The castle was unusually quiet tonight, the air thick with the scent of approaching rain, distant thunder rumbling like a warning. James sat by the window in the Gryffindor common room, firelight dancing across his features as he stared out at the moonlit courtyard.
His fingers drummed silently on the stone sill, his mind caught in a tightening snare of thought.
He had no particular reason to involve himself in this mess.
Angelica wasn't a friend. She was just an older Gryffindor he'd nodded at in the halls, someone whose name he barely remembered until she was carried in on a stretcher. But the Slytherins—Flint in particular—they were already on his list. For the way they schemed, tried to hurt him.
And now this.
James let out a slow breath. He knew himself well enough to admit this wasn't about justice. It wasn't even about protecting Angelica. No, this was personal. A part of him—a cold, calculating part—recognized the truth:
He wasn't helping her.
He was hunting them.
Still, the thought of seeing as someone seeking justice for other left , if someone saw a bitter taste in his mouth. He was already in deep. Might as well see it through.
By the time the sky had turned the colour of ash and curfew crept just minutes away, James had already made his decision.
James waited behind a statue of Uric the Oddball until Marcus Flint passed by, slouching with that usual brutish gait .
A casual flick of James' wand, and a silent illusion shimmered to life—distant footsteps, a faint echo of hushed voices. Just enough to bait curiosity.
Flint turned, frowning. "What the hell—? Bloody castle's at it again."
He grumbled to himself and followed the noise, deeper into the older, unused corridor near the Charms wing. There were no paintings here. No suits of armour to gossip. No portraits to witness what was about to unfold.
Just cold stone and silence.
James trailed him like a shadow, invisible beneath a disillusionment charm, until Flint reached the dead end. He turned back just as James dropped the spell and raised his wand.
"Stupefy."
The red light struck Flint squarely in the chest, sending him crumpling like a sack of meat.
James stepped over his body, his expression flat. One more flick of the wand, and Flint's eyes snapped open, glassy and vacant. Legilimency slid into place like a knife slipping beneath ribs.
James entered his mind—and saw everything.
It started with a joke.
Angelica had made it after they were found in girls underwear after fight with James . "Trying on bras now, boys? Slytherin really is exploring new house colours!"
The words had stung, but not just because they were embarrassing. No—because they came from her. A Gryffindor. Worse ,a girl .
The other houses picked up on the jokes. Ravenclaws started snickering. Even the Hufflepuffs got in on it.
And the Slytherins? Their pride was fragile glass wrapped in barbed wire.
They stewed in that humiliation for days. Especially Flint. And when they saw Angelica again, just before curfew, walking alone down that same corridor—they didn't plan it. Not really. But rage needs little planning.
One hex. She fell. Then the hands. Ripping. Tearing.
James' gut twisted. They hadn't gone all the way—fear of Dumbledore's wrath had pulled them back at the last moment—but the intent was there. The violence. The violation. The shame they left her in.
And after? The jokes started again. Only now it was about her.
James tore himself out of Flint's mind like yanking free from a sewer. He staggered back a step, his wand hand trembling.
He stared down at Flint—slack-jawed and stunned on the floor—and something deep within him screamed for release.
A curse. Something permanent. Something that would make the brute feel what he'd done.
But then...
A memory. A conversation with Snape. A warning, carefully veiled: "Dumbledore is watching. Your actions carry weight , Mr. Flint ."
James blinked hard.
His breath steamed in the cold air.
This was never about Angelica. Not really. Not for the Slytherins. It was for James.
It was about Control .
And James had just realised something bone-deep: this entire situation—Angelica, Flint, the aftermath—it wasn't coincidence. It was a stage. And he was being watched.
He stood still for a long, quiet moment, rage simmering just beneath the surface. Then he raised his wand.
"Expelliapparel," he muttered.
Flint's clothes vanished with a pop, leaving him unconscious and bare in the dark corridor.
James cast a weak reviving charm, just enough for Flint to stir and feel the shame. Then he turned and walked away, cloak billowing behind him.
Behind him, hidden in the shadows, a silver-robed figure stepped into the torchlight.
Dumbledore's eyes, cool and unreadable, followed James' retreating back.
A few steps behind him, Snape emerged, his expression like carved stone.
Dumbledore sighed. "Well… he didn't retaliate more violently. Our assumptions may have been… premature."
Snape's lip curled. "This was your test?" He gestured to Flint, unconscious and shivering. "Children getting hurt—this is your method now?"
"You know why we must understand him, Severus. That boy's Talent surpasses yours, mine, and even Tom's. If his character is left to grow… unchecked..."
Snape's voice was low. Dangerous. "Spare me the lecture. If you believe you're breeding a weapon, then be honest with yourself."
Dumbledore didn't answer immediately. He looked down at Flint, then back toward the corridor where James had vanished.
"Sometimes," he said softly, "the burden of the greater good demands a terrible cost."
Snape sneered and flicked his wand. Flint levitated gently into the air, hovering like a discarded doll.
He turned without another word and led the unconscious boy toward the hospital wing.
Dumbledore stood alone for a moment longer.
His eyes lingered on the empty corridor.
"Oh, what I do… for the greater good."
Then he, too, disappeared into the darkness.