The first morning of 1938 dawned with a crisp, biting cold that seeped through the ancient stones of Hogwarts, a chill that seemed to penetrate deeper than mere weather. I had woken early, as was my habit, drawn by an instinct that told me the new year would bring with it no reprieve from the escalating global anxieties. Indeed, the Daily Prophet owl, which landed on the Ravenclaw common room windowsill with a sharp tap of its beak, carried precisely the news I had grimly anticipated.
The headline screamed in bold, stark letters: SWITZERLAND FALLS: ACOLTYES ANNEX NEUTRAL NATION IN SHOCKING NEW YEAR'S BLITZ. The sub-headings spoke of a swift, brutal takeover, the collapse of international magical resistance, and Grindelwald's forces already beginning the "consolidation of power" in a nation long considered inviolable. The accompanying article detailed the minimal resistance, the calculated precision of the Acolytes' movements, and the chilling effectiveness of their disinformation campaigns that had sown internal discord within the Swiss magical community even before the invasion. Switzerland, the bastion of neutrality, a sanctuary for countless magical families, was now under Grindelwald's boot. It was a strategic masterstroke, granting him a central European stronghold and a terrifying psychological victory. This was the expansion I had foreseen, the relentless spread of his influence, proving that no border, no tradition, no claim to neutrality, was safe. My blood ran cold as I read, a familiar surge of grim determination hardening my resolve.
I absorbed the news, the paper rustling in my hands, a bitter taste in my mouth. This was the war. Not just distant skirmishes, but the swallowing of entire nations, the systematic dismantling of the magical world's order. My thoughts immediately spiraled into strategic analysis: What did this mean for the ICW? For British Ministry policy? For the countless magical refugees who had sought solace in Switzerland? It was a dark start to what should have been a hopeful new year. The weight of my Lordship, of my seat on the Wizengamot, felt like a physical burden, connecting me irrevocably to this unfolding catastrophe. My magical resonance sensing, usually a subtle background hum, felt agitated, picking up the collective anxiety radiating from other students in the common room as they too absorbed the dreadful news. The fear was a tangible thing, a cold tendril coiling around the heart of the castle itself.
Lost in these grim deliberations, I barely registered the time, the usual morning bustle of Hogwarts a distant hum. I was on my way to the library, intending to cross-reference some of the tactical details mentioned in the Prophet with ancient texts on military enchantments, when a piercing, ear-splitting BOOM echoed from the dungeons below. It was followed almost immediately by a series of agonized screams, then a cacophony of shouts and breaking glass.
My strategic thoughts vanished instantly, replaced by the primal urge to act. This wasn't a distant headline; this was immediate, tangible chaos. Without a second thought, I broke into a run, my robes streaming behind me, my wand instinctively appearing in my hand, though I held it low, ready but not overtly threatening. The sound had come from the Potions classroom.
I skidded to a halt outside the classroom door, which now hung askew, thick, acrid smoke pouring out into the corridor. The smell was horrendous: a sickening blend of burnt hair, volatile chemicals, and the unmistakable stench of a potion gone catastrophically wrong. Through the billowing smoke, I could dimly make out Professor Slughorn's booming, distressed voice, shouting commands, and the panicked cries of fifth-year students. This was the batch that shared Potions with both Slytherins and Hufflepuffs. The long-standing, often simmering, rivalry between the two houses was notorious for sometimes boiling over in the cauldron-laden classroom.
Pushing through the haze, I entered the room. The sight was horrific. Several cauldrons were overturned, their contents splattering across the stone floor, hissing and bubbling malevolently. One large cauldron in particular, clearly the source of the blast, was rent open, its edges blackened and smoking. Around it, five students lay groaning or whimpering, their robes scorched, faces streaked with soot and, in some cases, alarmingly discolored by potion burns. Two were Hufflepuffs, three Slytherins. One Hufflepuff, a boy named Finnian Wilkes, lay closest to the ruined cauldron, clutching his face, blood trickling through his fingers. A Slytherin girl, Sylhpy Greengrass, had her arm bent at an unnatural angle, screaming in pain.
Professor Slughorn, usually so jovial, was pale with shock, attempting to cast frantic Cleansing Charms and Healing Charms simultaneously, his usual precision abandoned in the face of the emergency. Other students, uninjured, cowered against the walls, looking terrified.
"Merlin's beard!" Slughorn gasped, spotting me. "Marcus! Thank heavens! The hospital wing! We need Madam Pomfrey, immediately!"
"On it, Professor!" I shouted back, already moving. My mind, trained for crisis, snapped into focus. This was not a moment for subtle manipulation or unseen hand tactics. This was about immediate, effective action.
My first priority was containment and assessment. My magical resonance sensing flared, allowing me to quickly gauge the extent of the magical contamination and the severity of the students' injuries. Finnian's potion burns were deep, the magic searing his skin, while Sylhpy's arm was clearly broken, the bone fractured. The other three had various degrees of splash burns and minor cuts.
"Everyone, back against the walls! Professor, focus on clearing the air!" I commanded, my voice surprisingly steady and authoritative despite the chaos. I immediately cast a powerful, wandless Ventilation Charm, pushing my Untethered Will into the air, forcing the noxious fumes out of the room through the shattered windows. The air cleared, slowly revealing the full extent of the damage.
Next, I needed to stabilize the injured. I moved to Finnian first, his cries the most piercing. "Finnian, stay still," I murmured, my voice low and calming. I focused my magic, not on a textbook Healing Charm, but on a direct, instinctive channeling of my Draconic Zii (spirit/mind) to calm his pain, and Kren (flesh/body) to begin the initial sealing of the most severe burns, preventing further damage and stemming the blood flow. It wasn't a complete heal, but it was enough to stabilize him until a proper healer arrived. The ambient magic around me pulsed faintly as I worked, a silent testament to the depth of my control.
Then to Sylhpy ,her screams echoing. "Professor Slughorn, Episkey on her arm!" I ordered, my voice sharp. "But be gentle! It's a clean break, but the bone is offset." While Slughorn, startled by my sudden command, fumbled with his wand, I gently, but firmly, used my untethered magic to apply a compelling pressure on Sylhpy's arm, subtly guiding Slughorn's spell to ensure a precise, gentle alignment of the bone fragments as he cast. It was a subtle mental nudge, an unseen hand guiding his magic, minimizing further trauma. Slughorn, though clearly flustered, somehow managed a cleaner repair than he might have otherwise, a testament to my subtle guidance.
"Someone get to the Infirmary! Tell Madam Pomfrey it's a Potions accident, multiple injuries!" I shouted over my shoulder to the still-paralyzed students. A Gryffindor girl, finally snapping out of her shock, bolted from the room.
While we waited, I moved between the other injured students, assessing and providing rudimentary aid. I used Cleansing Charms to neutralize residual potion effects and Mending Charms to seal minor cuts, all done with a quiet efficiency that seemed to calm the remaining students. My earlier frustration with Grindelwald's distant conquests had vanished entirely. All that mattered was the immediate crisis, the injured students, the smell of danger.
"What happened here, Professor?" I asked, my voice still firm, as Slughorn continued to babble, trying to clean up the mess with overwhelmed magic.
"M-mischief, Marcus! Pure, unadulterated mischief!" he spluttered, gesturing wildly at the ruined cauldron. "Some r-rascally Slytherins, I suspect! Tried to sabotage the Hufflepuffs' potion! Threw in… threw in ground Basilisk scales into a Wiggenweld Potion! Basilisk scales, Marcus! The sheer idiocy!"
My jaw tightened. Deliberate sabotage. Not just an accident. Not just carelessness. This was spite, amplified by the general tension in the school. The Hufflepuffs' potion, designed to be a simple healing draught, had violently rejected the dark, venomous scales, causing a backlash that injured both the intended victims and the perpetrators. It was a grim reflection of the deeper animosities simmering within the magical world.
Just then, Madam Pomfrey swept into the room, her no-nonsense efficiency a welcome relief. She took in the scene, her eyes narrowing. "Merlin's beard, Slughorn! What have you done now?" she snapped, before her gaze fell on the injured. Her demeanor instantly softened into professional concern. "Right, you lot. Let's get you to the Infirmary. Marcus, help me with Finnian."
Together, Madam Pomfrey and I levitated Finnian, and then Sylhpy, onto makeshift stretchers conjured by Pomfrey. I helped escort the five injured students through the corridors, the sight of their disfigured faces and limp limbs a stark reminder of how quickly seemingly minor acts of malice could escalate into real tragedy. The incident in the Potions classroom, though not a direct attack from Grindelwald, was a chilling symptom of the broader malaise, the fear and aggression seeping into the very fabric of Hogwarts. It showed how easily internal divisions could be inflamed, leading to dangerous consequences.
After seeing the students safely settled in the Infirmary, leaving them in Madam Pomfrey's capable hands, I felt the adrenaline slowly recede, leaving me drained and a little shaken. The smell of scorched potion still clung to my robes. The earlier news of Switzerland, once so immediate and pressing, now felt distant, almost abstract, compared to the raw, visceral reality of the injured students. This incident, while confined to the school, felt more real, more immediate. It was a microcosm of the larger conflict, a battle of internal friction, petty hatreds escalating into violence.
I spent the rest of the afternoon in a strange state of quiet reflection. The incident had ripped me from my strategic thoughts, forcing me back into the immediate, human element of conflict. It reinforced the idea that the war wasn't just about grand strategies and global takeovers; it was about the insidious ways fear and hatred could poison even the safest spaces, causing people to turn on each other. It was a psychological war as much as a magical one, and Hogwarts was not immune.
Dinner that evening was a subdued affair for me. My friends, having heard the rumors, were filled with questions about the Potions accident. I gave them a concise, factual account, omitting my deeper insights into the underlying emotional forces. They expressed their shock and concern for the injured students, lamenting the "idiocy" of the Slytherins involved. Their reactions were genuine, but a world away from the strategic analysis that occupied my own mind.
Later, as darkness fell and the castle settled into its evening quiet, I met my female counterpart for prefect rounds. It was Peggy, a fifth-year Ravenclaw, a whimsical and observant girl with dreamy eyes, she was probably a relative of luna lovegood from future with how she talked and knew things on should not. We walked the familiar corridors, checking on the common rooms, ensuring students were adhering to curfew. The castle felt quiet, almost too quiet, after the day's events. The silence was punctuated only by the occasional distant clang or the soft murmur of voices from behind closed doors.
"Did you hear about the Potions class, Marcus?" Peggy asked, her voice soft, almost ethereal. "Terrible. I felt… a great sadness from the dungeons earlier. And much anger."
Her words sent a shiver down my spine. Peggy, with her unique sensitivities, often picked up on things others missed. "Yes, Peggy. It was quite a mess. A lot of anger, indeed." I didn't press her for more. Her perceptions were often disconcertingly accurate, aligning with my own magical resonance sensing, but expressed in her own unique, often cryptic way.
We completed our rounds without incident. The students seemed subdued, perhaps sobered by the day's events. The usual late-night pranks were absent, replaced by a quiet, almost melancholic atmosphere. The idea of "mischief" seemed less appealing when confronted with its violent consequences.
Back in my own dormitory, the silence felt profound. I sat on my bed, gazing out the window at the distant, glittering stars, a vast, indifferent canvas to the turmoil on Earth. Switzerland, the injured students, Professor Slughorn's outrage– it all swirled together, a relentless current of anxiety. The world was fracturing, and the lines between distant conflict and immediate danger were blurring.
I finally prepared for bed, my body weary from the day's unexpected exertions, my mind heavy with the unshared burden of knowledge. The grim headline about Switzerland was no longer just an abstract geopolitical shift; it was linked to the frightened, desperate magic I had felt in the Potions classroom. It was all connected. The global war was not only about armies clashing but about the fraying of patience, the escalation of petty hatreds, and the poisoning of trust between students as small as fifth years, even within the walls of Hogwarts. As I finally slipped into the realm of Morpheus, sleep came, not deep, but the dreamless sleep, innocent, but guarded like the rest of a sentinel, my mind already preparing for the next, inevitable disturbance.