With a sharp snap of her fingers, a house-elf Sebastian recognized instantly—Deek—materialized in a soft flurry of magic. Matilda didn't offer her usual warm greeting; instead, she looked down at him with a weary, urgent gravity. "Deek, find Scrope. Tell him we are on our way to the Headmaster’s office with students. Tell him to wake Professor Black at once; this is a matter that cannot wait for dawn."

They were led toward the Headmaster's Tower. The massive enchanted gargoyle at the base of the stairs moved with an audible groan of reluctance, as if even the castle itself resented being disturbed at such an hour.

Inside the circular office, the air was stagnant and cold. They were instructed to sit in the high-backed chairs before the massive desk. The minutes they spent waiting were an agony of silence, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the various silver instruments on the shelves.

When Phineas Nigellus Black finally arrived, he was a study in controlled, sleepy malice. He had clearly dressed in haste; his hair was combed back with a hurried hand, and his thick, velvet robes were cinched tight against the night’s chill. Matilda Weasley stepped forward, leaning down to whisper into Black’s ear. As she spoke, the Headmaster’s expression shifted from irritation to a cold, burning fury.

He didn't sit immediately. He stood by the window, his silhouette sharp against the moonlight, before turning to fix them with a sneer that only deepened as his gaze lingered on Sebastian. The disdain was a palpable, freezing force.

He sat down, the leather of his chair creaking. "What will the Ministry think of this?" he asked, the question directed at the ceiling rather than the boys.

He pointedly ignored Ominis. Even in his rage, Black was a man of tradition; the Gaunts were part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin. Despite their "eccentricities," they carried a weight of blood that Black was programmed to respect. Sebastian, however, was the perfect target—an orphan, a troublemaker, a boy of "unknown stock."

"I have heard you have a knack for finding trouble, Mr. Sallow," Black said, his voice dropping to a dangerous hiss. "But it seems you have decided to bring my finest student—our dearest school hero—along for the ride."

He spat the word 'hero' with a reluctant edge. He didn't like her—her lineage was a mystery and her power was an anomaly—but her victory over Rookwood had made her a political necessity. To have her dying in a school bed was a PR nightmare he couldn't afford.

"What happened tonight?" he interrogated, leaning over the desk until he was inches from Sebastian's face.

Sebastian’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He looked at the Headmaster, but the words were stuck in his throat. The fear that had been building since the forest—the terror of her pale face and the slow-motion memory of her collapse—had paralyzed his tongue. He was a statue of guilt.

Matilda Weasley watched them, her brows drawn together in surprise. It was rare for Sebastian Sallow to be silenced by authority; his lack of defiance was the loudest admission of guilt he could have offered.

"No answers, then?" Black said, his voice rising. "Fine. If you cannot speak, you shall serve. You will both serve a ridiculous amount of detention for the remainder of the school year. Your curfew will be more aggressive than any student has seen in a century. If you are not in class or detention, you will be in your dormitory. You are confined, do you understand?"

He looked at them with pure contempt. "And the second the beloved 'Hero of Hogwarts' is safe and out of that hospital, there will be a massive house point deduction for each of you. For her to be put in danger because of your recklessness is absurd. And don't get me started on what awaits the two of you if she does not recover."

He said 'the two of you,' but his eyes stayed locked on Sebastian. To Sebastian, it felt like a personal vow of destruction.

The walk back to the Slytherin dungeons was a funeral procession. Professor Weasley escorted them herself. On the way, she stopped to wake Marcus, the Slytherin Prefect. Marcus sat up in his bed, looking disarmingly unpolished as he clutched his sheets to his chest in a daze, but he went dead serious the moment Weasley whispered her orders to him.

She led the boys to their room and closed the door without a word.

The silence of the dorm was worse than the shouting. Ominis lay on his bed, his back turned to Sebastian. He was a storm of silent fury. He was angry at his own foolishness, but the worry he felt for her was too vast to process. Instead, he channeled it all into a cold, sharp resentment toward Sebastian—the one who had pushed for the mission, the one who had brought them to the cave.

Sebastian lay on his own bed, still in his soot-stained, blood-crusted robes. He didn't even have the energy to undress. Every time he closed his eyes, the darkness of the room became the darkness of the forest. He saw her fall in slow motion. He heard the wet, painful gasp of her last breath before the blackout. He lay there, staring at the underside of his bed canopy, until the green light of the lake through the windows began to pale into the grey of morning.

A sharp, rhythmic knocking at the door startled him. He sat up, his body screaming in protest. Ominis was already gone.

The door opened and Marcus stepped in. The Prefect was usually cool and friendly, but today his face was a flat mask of duty.

"I don't know what you did this time, Sallow," Marcus said, his voice level. "But Black is beyond livid. He's put me in charge of your shadow. Strict curfew. Class, detention, dorm. That's it. No tea in the Hall, no Hogsmeade. I don't even know if he'll let you finish the Quidditch season."

Sebastian didn't say a word. He sat on the edge of the bed, a ghost in a torn school uniform.

"Get ready for class," Marcus added, turning to leave. "You don't want to give them an excuse for more."

One minute passed. Then five. Sebastian didn't move. His lips were parched, his limbs felt like lead, and the world felt miles away. A second, sharper rap on the door brought him back. Marcus was standing there again, his expression softening with a flicker of genuine concern.

"Wow," Marcus muttered. "You really messed up this time, didn't you?"

He walked over, grabbed the front of Sebastian’s dusty shirt, and hauled him to his feet. "Showers. Now," he commanded, his voice hard but not unkind. He looked Sebastian in the eye, making sure the boy was actually present. "Then class. Then detention. Then back here."

Sebastian obeyed mechanically. He stood under the spray of the shower for a long time. The water was icy cold, but he didn't even feel the chill; instead, his focus was consumed by the sharp, agonizing sting that erupted in his wounds the moment the water touched his skin. He didn't flinch. He simply watched the Highland mud and the dark smears of her blood swirl down the drain, leaving his skin raw and pale.

He dressed in a clean uniform, the fabric feeling like a shroud. He made his way to History of Magic, arriving late. Professor Binns didn't even pause his lecture on the International Warlock Convention of 1289 to acknowledge him.