Theo's brows lifted. Huang Tianhua? The son of Huang Feihu, trained by the Pure-Virtue Perfected One—peer to Nezha, Lei Zhenzi, and Yang Jian; a vanguard of the war against Tyrant Zhou. He had the makings of sanctified flesh, but poor fortune swept him into the Investiture.
The echo felt apt beside Cedric Diggory—top student, sterling character, and (in one grim timeline) the first casualty of Voldemort's return. Theo met Cedric's friendly look with a nod and a pinprick of regret. Perhaps, this time, Cedric's story could turn.
Across the Hall, Flint staggered to Slytherin's table, where Draco Malfoy was unwrapping a parcel heaped with expensive sweets from Lucius and Narcissa—a balm for days of ostracism.
As Draco lifted one bonbon, Flint strode past and snatched it.
"While we bleed for Slytherin, you hide and eat sweets? Again?"
He tossed it into his mouth and kept walking, ripping open the parcel and scattering confectionery along the table edge.
"What say you? Does Malfoy deserve these?"
"We should accept them as his apology to everyone."
Crabbe and Goyle cackled, stuffing pockets and both hands. Draco's face mottled green-white, but he grit his teeth and said nothing—until Flint jabbed him with a hex for daring to protest. Unable to best Theo, Flint found it easier to bully sideways.
Slytherins drifted off one by one. Gemma Farley entered, sighed, lifted Draco's hex, and gathered what sweets she could into the box. Draco clutched it and stalked out in jerks.
The other Houses watched with open disdain. Even Ravenclaws—no strangers to unkindness (see: Luna Lovegood's later treatment)—shook their heads at the spectacle.
Theo curled his lip. In the Death Eater era, Slytherin had drifted far from the aristocratic ideal they claimed. Nine in ten seemed to prize cruelty over honour, moulded by the "example" of Voldemort.
Ron leaned close.
"They're vile. Makes Malfoy almost tolerable. Did you see how they looked at you? Like they wanted to eat you. I'd bet my mum's clock they're plotting for Flying Lessons tomorrow."
Theo arched a brow. Not bad—Ron's nose for traps wasn't hopeless. Truth told, Theo was curious what they were cooking up.
"They all left together—likely to plan," he murmured. "Shall we listen in?"
Hermione's eyes widened; Harry and Ron nodded eagerly.
Theo swept his wand; the Disillusionment Charm rippled over the three of them. Hermione gasped despite herself.
"That's Disillusionment, Theo? Seventh-years struggle with it!"
Harry and Ron only shrugged.
"Hermione, that's normal for Theo."
"Exactly. Tell us when he can't do something."
Theo grinned.
"Less flattery, more sneaking."
…
In a side corridor, Flint's voice was a low growl.
"You have the things for tomorrow?"
An older Slytherin produced several phials.
"Short-term flight enhancers. Banned in Quidditch—but tomorrow's only class; there's no testing."
Predatory smiles all around.
"With these, even first-years will fly like old hands. Then we 'accidentally' ram them—especially Ashbourne—and send them tumbling."
"Two broken legs at least."
"Dead men walking."
Under the Disillusionment, the trio heard every word. Hermione flushed with anger.
"Despicable cowards! We should tell a professor."
Harry shook his head.
"Report what? Drinking a tonic before Flying Lessons? There's no rule. We can't ask them to punish something that hasn't happened."
Hermione huffed.
"But they mean to break Theo's legs!"
"We'll do something," she insisted.
Theo's whisper drifted over them.
"Snakeweed…"
Hermione blinked.
"Theo?"
"Their brew uses Snakeweed as a primary," he murmured. "What happens if one squeezes a few drops of grass-juice into a Snakeweed decoction?"
Harry beat Hermione to it.
"Potency holds—or even rises—but exactly thirty minutes later the drinker suffers, er… catastrophic diarrhoea."
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