The Halloween feast was magnificent.

Students dressed as monsters and spirits, chatting animatedly.

Some slipped unbearably sour sweets into unsuspecting mouths, while others leapt out from beneath the tables to startle their friends.

The skeleton dance troupe performed beautifully.

The music was strange and slightly offbeat, but paired with the clattering, twisting bones, it created an oddly charming spectacle.

Everything was lively.

Everything was peaceful.

Until the feast ended.

On their way back to their common rooms, students stumbled upon a pale, rigid figure lying on the corridor floor like a statue.

The festive atmosphere shattered instantly.

“Hey! Don’t look at us!” Ron protested loudly. “We didn’t do this! It had already happened when we got here!”

They had just escaped Nearly Headless Nick’s Deathday party and hoped to catch the end of the feast.

Instead, they found this.

Now, with other students blocking the corridor, they looked suspicious no matter what they said.

“Who else could it be?” Draco called from the crowd, his expression a mix of excitement and fear.

“Shut up, Malfoy!” Harry snapped. “We told you it wasn’t us!”

“Who can prove that?” Draco sneered. “You three didn’t attend the feast. Now you’re the first ones here. Why should we believe you?”

Harry and Ron fell silent.

Hermione frowned as hostile stares intensified around them.

Before the situation could spiral further, the Headmaster arrived, alerted by the commotion.

He stopped short at the sight of the rigid boy on the floor.

“Merlin’s beard. Mr. Taylor—what has happened to him?” McGonagall exclaimed, recognizing the fourth-year Gryffindor.

Dawn stepped forward slightly, peering in.

He recognized the boy as well. Peter Taylor. Fourth year.

Judging by his condition, had he encountered the basilisk?

A flicker of surprise passed through Dawn’s mind.

He had taken Voldemort’s diary long ago. The basilisk should not have been active.

But recalling that a student had once been manipulated by Voldemort into attacking Harry, Dawn realized the basilisk’s appearance was not entirely implausible.

As he approached with the other professors, something caught his eye.

A patch of clear water on the corridor floor.

In the canon, the first victim had been Mrs. Norris.

Now it was a student instead.

That was understandable. Events had diverged too greatly to expect identical outcomes.

What troubled Dawn was something else.

Even though the victim had changed, Taylor appeared to have survived because he saw the basilisk’s reflection in water.

Too convenient.

Whether in fiction or reality, it seemed as if fate itself refused to allow a student to die from the basilisk’s gaze.

Dawn narrowed his eyes.

A thought flashed across his mind—something important—

But before he could grasp it, a voice cut through.

“Professor! It was Harry! We saw him standing here!” Draco announced eagerly to Snape.

Snape did not disappoint.

“Potter,” he drawled, “what have you done to your unfortunate classmate?”

“I didn’t!” Harry’s face turned pale.

Snape gave a cold snort.

Before he could continue, Dumbledore placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“That will do, Severus.”

Turning to the gathered students, he said, “Please return to your common rooms.”

Reluctantly, the crowd dispersed.

The Headmaster levitated Taylor’s rigid body.

“Professor Hickman, your office is closest. May I?”

“Of course,” Dawn replied calmly.

There was nothing in his office that could not be seen.

“Thank you,” Dumbledore said. “Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger—come along.”

The trio followed anxiously.

Inside the office, lights flared to life automatically. The Headmaster placed Taylor gently on the desk and examined him closely.

McGonagall conducted her own inspection.

The room fell silent.

Harry shifted nervously, fearing expulsion and a return to the cupboard under the stairs.

To distract himself, he studied the office.

It was his first time here.

The sharp-spouted watering can misted softly in a corner, obscuring a cabinet. A glowing orb floated above a small flower bed.

Several stools hopped enthusiastically behind him, as if eager for him to sit.

And the clock—shaped like a brown bear tugging at its own tail—was absurdly funny.

Harry burst out laughing.

The office was infinitely more pleasant than Snape’s dungeon. If he had to serve detention, he hoped it would be here.

But when he realized everyone was staring at him, he froze.

“Sorry.”

Snape shot him a glare sharp enough to behead him.

McGonagall spoke first. “It resembles a Petrification Charm.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore agreed. “Yet fundamentally different.”

He attempted a counter-curse.

Nothing changed.

“At least Mr. Taylor is not in danger,” he said softly. “But the nature of this magic remains unclear.”

“Perhaps we should ask our famous savior?” Snape interjected coldly.

“We didn’t do anything!” Harry and Ron protested.

“I believe you,” Dumbledore said gently. “Such magic requires great skill. A second-year could not accomplish this.”

For a fleeting moment, he thought of Dawn—but dismissed it.

“Still, you were first on the scene. Did you notice anything unusual?”

Harry’s heart pounded.

He thought of the voice only he could hear.

“I… I don’t know.”

His lie was painfully obvious.

“Ah,” Snape murmured. “Hiding something, are we?”

Hermione frowned.

McGonagall cut in sharply. “That is enough, Severus. Without evidence, Mr. Potter remains innocent.”

Snape fell silent.

Dumbledore turned to Dawn, “Professor Hickman?”

Dawn shook his head.

“This is my first encounter with such a phenomenon.”

He had been focused on world correction, not the basilisk.

Once the creature was fully exposed, he would record its pattern for study. Until then, he preferred not to involve the Headmaster.

“Perhaps we should review who else did not attend the feast,” Dawn suggested casually.

He merely wanted to clear his office.

Unexpectedly, the suggestion yielded results.

Besides the trio and Taylor, one Slytherin student had also been absent.

Even more interesting, he was Taylor’s classmate—and they had a history of conflict.

Snape’s expression darkened.

Like a bat clutching a trembling fledgling, he swept the pale boy into the Defense Against the Dark Arts office.

Dawn recognized him immediately.

Ael Vreil.

The boy stammered, “I—I didn’t do anything! This has nothing to do with me!”

The defensiveness rang hollow.

Dawn thought grimly that if it were him, he would not protest so loudly.

Still young.

Dumbledore’s gaze softened.

“My child, perhaps you have made a mistake. But that does not mean you are beyond redemption. Do not wait until regret comes too late.”

___________

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