Anduin carefully stored the newly named 'Invincible Hammer' in his bespoke linen satchel—the same one Sirius Black had given him. The sight of the bag, the association with the recently deceased man, sent a fresh wave of grief and unrest through him, a feeling he quickly suppressed.
He could not afford to be consumed by sorrow; he had work to do, and now, a deep, unsettling suspicion about the very nature of safety at Hogwarts.
The hammer was a tool, but it was also a tangible result of his dedication to pure magical mechanics. The complex, power-intensive spells he was working on—like the Unseen Stretching Spell for rapid escape, the high-level Illusion Spells for camouflage, the destabilizing Confusion Spell, the devastating Iron-Clad Magic for defense, and even the fleeting Ghost Spell for true invisibility—all required an extreme level of physical and magical endurance.
His rigorous mental training, initially dubbed 'Brain Shutdown,' had also transitioned from a necessary chore to a fluid, instantaneous technique. He could now detach from his central nervous system and achieve a state of pure, detached thought with minimal effort, classifying this ability as 'expert.'
More crucially, he had begun experimenting with Mind Control, an advanced form of Legilimency that moved beyond reading thoughts to actively implanting suggestions.
This demanded a living subject, and his only test subject so far, Hagrid's loyal old boarhound, Rhine, had provided frustratingly simple results: a repeating loop of primal desires—"Meat, bone, chase, meat, meat, flesh." His friends, Charles, Hagrid, and the others, were naturally off-limits. The thought of violating their minds was repugnant.
Anduin rose, his mind already calculating the quickest route to the edge of the Forbidden Forest to meet Charles. He needed the distraction of physical training and the comfort of Charles's straightforward, unwavering loyalty.
As he stepped out of the narrow, cold confines of his dormitory and into the Slytherin Common Room, the atmosphere hit him like a physical presence. The room was no longer just sullen; it was buzzing with a vicious, barely concealed excitement.
Wilkes, Travers, and a handful of their cronies were gathered near the fireplace, their faces alight with malicious glee. They were not plotting; they were celebrating. When Wilkes caught sight of Anduin, the older student's smile widened into a cold, triumphant leer.
He didn't speak. Instead, he made a slow, deliberate gesture: he raised his right hand, curled his fingers, and drew his thumb across his own throat—a clear, chilling signal of violence and death.
Anduin met the gesture with an impassive stare. He felt a sharp jolt of anger, but quickly suppressed it. He knew the move was a boast, a show of bravado meant to intimidate him. He ignored the group, his pace unwavering, and left the Common Room, his mind already racing, trying to decipher the cause of their sudden, joyous malice.
Outside, the first serious snow of the season had begun to fall. Large, soft flakes drifted silently from the gray sky, coating the grounds in a blanket of pristine white.
It reminded Anduin of this time last year, when he had achieved the Transcendent state for the Levitation Charm—an immense achievement that had strangely failed to translate into easy, comfortable flight, which remained an awkward, taxing process.
He quickly crossed the lawn, the soft crunch of his boots on the snow the only sound in the growing stillness.
He found Charles near the large, round pile of stones on the path leading to Hagrid's cabin. Charles was not engaged in his usual, vigorous physical training; instead, he stood frozen, his brow furrowed, staring intently at a sheet of newsprint clutched tightly in his hands.
He looked up, his eyes wide and anxious, the moment he spotted Anduin. He jogged over, the snow dusting his shoulders.
"Anduin, have you heard?" Charles asked, his voice low and tight with a mixture of fear and caution.
Anduin felt a sudden, profound coldness, instantly connecting Charles's strained demeanor with the hateful glee he had just witnessed in the Common Room. "Heard what? What has happened now?"
Charles didn't mince words. He held out the newspaper, his hand trembling slightly. "See for yourself. It's an urgent edition of the Daily Prophet. It's about the Longbottoms."
Anduin snatched the newspaper. The banner headline, printed in thick, aggressive scarlet ink, screamed the news: AUROR HEROES ATTACKED: LONGBOTTOMS HOSPITALIZED.
He scanned the rushed, fragmented report, every word a fresh blow:
URGENT BULLETIN: We are issuing an immediate report. At approximately 2:00 PM today, November 21st, two of the Ministry's most decorated Aurors, Frank Longbottom and Alice Longbottom, were found brutally attacked and unconscious in a residential area near Surrey, southwest London. Sources indicate the Longbottoms lost all contact with Auror Command while investigating a known group of Death Eater remnants who have reportedly refused to accept the Dark Lord's downfall.
The couple was discovered by a follow-up unit and were described as suffering from injuries consistent with prolonged, repeated exposure to the illegal Cruciatus Curse. They have been immediately transferred to the secure wing of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Injuries and Wounds for urgent treatment. The perpetrators are currently at large. Further information will follow.
Anduin froze, the newspaper crinkling almost silently in his rigid hand. Attacked. Tortured. Cruciatus.
Frank and Alice. The people who had been so kind, so genuinely heroic, and so steadfast in their friendship with the Potters. The people who had been part of the Order, fighting the good fight even when hope was a sliver of glass. Now, they were victims of a lingering, desperate act of terror, reduced to broken husks by a curse designed to inflict the most exquisite, unending agony.
"I… I only just saw it. The paper literally just changed its contents," Charles stammered, watching Anduin's reaction with growing alarm. "I know you're close to them, Anduin…"
As Charles spoke, the atmosphere around them underwent a subtle, terrifying distortion. The soft, incessant flurry of snow that had been falling steadily came to a sudden, absolute stop. Every single snowflake within a ten-meter radius of Anduin was suspended in mid-air—perfectly, impossibly frozen, defying gravity, defying the wind, a silent, glittering tableau of physics shattered by raw, uncontrolled magical force emanating from the boy.
"Anduin! Anduin!" Charles shouted, his voice cracking with urgency. He felt a crushing pressure radiating from his friend, a cold, focused aura that was far more frightening than any burst of heat or flame. It was the presence of a mind that had entirely detached from human emotion, leaving only cold, terrifying purpose.
"I see it, Charles," Anduin finally replied, his voice unnervingly low and even. His expression was calm, almost serene, yet his eyes held a terrifying, dead emptiness. The magical pressure immediately dissipated, and the frozen snowflakes, finally released, tumbled down, catching the wind and scattering across the lawn.
Charles stared, relieved that the physics of the world had reasserted themselves, but utterly terrified by the chilling composure that replaced the burst of chaos.
"Thank you for showing me this, Charles. You can focus on your own training today," Anduin said, his tone clipped and cold, a dismissal that brooked no argument.
Charles wrung his hands, his anxiety spiking. "Anduin, please, you have to stay calm. Don't do anything reckless. The Ministry will catch them—"
"Do I appear agitated, Charles? I assure you, I have never been calmer," Anduin interrupted, his eyes utterly devoid of warmth. His calm was not the absence of emotion, but the freezing and perfect containment of a catastrophic explosion.
He turned and began walking back toward the towering, menacing silhouette of Hogwarts Castle, without a single backward glance. Charles watched him go, a growing knot of dread tightening in his stomach, knowing that this terrifying, controlled calmness was the prelude to something reckless and irreversible.
Anduin moved through the castle with an unnerving, silent speed. His footsteps made no sound on the stone floors. His mind was a battlefield, but his control was absolute. The sight of Wilkes' sneering throat-cut gesture had, in the light of the Longbottom news, transformed from petty intimidation into a boast—a sickening claim of complicity. He knew the group of Purebloods would be celebrating this atrocity.
He arrived back at the Slytherin Common Room. The laughter and excited voices were even louder now.
Wilkes, Travers, and five others—a total of seven of the core pureblood ideologues—were still near the fireplace, basking in the warm glow of the fire and their collective malice.
Seeing Anduin, whom they expected to be huddled in fear after reading the news, return so quickly caused a momentary silence. Wilkes frowned, then curled his lip into a challenging smile.
Anduin simply smiled back, a slight, almost gentle curve of his lips that held no kindness. He beckoned with a single, small movement of his hand.
"Wilkes. Travers. Come with me for a moment," he commanded, his voice barely above a conversational volume, yet carrying the unmistakable weight of a challenge that could not be refused.
He turned, not waiting for their reply, and walked straight out of the Common Room.
Wilkes blinked in surprise. "Did he just summon us?"
Travers, fueled by the euphoria of the Longbottom attack and Anduin's earlier insult, was instantly aggressive. "What's the fear, senior? Let's go. We'll teach this Mudblood the respect his tongue deserves. He probably wants to beg now that his allies are failing."
Seeing the opportunity to definitively assert his dominance over Anduin, Wilkes agreed. "Don't be ridiculous, he's alone. Seven of us. We shall follow. He wants a private audience? He shall have a very painful one."
The seven Slytherin students followed Anduin up the central staircase to the second floor, arriving at an abandoned area near the main tower—a rarely used, slightly dusty corridor that housed a dilapidated, long-forgotten girls' restroom known to be avoided even by the ghosts. It was remote, silent, and perfect.
Anduin leaned against the stone windowsill, bathed in the faint, diffused light of the winter afternoon, and waited.
Wilkes arrived first, followed by the rest of the sneering pack. Seeing Anduin alone and seemingly vulnerable, their confidence surged.
"Well, well, the great Slytherin Ghost finally decides to conduct a meeting like a man," Wilkes mocked, his voice echoing in the dead silence of the corridor. "Why the sudden change in arrogance, Wilson? Always ignoring us, always so superior. Did you finally muster the courage to ask us out for a beating?"
Travers stepped forward, spitting with derision. "Ha! This half-blood has surely seen the news about those two idiotic Aurors. He's panicking, senior! He knows he's next, that the moment he walks outside the school gates, his life is forfeit. He's here to beg for clemency!"
The entire group laughed, a chorus of high-pitched, vicious amusement that grated on Anduin's ears.
Anduin pushed off the windowsill and stood up straight, facing the seven of them. He kept the strange, cold smile fixed on his lips.
"I am truly sorry," Anduin said, his voice quiet, almost mournful.
Wilkes instinctively cupped his hand to his ear, leaning forward. "What was that, Wilson? Speak up! I couldn't quite hear your pathetic plea!"
Anduin's eyes, devoid of any flicker of warmth, fixed on Wilkes. His voice, still low, now carried a terrible, absolute clarity that silenced the corridor entirely.
"I said: I am sincerely sorry." He paused, allowing the weight of the moment to settle. "I should not have allowed you to live so comfortably for the past week. I was soft. I looked at you and saw only foolish, angry children, and I mistakenly believed a warning from the Head of House would suffice."