly in my lap. My gaze is fixed on the floor in front of me, but I don't really see it.

My friends are with Dumbledore. Blaise, Theo, Enzo, Pansy, Draco—even Mattheo. They're discussing what happened, trying to figure out who could've done something like this and what their intention is. But we all know it was. We just don't dare to speak it out loud.

And me?

I'm here, surrounded by whispering voices and prying eyes. But I'm alone. A part of me stayed in that room, with Cassia. With the blood. With the words on the wall.

My breathing is shallow, and my body feels like it's made of stone. Every time I close my eyes, I see it again.

Her eyes. Empty. Her head, tossed carelessly onto my bed.

The message. The blood.

And I can't stop wondering: Am I next?

Harry's voice cuts through the murmurs in the hall like a blade. It's loud, firm, and full of fear.

»Dumbledore, we can't ignore this any longer! He's coming after us. Voldemort... he won't stop until he gets what he wants!«

My breath catches when I hear his name. Voldemort. Every student in the hall hold their breath.

The man who murdered our parents. The man who destroyed Harry's life, my life. The man whose son...

I swallow hard and look down at the floor. The words on my wall flash in my mind like a brand.

»A Potter's blood is only the beginning.«

I don't move. The voices in the hall blur together.

They're all talking about me. I can feel it.

About my room. About the blood. About Cassia.

My head is empty yet so loud, like a roaring storm.

I'm still sitting on my sleeping bag, unable to move. The voices around me are muffled, like I'm hearing them through a thick veil.

My head throbs. My chest feels like it's about to shatter.

Then I hear Harry. His voice rises above the murmurs of the students.»I want her to transfer to Gryffindor!«

My head snaps toward him.

Did he really just say that?

»She's not safe in Slytherin, Dumbledore! She doesn't belong there!« His voice sounds determined, almost angry.

My breath catches. Gryffindor? My thoughts race. No, he can't be serious.

All I'd be there is a target—a traitor, an outcast.

I see Dumbledore turn to him, raising his hand as if to calm him.

But before Dumbledore can say a word, Mattheo's voice suddenly cuts through the hall, sharp as a blade:»Bloody hell, are you serious right now? Have you completely lost your mind, Potter?«

I whip my head around. Mattheo stands up, striding toward Harry with long, furious steps.

His face is hard, his eyes blazing with anger.

»What did you just say?« Harry's tone turns icy, but I see him swallow, caught off guard by the sudden confrontation.

»You heard me.« Mattheo stops just two steps away from my brother, pointing at me. »You want to drag her into Gryffindor? Into the bloody heart of people who hate her just because she's a Slytherin? Do you think that'll keep her any safer?«

The air in the hall grows heavier. Everyone's eyes are on them.

»I'm worried about her!« Harry's voice shakes, and I feel his gaze flicker toward me for a moment.

Mattheo lets out a bitter laugh. It's not a pleasant sound. »Worried? You're killing her with this crap! You just don't get it, do you?«

His voice rises, rough and full of venom. »You think you're protecting her by destroying her? What do you think will happen to her in your little lion's den? They'll tear her apart, Potter. And besides, you Gryffindor's think you could keep her safe? It only takes one Gryffindor who hates her, and you'll find your sister dead.«

I see Harry's hands clench into fists, his lips pressing into a thin line. He looks like he's ready to hit Mattheo any second.»She's my sister!« he snarls. »I decide what's best for her!«

»Oh, really?« Mattheo steps closer, his shoulders tense, every move radiating anger. »Then start acting like a fucking brother! Stop shoving her into some perfect little world she's never been in and take a real look at her! Or have you forgotten how to do that since you became Mr. Hero?«

The words hit me like a punch. I stare at Mattheo, and something in his voice—in his expression—makes me forget for a moment that he's supposed to be my enemy.

»Enough!« Dumbledore's voice echoes through the hall. »Mister Potter, Mister Riddle, take your seats. Now.«

As Dumbledore intervenes, it's like an invisible curtain falls over the hall.

All eyes turn to him, and an oppressive silence spreads. But before he can speak, I suddenly hear Pansy's voice, sharper than I'd expected.

»Mattheo, calm down!« she says, her words cutting but oddly protective. »He's her brother. He just wants to keep her safe.«

Her words unsettle me. I hadn't expected Pansy to step in for Harry like that.

But she does it without hesitation. Her eyes flash in Harry's direction, and I can see she agrees with him.

Mattheo turns to her, his eyes blazing with fury. »Are you bloody serious, Pans? She'll die over there! How the hell are a bunch of Gryffindors supposed to protect her better than us from a wizard like Voldemort? Tell me!«

His words hit the hall like a thunderclap. Silence falls. Everyone glances at one another as if they can feel the unspoken tension in the air.

Mattheo turns, as though about to walk away, but then it happens. Harry, unable to hold back any longer, clenches his fists and spits out, his voice sharp with icy fury and taunting tone:»It's your bloody father, Riddle! Of course, this is coming from you! Of course you don't want her to transfer to Gryffindor! Acting like you care for her, but we all know damn well, you'd love to see her dead!«

I feel the atmosphere shift. All eyes are on us now. And then, it happens.

Mattheo spins around so fast it's dizzying, and in the next instant, his fist collides with Harry's face.

The sound of the blow echoes through the hall, and Harry staggers back.

It's as if the fragile tension that had been building has finally shattered, exploding into chaos.

Harry clutches his nose, blood dripping between his fingers, but his eyes burn with rage. Theo and Enzo don't hesitate—they jump in, grabbing Mattheo, trying to hold him back.

»Enough!« Dumbledore's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and commanding.

Before anyone can respond, Filch bursts into the Great Hall. »Professors, I must ask you to come. There's something you need to see. Follow me.«

Dumbledore and the other teachers exchange dark looks with the students before following Filch out of the hall, leaving us alone.

Theo and Enzo manage to drag Mattheo a few steps away, but it's useless. He breaks free, his fury unrelenting, and launches himself at Harry again.

I hear the sickening sound of the next punch, flesh hitting bone. Harry stumbles backward, blood dripping from his nose, and I'm frozen.

Tears well in my eyes as I clasp a hand over my mouth.

Mattheo is beating my brother to a bloody pulp, and I'm paralyzed. My stomach churns, nausea washing over me like a wave.

I can't move fast enough. I can't breathe. I watch in horror as Mattheo keeps punching him, and every blow feels like it's landing on me instead.

Theo and Blaise try to pull him away, shouting his name, but nothing works. »Mattheo! Calm the fuck down!« Draco barks, his voice cutting through the noise as he and Enzo jump in again.

Every attempt to stop him fails. I watch as Harry collapses to the ground, bleeding, and Mattheo grabs him by the collar, dragging him back to his feet.

He raises his fist again, aiming straight for Harry's face.

And then something inside me snaps.

I lunge forward, throwing myself between Harry and Mattheo. But when I cover my mouth with my hand I realize it's too late.

The punch lands — not directly, but it grazes me, and the force of it sends a shockwave through my body. Pain ripples through me, stealing my breath

Mattheo stops.

Suddenly there is silence. A chilling, suffocating where the only sounds are mine, Mattheo's and Harry's ragged breathing.

He freezes, his hand still in the air, staring at me. I see the coldness in his eyes waver, the storm within him hesitating.

He lowers his hand slowly, and looks at me— not like I am his enemy anymore, but as if I'm something fragile he's just broken.

For a moment he is still, motionless. Time seems to stop.

The others all stand there, silent, too shocked to even breathe.

And I? I feel like the world has collapsed around me.

Mattheo lets out a bitter laugh, devoid of any humor. It's cold and hollow, and a cynical smile twists his lips. But there's no joy in his gaze—only a deep, seething anger and frustration. »I'll be gone soon anyway,« he mutters.

He tears himself free from the others without another word and storms off toward his sleeping bag. Without sparing anyone a glance, he throws himself onto the ground and just lies there.

The sound of his movement is swallowed by the oppressive silence, and no one dares to speak. Everyone just stares, paralyzed.

Enzo is the first to move. He whirls around and yells at the others, his voice sharp and commanding: »What are you all staring at? Go to sleep or something!«

It takes a moment, but eventually, the others start to shift.

They murmur, whisper, but no one speaks out loud. The air feels heavy, like the aftermath of a storm that hasn't fully passed.

Pansy is at Harry's side, but I can't focus on that.

Tears stream down my face, my heart pounds erratically, and the room seems to spin around me. Panic rises in my chest, constricting my lungs, and it feels as though the air has been sucked out of the space. Every part of me wants to run, to flee, but I can't. I'm frozen in place, trapped by my own spiraling thoughts.

Pansy notices. She looks at me, her eyes soft, and her voice calm and steady: »Sarah... you need to breathe. I'll take care of Harry. Just go to your sleeping bag and rest.«

I want to say no, but my heart is racing too fast. I sob as I wrap my arms around Harry who is covered in blood, breathing heavily. He grunts and puts his arms around me. »Shh...it's alright. I'm alright, Sarah..go to sleep...I'll let pansy speak any healing spells, don't you worry...« he says gently.

I nod weakly, even though each step feels like I'm walking further away from myself. I look at him for a moment. I don't know why I can't stop sobbing.

I make my way to my sleeping bag, the one placed so close to Mattheo's.

The room is still filled with the soft murmurs of the others, but I can't hear them. All I hear is the pounding in my head.

I lie down on the sleeping bag, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on me.

I can feel Mattheo's presence beside me, even though he doesn't look my way.

It feels wrong—so wrong. And yet, a part of me wonders if he even cares about what just happened. But I know I'll never get that answer.

Mattheo shifts slightly, turning toward me. His arms are folded behind his head, and his expression is one of cold indifference. His voice is low, almost casual, but the detachment in his tone cuts deeper than any insult: »Stop crying like a child.«

I sniffle, the sound betraying just how broken I feel. I don't want to cry, but it's as though everything inside me is spilling out, unstoppable. And then, I snap.

»You almost killed my brother. My... my owl was murdered just hours ago. I took a hit from your fist, Mattheo! And now there's an intruder, and someone wants me dead! Just let me cry, you heartless bastard!«

The words pour out of me, raw and trembling, carried by the flood of tears I can no longer contain.

I don't even know if the tears are for me, for Harry, or for everything that's happened.

Mattheo doesn't say a word. He just stares blankly ahead. Then, without any warning, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wand as though it's the most natural thing in the world.

With a quick flick, he conjures a small block of ice that appears in his hand.

He doesn't speak as he presses it gently against my cheek. The icy, solid touch contrasts with the warmth of my tears, grounding me in an unsettling way. I sniffle as I gently take the ice from his hand, and keep pressing it against my cheek.

He remains silent, and so do I.

I just lie there, surrounded by the chaos, with the ice cooling my burning skin.

I lie there, the ice pressed against my cheek, as my thoughts whirl like a storm in my mind. Everything feels surreal, as if I'm trapped in a nightmare I can't wake up from.

I glance at the spot where the ice touches my skin, wondering if this is some kind of sick joke. But it's not. It's all too real—the pain, the tears, the suffocating cold spreading through my body.

The image of my owl flashes in my mind like a haunting painting burned onto the canvas of my thoughts. Her head. On my bed. The blood.

No matter how hard I try, I can't push the image away. She had been lying there, brutally murdered, so suddenly, so violently. And that message, written in her blood on the wall, so clear, so terrifying.

"A Potter's."

The thought that those words were meant for me... it's unbearable.

All this time, I thought I was safe. But when I saw that message, I knew—I was never safe. I would never be safe.

Mattheo's words echo in my head: "Stop crying like a child."

But why doesn't he ever listen?Why is he always so cold?It's as if everything is just a game to him. As if none of this truly matters.

But it's not just that. It's not just what he's done to me. It's the way he deals with everything. The way he handles us all, as though we're pieces in some twisted performance he's orchestrating.

And what about me? What about my fears? What about the things that are tearing me apart inside?

I hate his arrogance. I hate him.I hate how he mixes cruelty with glimpses of care, leaving a mark on you whether you want it or not.

Breaking my arm—then wiping my tears.

Tyrannizing me—then letting me sleep safely beside him when he's drunk.

Yelling at me in the bathroom about my eating disorder, mocking me—then holding me tightly against his chest as if to silence my pain.

I close my eyes, but all I feel is emptiness.

I feel hollow, as if everything that once made me who I am has been ripped away.

And then there's my owl. My only real connection to my past, to my family.

Gone. Taken from me so easily, so carelessly.

How can I even begin to believe that anything they've told us—anything I've ever believed—holds any truth at all?

I open my eyes again, my gaze falling on the gathered students still lingering in the Great Hall.

They're whispering, casting fearful glances.

I look at them, and the realization hits me—they don't see me. They see a Potter. They see a name, a legacy I was born into but can't escape.

They don't see the truth.

And then, the words come back to me.

"A potter's."

The words had been haunting me, taunting me with their finality. Potter. That was me, wasn't it? Or... no.

Suddenly, I realize something I hadn't before.

The message didn't say Sarah Potter. It didn't specify me.

It was vague, as if it didn't care which Potter. But that was exactly the point—it wasn't about me. It was about him.

That cursed message.

Suddenly, it all makes sense.

The message wasn't for me.

It was for Harry.

He's the one they want.

Not me.

I'm not the target.

It's Harry.

The threat wasn't aimed at me—it's been him all along. The "Potter" in the message wasn't about me. It was always about him.

I'm just... a distraction. A piece in a larger game. They want to push me into the shadows, but the real Potter, the one Voldemort truly wants—that's Harry.

The realization punches me in the gut as I go over the words again and again. My breath quickens as the truth solidifies in my mind.

Voldemort is after Harry. Not me. Harry.

My breathing is shallow, my chest rising and falling as panic and purpose intertwine.

And I know what I have to do.

No matter how reckless, how suicidal it might seem—I have to get in contact with Voldemort.