# Principal Weems's Office - Nevermore Academy, Late Morning
The office of Principal Larissa Weems sat like a cathedral of authority at the top of Nevermore Academy's tallest, most brooding tower—a place so high above the school grounds it seemed almost allergic to sunlight. The architecture leaned toward the dramatic, as if designed by someone who believed intimidation should be an aesthetic experience. Gargoyles loomed just beyond the arched, frost-glazed windows, their grotesque faces caught forever between grimace and grin, while shadows played on the walls like ghosts rehearsing old regrets.
The room itself breathed in a way rooms shouldn't—slowly, deliberately—its dark mahogany furniture whispering stories of the worried, the wicked, and the wonderfully doomed. Leather chairs, polished to a sinister gleam, seemed to sigh when sat upon, as if disappointed that another human had survived long enough to take a seat. The bookshelves climbed toward the vaulted ceiling like gothic trees, filled with volumes whose spines radiated an aura of quiet menace. You could almost believe the books were listening.
Principal Weems sat at her desk with the poise of a porcelain statue that had learned how to breathe. Her platinum hair shimmered under the dim amber light, and her suit—an impeccable shade of burgundy—matched the hue of freshly spilled secrets. She smiled with the kind of warmth that could chill the blood, and her eyes gleamed like polished ice, reflecting far more than they revealed.
Across from her, Hercules Black reclined with a grace that seemed both human and not. He moved like a rumor—fluid, deliberate, and faintly dangerous. His sunglasses glinted like a magician's misdirection, concealing eyes that might have turned lesser mortals to stone—or worse, told them the truth. Even seated, he carried the faint hum of a storm trying to behave itself indoors.
Beside him sat Wednesday Addams, a study in monochrome perfection. Her posture was as sharp as a guillotine, her pale hands folded neatly in her lap as if she were at a tea party with Death and wanted to make a good impression. A thin red line traced her cheek, the only sign of the morning's calamity—a souvenir from chaos.
Weems regarded them both with the stillness of a serpent before the strike. When she spoke, her voice was soft velvet drawn across a hidden blade.
"Let me be clear," she began, her tone gentle enough to lull a corpse. She steepled her fingers, the gesture somehow making the room feel smaller, more confined. "Nevermore's gargoyles are protected by wards older than most bloodlines. They do not simply fall. Especially not above two students whose newfound… alliance… has been the subject of considerable hallway whispering."
She paused, allowing the silence to settle like dust on a coffin lid. "I've spoken with our facilities director. The structural integrity of that particular gargoyle was assessed only three weeks ago. It was deemed stable for another century, at minimum."
The candlelight flickered, casting the faint illusion of movement across the gargoyle carvings in the ceiling.
"The damage patterns," she continued, rising from her chair with fluid grace that suggested she might simply dissolve into shadow if she chose, "suggest something rather meticulous. Someone—or something—applied telekinetic pressure over several hours, waiting for the precise moment to release it."
She moved to the window, her silhouette framed against the frost-glazed glass. "It was not decay, nor negligence. It was artistry. Dark artistry. The kind that requires patience, power, and an intimate knowledge of when and where you would be standing."
Weems turned back to face them, her expression carved from marble. "Which brings us to the question—did either of you perceive anything that might reveal our unseen sculptor of destruction? Mr. Black, your senses are… uniquely attuned. Miss Addams, your analytical mind has already left faculty members re-evaluating their career choices. Between the two of you, I suspect the truth has already begun to whisper."
Silence settled like dust after a funeral.
Wednesday turned her head just enough for her black eyes to meet Hercules's in a glance that was less communication and more conspiracy. It was the kind of look that made you wonder if the silence itself had just made a deal with the dark.
Hercules tilted his head slightly, a gesture so minute it might have been imagined. Wednesday's left pinky finger twitched once—barely a millimeter—but it was enough. They'd developed a vocabulary of near-invisible signals in the brief time since their alliance had formed, a language of micro-movements that spoke volumes in absolute silence.
*Your turn,* her finger said. *Make it theatrical.*
"I detected stone dust," Hercules said at last, his voice the sort of smooth, aristocratic purr that could make a confession sound like an after-dinner anecdote. He sat back, utterly at ease amid the gothic grandeur, one leg crossed over the other with an elegance that mocked the tension in the air.
"Mineral composition consistent with Nevermore's delightfully macabre architecture—limestone, perhaps a dash of hubris. Calcium carbonate with trace amounts of iron oxide, which accounts for that charming rust-streaked aesthetic your gargoyles favor." He gestured vaguely toward the window, where the actual gargoyles continued their eternal vigil. "There were also faint organic compounds from weather exposure—lichen, I believe, and some form of moss that I'm certain has a perfectly Gothic Latin name."
He paused, removing an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve with deliberate grace. His fingers moved with the precision of a surgeon—or someone who'd spent considerable time making sure everything about his appearance screamed *effortless superiority.*
"Most notably," he continued, "the sound of stone grinding against stone—approximately point-eight seconds before impact. A rather distinctive frequency, actually. Somewhere between a whisper and a scream, if granite could manage such dramatics." His lips quirked. "I've been told I have excellent hearing. Something about enhanced sensory perception. Dreadfully useful for avoiding architectural assassination attempts."
"Point-eight seconds," Weems repeated, her voice sharp as cut glass. "That's remarkably precise, Mr. Black."
"I have an excellent internal chronometer," Hercules replied smoothly. "Years of classical music training. When one spends enough time with metronomes, one develops an… intimate relationship with temporal measurement."
Wednesday made a sound that might have been agreement or might have been the verbal equivalent of rolling her eyes if she were the type of person who engaged in such pedestrian expressions of emotion.
"Naturally," Hercules continued, his tone warming into something almost conversational—which only made it more dangerous, "that provided me just enough time to ensure Miss Addams and I weren't turned into particularly artistic floor stains. When faced with the prospect of being crushed by several centuries of bad craftsmanship, even I find survival rather more compelling than data collection."
His lips curved into a faint smirk—one that said he found the entire situation mildly entertaining in a *should I be worried or applauding?* sort of way. The glint behind his sunglasses hinted at amusement and danger in equal measure.
"Though I must say," he added, examining his fingernails with affected disinterest, "whoever orchestrated this little performance piece demonstrated a rather concerning level of commitment. Telekinetic manipulation sustained over several hours? That's not the work of an amateur. That's someone with genuine talent, which is almost admirable if one overlooks the attempted murder aspect."
Weems's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes—acknowledgment, perhaps, or calculation. "You seem remarkably calm about someone attempting to kill you, Mr. Black."
"Calm?" Hercules's smile sharpened. "No, Principal Weems. I'm absolutely furious. I'm simply British about it."
Wednesday blinked once, the bare minimum acknowledgment that something had been said. Her tone, when she spoke, was as dry as bone dust. "The gargoyle's descent wasn't random. Its angle and trajectory were... intentional."
She shifted slightly in her chair, the movement minimal but precise. "Based on the impact pattern and the distribution of debris, the gargoyle was positioned to ensure maximum coverage of the hallway. The targeting was surgical. If Mr. Black hadn't reacted with his characteristically paranoid reflexes, we would both be experiencing the afterlife—assuming one exists, which I maintain healthy skepticism about."
"Paranoid is such an ugly word," Hercules murmured. "I prefer 'appropriately cautious.'"
"You carry a concealed weapon to breakfast."
"And yet here I am, uncrushable. Funny how that works."
Wednesday's lips didn't quite curve into a smile, but something that might have been approval flickered across her features. She turned her attention back to Weems, her posture immaculate, her voice clinical.
"The timing of its release indicates either someone observing us directly—which would require line of sight from multiple angles given the corridor's configuration—or someone with an uncomfortable level of foresight into our movements. Given that our morning routine has only been established for approximately seventy-two hours, the latter seems less probable than the former."
She paused, considering. "Though both options suggest a disturbing degree of obsession. The hours of sustained telekinetic pressure alone indicate someone willing to sacrifice sleep, academic performance, and basic self-preservation instincts in pursuit of our demise."
Her head tilted fractionally. "Frankly, I admire the dedication. It's rare to encounter commitment of that caliber outside of revenge plots and romantic gestures, both of which tend to involve similar levels of poor decision-making."
Weems's eyebrows rose by perhaps a millimeter—for her, the equivalent of shocked speechlessness.
"You *admire* someone trying to kill you?"
"I admire the craftsmanship," Wednesday clarified. "The motivation remains tedious. But the execution—pun intended—demonstrates a certain artistic merit. If one must be murdered, one should at least appreciate when the murderer puts in effort."
"She has standards," Hercules added helpfully. "It's one of her more charming qualities."
Wednesday continued as if neither of them had spoken, her gaze lifting to meet Weems's, black eyes unflinching and cool as obsidian. "Unfortunately, our familiarity with Nevermore's student population is limited. I've been here less than a week. Mr. Black, despite his numerous social advantages—"
"I have cultivated a carefully curated circle of acquaintances," Hercules interrupted smoothly. "Quality over quantity."
"—has also been somewhat selective in his interpersonal investments," Wednesday finished. "Identifying someone capable of this level of obsession would require access to surveillance systems, faculty files, and a working understanding of adolescent pathology. That, I assume, falls under your jurisdiction, not ours."
It was the Addams equivalent of a curtsy—polite, technically compliant, and somehow deeply insulting.
"Additionally," she added, "there's the matter of motive. Mr. Black and I have only recently begun associating with any regularity. Our alliance is, as you noted, the subject of 'hallway whispering,' which suggests it's both novel and notable. Someone attempting to eliminate both of us simultaneously indicates either opportunistic malice or a preexisting grudge that has found a convenient focal point."
"Or," Hercules offered, his tone light but edged with something darker, "someone who perceives our combined existence as a threat to their own interests. Two powerful students forming an alliance tends to disrupt existing social hierarchies. Some people handle change poorly."
"Some people," Wednesday agreed, "resort to architectural violence."
The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with one of the silver letter openers glinting on Weems's desk. Hercules reclined further, the faintest ghost of a smile still haunting his mouth—British elegance wrapped around something serpentine and dangerous. Wednesday sat like a perfectly carved gargoyle herself: composed, eerie, unbothered.
Principal Weems returned to her desk, settling into her chair with the grace of a queen assuming a throne. Her fingers drummed once against the mahogany surface—a single, deliberate tap that somehow conveyed volumes.
"Your analysis is remarkably thorough," she said, her voice carrying that particular tone that suggested she wasn't sure whether to be impressed or concerned. "Almost as if you've been conducting your own investigation."
"We were nearly killed," Hercules pointed out reasonably. "A certain degree of intellectual curiosity seems warranted."
"And you've concluded...?"
"That we have suspicions but insufficient evidence," Wednesday replied. "We're not in the habit of making accusations without substantiation. That would be inefficient and potentially libelous."
"How refreshingly responsible," Weems said, in a tone that suggested she didn't believe a word of it.
Principal Weems's expression didn't so much as twitch, but her pale blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly—the look of a woman realizing she was being outmaneuvered by two teenagers who could probably run circles around the faculty in their sleep.
She opened her mouth to respond, no doubt preparing some cutting observation about student overconfidence and institutional authority, when—
*Knock. Knock. Knock.*
Three deliberate strikes echoed through the chamber, reverberating through the gothic office like a heartbeat in a tomb.
Weems's jaw tightened. Her fingers, which had been poised above her desk in that peculiar gesture of barely restrained authority, curled into her palm. "Come in," she called, her voice clipped just enough to suggest that whoever was about to enter had better be worth interrupting her performance of *Elegant Authority Meets Interrogative Menace.*
The heavy oak door creaked open with the sort of dramatic slowness that might have been intentional—or simply the result of hinges that enjoyed making people nervous. Framed in the doorway stood Professor Remus Lupin, tall, lean, and possessed of that rare kind of authority that didn't need to announce itself. His presence was calm, yet carried the faint electricity of a storm that could break at any moment.
His tweed jacket had seen better days—possibly better decades—and his tie was slightly askew in the way that suggested he'd dressed in a hurry. His graying hair was disheveled, as if he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly, and his amber eyes held that particular gleam of concern mixed with barely suppressed exasperation.
"Ah," Hercules murmured softly, his lips curving in faint amusement. "The cavalry arrives. And punctual, as always."
Remus's gaze immediately sought him out, scanning with the focused intensity of a man who'd seen too many young people walk away from near-death experiences pretending they were fine. His eyes traced the line of Hercules's shoulders, the set of his jaw, the precise angle of his sunglasses—cataloging, assessing, searching for signs of injury or distress with the thoroughness of someone who'd made it his life's work to notice what others missed.
"Hercules," he said, and there was something in his voice—not quite parental, but close enough to make Wednesday's eyebrows rise fractionally. Relief threaded through his refined accent despite his obvious effort to remain professionally composed. "I heard about the gargoyle incident. Are you hurt?"
"Define 'hurt,'" Hercules replied, adjusting his sunglasses with one finger. "Physically? No. Psychologically? I may never look at architectural ornamentation the same way again. I'm developing a complex about decorative stonework."
"Hercules."
"I'm fine, Remus. Truly." Hercules's voice softened slightly, the performative edge dropping just enough to reveal genuine reassurance beneath. "Bit of a close call, but Wednesday and I are both intact. Well, mostly intact."
His gaze shifted toward Wednesday, and Remus's followed.
The cut on Wednesday's cheek was shallow but distinct, a thin line of crimson against her porcelain skin. She sat perfectly still, as if the injury were merely aesthetic—an interesting addition to her overall Gothic presentation rather than something requiring actual medical attention.
Remus's expression shifted into something that might have been exasperation crossed with fond concern—the look of someone who'd spent considerable time around teenagers who treated their own mortality as an inconvenient suggestion rather than a firm boundary.
"Miss Addams," he said gently, crossing the room toward them with measured steps. "That cut—have you been to the infirmary?"
Wednesday regarded him like a cat evaluating whether the hand reaching toward it was worth clawing. Her eyes, dark and unfathomable, studied him with the clinical detachment of an entomologist examining a particularly fascinating specimen.
"I have not," she replied, her voice dry and perfectly measured. "But I appreciate your concern, Professor Lupin. The wound provides a certain… aesthetic continuity. I'd rather not ruin the symmetry with bandages."
"Aesthetic continuity," Remus repeated slowly.
"The suffering artist motif," Hercules supplied helpfully. "Very on-brand."
"I'm going for 'tragic heroine who survived attempted architectural assassination,'" Wednesday clarified. "The cut adds verisimilitude."
Remus pinched the bridge of his nose—a gesture of profound weariness that suggested he'd had similar conversations before and knew exactly how they tended to end. "Wednesday, you're bleeding."
"Barely."
"It could become infected."
"I have an excellent immune system."
"That's not how infections work—"
"Professor Lupin," Weems interrupted, her voice carrying that particular tone of diplomatic smoothness that had the faint edge of a stiletto blade beneath velvet, "while I respect your commitment to student welfare, I am in the midst of a formal inquiry into what constitutes attempted murder on school grounds. Your concern, while noted, is—"
"With respect, Principal Weems," Remus interrupted right back, his tone courteous but immovable, "Mr. Black falls under my supervision, both academically and… personally."
He moved further into the room, positioning himself in a way that was subtle but unmistakable—slightly in front of Hercules and Wednesday, not quite shielding them but certainly making it clear that any further questioning would now involve an audience of one extremely protective professor.
"His father entrusted me with that role," Remus continued, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of steel that suggested he would absolutely throw down with a school administrator if necessary. "And it includes ensuring he receives appropriate support when supernatural mishaps attempt to turn him into modern art."
"Supernatural mishaps," Hercules murmured. "That's a generous interpretation of 'telekinetically assisted attempted homicide.'"
Remus shot him a look that clearly said *not helping,* but his mouth twitched slightly. "Additionally," he continued, returning his attention to Weems, "my expertise in magical trauma and enhanced sensory responses might prove relevant to this discussion. Mr. Black's abilities, while considerable, also make him uniquely vulnerable to certain forms of psychic manipulation and targeted attacks."
It was all very polite, but the subtext rang loud and clear: *You've interrogated them enough. Now they're mine.*
Weems's fingers drummed against her desk again—once, twice, a staccato rhythm of barely controlled irritation. Her expression remained perfectly composed, but something flickered behind her eyes. She was used to being the ultimate authority in this tower, in this school, in most situations involving students and faculty alike.
But Remus Lupin was standing in her office like a man who'd once faced down considerably darker things than administrative displeasure, and he was doing it with the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly how much authority he actually wielded when he chose to invoke it.
For a brief moment, the air in the room shifted—the storm of Weems's control meeting the steady gravity of Lupin's calm defiance.
Wednesday watched the exchange with the focused interest of someone observing a chess match between grandmasters. Her head tilted fractionally toward Hercules, and she spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.
"He's good at this."
"He's had practice," Hercules murmured back. "Spent years managing a school full of witches and wizards with varying degrees of impulse control and access to lethal magic. Nevermore is practically a vacation in comparison."
"I heard that," Remus said mildly, without looking at them.
"You have excellent hearing for someone who's—"
"Finish that sentence and you'll find yourself writing an essay on age-appropriate communication in academic settings."
Hercules's smirk deepened ever so slightly. The tilt of his head, the faint glimmer behind those serpent-slick sunglasses—it all said: *You see, Headmistress? Some of us bring our own cavalry.*
"Professor Lupin's concern is, of course, most appreciated," he said smoothly, his accent sharpening into something both charming and impossible to argue with. He shifted in his chair, recrossing his legs with deliberate grace. "As I mentioned before, I detected the gargoyle's descent approximately point-eight seconds before impact. Which, I assure you, is not nearly as much time as it sounds when one's skull is the intended landing pad."
He adjusted his cufflinks, the faint gleam of silver catching the dim light. The gesture was entirely unnecessary—his cuffs were already perfectly aligned—but it served to draw attention to his hands, which remained completely steady despite having narrowly avoided death less than an hour ago.
"Beyond that," he continued, "I was somewhat preoccupied with ensuring Miss Addams and I did not become tragic additions to the school's already aggressive Gothic décor. You understand—survival instinct tends to supersede investigative curiosity when several hundred pounds of maliciously motivated limestone are descending toward one's head at terminal velocity."
He smiled, slow and dangerous, the kind of expression that suggested he was fully aware he'd survived something he probably shouldn't have and was finding the entire situation fascinating in a morbid, academic sort of way. "Call it prioritizing immediate physical preservation over scientific curiosity. I'm sentimental that way."
Wednesday nodded in quiet agreement, her posture immaculate, her expression clinically unimpressed. "As Professor Lupin correctly noted, we are both victims of attempted architectural assassination. The psychological effects of near-death experiences tend to impair witness reliability. There's considerable literature on the subject."
Her tone was so matter-of-fact it made the statement sound like a weather report. "Adrenaline causes distortions in temporal perception and memory formation. Our recollections, while detailed, are likely compromised by neurochemical responses to life-threatening stimuli. Any testimony we provide at this juncture would be considered questionable in a proper legal proceeding."
She blinked once, her dark eyes reflecting candlelight like polished stones at the bottom of a well. "If you require perfectly accurate recollections, I recommend necromancy. Otherwise, I suggest waiting until our stress hormones return to baseline levels. Perhaps thirty-six to forty-eight hours."
"Necromancy," Weems repeated, her voice flat.
"It's surprisingly effective for witness testimony," Wednesday said seriously. "Though the quality of information tends to degrade after the first seventy-two hours post-mortem."
"She's not joking," Hercules added helpfully. "The Addams family has rather extensive experience with postmortem communication. It's something of a hereditary talent."
Remus made a sound that might have been a cough or might have been a laugh hastily disguised as a cough. When Weems turned her attention to him, his expression was perfectly neutral, though his eyes held a glimmer of barely suppressed amusement.
Principal Weems regarded the trio before her like a queen forced to acknowledge checkmate by her own court jester. Hercules sat with aristocratic ease, every line of his posture radiating the sort of unbothered composure that came from knowing he'd already won. Wednesday exuded the calm menace of a porcelain doll that might blink when you weren't looking, and Professor Lupin stood between them like a worn but steadfast guardian angel—if angels preferred tweed and carried an undercurrent of wolf.
It was a tableau of quiet rebellion: grace, gloom, and grit.
The silence stretched for a long moment, filled only by the faint crackling of candles and the distant sound of wind whistling through the tower's ancient stones.
Finally, Weems drew in a breath that suggested she was summoning every ounce of diplomatic training she'd ever received.
"Very well," she said at last, her tone smooth as silk drawn over a blade. Each word was measured, controlled, delivered with the precision of someone who'd built a career on never quite losing her temper but coming remarkably close. "I appreciate your cooperation in this preliminary investigation."
Her words carried the careful civility of someone swallowing their irritation whole and finding it tasted remarkably bitter.
"However," she continued, rising from her chair with fluid grace, "should either of you recall anything—and I do mean *anything*—that might assist in identifying the individual responsible for this… incident, you are expected to report it immediately. To me. Not to Professor Lupin, not to your peers, not to your respective parents or guardians. To me, directly."
She moved around her desk, her heels clicking against the stone floor with deliberate rhythm. "Is that understood?"
"Perfectly," Hercules said, his voice carrying just enough earnestness to sound sincere while maintaining a thread of something that definitely wasn't.
"Crystal clear," Wednesday added, in a tone that suggested she understood the instruction and had already begun formulating seventeen different ways to interpret it creatively.
Weems's gaze fixed on Hercules, icy and unyielding. She stopped directly in front of him, close enough that most people would have felt uncomfortably crowded. Hercules didn't move, didn't shift, didn't give an inch—just tilted his head slightly and smiled up at her with polite interest.
"Mr. Black," she said, her voice dropping into something colder, more pointed, "your… *unique* sensory talents clearly provided a distinct advantage this morning. Point-eight seconds of warning time is approximately point-seven-five seconds more than most individuals would have had."
She paused, letting that sink in. "If you happen to recall additional details—however minor—I trust you will refrain from taking matters into your own hands. Nevermore Academy does not condone independent action, no matter how tempting it might seem. No matter how justified you might feel."
The warning hung in the air like a ghost refusing to move on.
"We have protocols," she continued. "Procedures. Established methods for handling threats to student safety. Methods that do not involve vigilante justice, personal vendettas, or—" her eyes flicked briefly to Wednesday— "creative interpretations of institutional authority."
"Principal Weems," Hercules began, and there was something in his voice now—a shift from performative charm into something more genuine, though no less dangerous. He removed his sunglasses in a single fluid motion, revealing eyes that were distinctly, magnificently inhuman.
The irises were opalescent, shifting through shades of gold and green with vertical pupils that contracted and expanded with serpentine grace. In the candlelight, they seemed to glow faintly, catching and refracting light in ways that human eyes simply didn't.
Wednesday made a small sound of approval. It was the first time she'd seen his eyes uncovered, and her expression shifted into something that might have been fascination on someone who actually displayed conventional human emotions.
Weems, to her credit, didn't flinch. Her expression remained carefully neutral, though something flickered across her features—acknowledgment, perhaps, or a reminder of exactly what kind of being she was dealing with.
"I can assure you," Hercules said, his voice smooth and deliberate, laced with the effortless charm of a man born to dismantle authority through eloquence alone, "I have *absolutely* no intention of taking any… inappropriate independent action."
He smiled, slow and dangerous, like a secret unfolding. The serpentine quality of his eyes made the expression particularly striking—beautiful and unsettling in equal measure. "Any responses I might consider to potential threats will be conducted with the utmost respect for institutional protocol, legal procedure, and of course"—his smile widened by a fraction—"the hallowed traditions of polite society."
He replaced his sunglasses with the same fluid grace, concealing the inhuman gleam once more. "I am, after all, extraordinarily well-bred. My father would be horrified if I were to engage in anything resembling crude vigilantism. We have standards."
It was the kind of statement that sounded cooperative until you really listened—and realized it was dripping with mischief dressed as compliance. The promise of protocol wrapped around the threat of something considerably less civilized.
Wednesday blinked once, expression unchanging but somehow radiating approval. "I share Mr. Black's enthusiasm for proper channels," she said in her perfectly deadpan cadence, voice flat as a tombstone but sharp enough to cut glass.
"Vigilante justice is terribly inefficient," she continued, her hands folding more neatly in her lap—a gesture that somehow made her seem even more dangerous. "It generates paperwork, psychological evaluations, and, worst of all, parent-teacher conferences. I find that institutional bureaucracy is far more effective at punishing wrongdoers—eventually, and with greater despair."
She paused, her gaze meeting Weems's with unwavering directness. "The systematic dismantling of someone's academic standing and social capital through proper administrative channels is far more satisfying than any crude physical retaliation. It's the slow death rather than the quick one. Much more in keeping with the Addams family philosophy on vengeance."
"That's…" Weems began, then seemed to reconsider whatever she'd been about to say.
"Efficient?" Wednesday supplied helpfully.
"Disturbing."
"I prefer 'pragmatic.'"
Remus made that sound again—the one that was definitely a laugh disguised as a cough. This time he didn't even try to hide it.
Wednesday continued, her tone unflinching. "That said, if I *happen* to identify the individual responsible for our near-demise, I will, of course, submit their name through the appropriate forms before considering any… extracurricular activities."
"Define 'extracurricular activities,'" Weems said slowly.
"Precisely what the institutional handbook outlines as acceptable student conduct," Wednesday replied, with the absolute sincerity of someone planning something deeply concerning. "I've read it cover to cover. Fascinating document. So many interesting loopholes."
"There are no loopholes—"
"Seventeen," Wednesday said. "I've cataloged them. Would you like a written analysis?"
Hercules leaned slightly toward her, his voice pitched just loud enough for everyone to hear. "Did you actually catalog them or are you bluffing?"
"Both."
"That's my favorite kind of threat."
Remus made a faint sound, suspiciously close to a laugh, which he disguised as a thoughtful hum. He'd moved closer to the pair of them now, standing in a position that was simultaneously protective and supervisory—the professor as both shield and warden.
When Weems turned toward him with one of her patented expressions of tight-lipped disapproval, his face had already rearranged itself into perfect composure. Only the faint crinkles around his eyes betrayed his amusement.
"I'm certain both students fully understand the importance of working within institutional frameworks," Remus said mildly, his tone polite but threaded with unspoken warning. "Hercules was raised in an environment that placed considerable emphasis on proper procedure and respect for authority. And Miss Addams, while… creative in her interpretations, has demonstrated remarkable adherence to the letter of the law, if not always its spirit."
"That's a very diplomatic way of saying we're both rule-followers who happen to interpret rules creatively," Hercules observed.
"I wasn't attempting diplomacy," Remus replied. "I was stating facts."
"Even better."
Remus's expression shifted slightly, his tone becoming more serious. "However, given that they've just survived what could reasonably be classified as attempted structural assassination, might I recommend deferring further questioning until they've had time to process the experience?"
He moved forward slightly, his voice remaining calm but carrying an edge that suggested this wasn't a request so much as a boundary being established. "Both students have provided you with detailed accounts of their observations. They've been cooperative, thorough, and remarkably composed given the circumstances. Continuing to question them at this point seems less like investigation and more like interrogation."
His amber eyes met Weems's pale blue ones directly. "And I think we both know that interrogating traumatized students tends to generate more administrative complications than useful information."
His voice was calm, even sympathetic—but his eyes said plainly: *Push this any further and I'll make it a faculty matter you won't win.*
The silence that followed carried weight.
Weems studied Remus Lupin with that peculiar mix of hauteur and headache reserved for administrators who have just realized a conversation has ended without their consent. Her fingers drummed against her side—once, twice—before she seemed to come to some internal decision.
"Very well, Professor Lupin," she said at last, her tone clipped enough to draw blood. She returned to her desk, settling into her chair with the grace of someone reasserting control over their domain through sheer force of posture. "Mr. Black. Miss Addams. You are dismissed to the infirmary for medical evaluation. Consider the rest of the day a recovery period."
She adjusted her brooch—a silver raven that caught the light like an omen—and her voice took on that particular administrative quality that suggested she was documenting everything for future reference. "However," she continued, her voice dipping into something almost serpentine, "I will be conducting a *comprehensive* investigation into this incident."
Her gaze swept over both students, lingering just long enough to make her point. "Attempted murder at Nevermore Academy is not to be taken lightly. This institution has survived for centuries precisely because we take threats to our students seriously. Whoever orchestrated this attack will face consequences extending well beyond standard disciplinary procedure."
She leaned forward slightly, her hands folding on the desk in front of her. "I am reaching out to contacts in several relevant fields—specialists in telekinetic manipulation, individuals with expertise in structural integrity and ward-breaking, colleagues who have dealt with similar incidents at other institutions. We will identify the responsible party."
"Understood," Hercules said, his tone all polished aristocratic calm, like someone who had long ago learned that the correct accent could weaponize civility. He rose from his chair with fluid grace, adjusting his jacket with delicate precision.
"Although—" he paused, one hand moving to smooth an imaginary wrinkle from his sleeve— "if I might offer an observation, whoever attempted this particular assassination demonstrated either exceptional surveillance capabilities or an unfortunate underestimation of mine. Both are errors I'm *eager* to see corrected."
His smile was perfectly pleasant and absolutely terrifying. "After all, there's something rather personal about someone trying to crush you with historical architecture. It suggests a certain level of investment in one's demise. I find that… flattering, in its own disturbing way."
Weems's eyes narrowed in that precise, lethal way unique to women who rule schools and small kingdoms. "Noted," she said, in a tone that suggested she had already drawn similar conclusions—and was deeply irritated to have them spoken aloud.
The trio rose. The ancient floorboards groaned beneath them like something alive and chronically unimpressed.
"Mr. Black, Miss Addams," Weems added, her voice echoing faintly against the high Gothic arches. "You have proven yourselves… more capable than most. That makes you both assets—and targets. I trust you'll exercise appropriate caution."
Wednesday blinked once, the faintest flicker of amusement crossing her otherwise perfect deadpan. "Caution," she said softly, "is what people exercise right before something interesting happens."
Weems didn't reply, which was wise.
The door closed behind them with a *thunk* that reverberated through the hall like the heartbeat of the building itself.
Outside, Remus paused. His expression was calm, but his eyes—those patient amber eyes—held the look of a man who had once taught hormonal teenage werewolves about emotional regulation and therefore feared nothing, not even Wednesday Addams.
"All right," he said mildly. "Let's walk to the infirmary. And on the way, one of you can explain precisely what you're *not* telling Principal Weems."
Hercules arched a brow, all polite rebellion and polished menace. "What makes you think we're withholding information, Professor?"
Remus smiled faintly. "Because I've known you long enough to recognize the look of someone who's already devised a plan involving rule-breaking, mild violence, and absolutely no adult supervision."
Wednesday turned her head just enough to meet Hercules's eyes, her tone the verbal equivalent of a scalpel dipped in honey. "He's good."
"He's annoyingly perceptive," Hercules murmured, his British vowels dripping with theatrical resignation. "It's like having a therapist who grades your moral ambiguity."
Remus sighed the sigh of a man whose life choices had led him here, herding the most dangerous teenagers since Hogwarts. "Let's try this again. You're *not* planning to confront whoever did this on your own, are you?"
Hercules gave a smile so precise it might've been measured with a ruler. "Would you believe me if I said we were gathering evidence before making accusations?"
"No."
There was a beat of silence—then Wednesday spoke, her voice a whisper threaded with ice. "We're going to have a conversation with the person. If he confesses, excellent. If not…" She tilted her head slightly. "Well, I've always wondered how long it takes someone to realize they've been buried alive."
"Wednesday," Remus said wearily, though a corner of his mouth betrayed reluctant amusement. "That's not an appropriate extracurricular activity."
Hercules smirked. "She means metaphorically, of course."
"I don't," Wednesday replied, eyes glinting like polished obsidian.
They continued down the corridor, their footsteps echoing against stone that seemed to hum with centuries of dark secrets. The torches flickered as they passed—perhaps from drafts, perhaps from curiosity.
Somewhere deep in Nevermore's labyrinthine halls, Rowan Laslow was blissfully unaware that the clock had started ticking.
And when Hercules Black smiled—sharp, charming, and just a touch sociopathic—it was the kind of smile that suggested *someone's* tactical calculations were about to be reduced to ashes, sarcasm, and the faint smell of poetic justice.
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