"Even if of us," Malfoy snatched out his wand, aiming at me.
His comrades hesitated, and the brown-haired boy looked at Malfoy with bewilderment, although he took out his wand too. Slowly. Naturally, I didn't even flinch, looked straight at the boy. Justin fussed behind my back. No one hurried to attack first.
"You insulted me recently. And for that you will pay. Didn't even have to look for you specifically."
"Hector, we are in obvious trouble," pronounced Justin.
"I see," I interrupted the comrade's speech full of fears, "you know nothing about the likes of Mr. Malfoy. Their threats are like winter thunder brought by the wind. Rumbles in the distance, instilling vain anxiety. But sometimes thunder is just thunder."
Malfoy really disliked my words, and even the previously bewildered brown-haired boy showed his indignation with facial expression. Now need to distract.
Casting a gaze behind the backs of the Slytherins, I politely smiled at the emptiness, slightly bowing my head in a greeting bow.
"Professor Snape..."
The boys immediately tried to hide wands in the sleeves of their robes and turned behind their backs. Of course, no one was there; only the darkness of night corridors, dimly lit by moonlight scattered in clouds penetrating through high windows.
Precisely this moment I chose to activate the magical contour under my foot. The air seemed to tremble for a moment, and I stepped back a pace. Putting a hand on Justin's shoulder, frozen in anticipation of an attack, I quietly pronounced.
"Retreating around the corner."
"But..."
The Slytherins turned back with indignation, but their gaze brushed over each other. They immediately, as if in response, began to shower each other with spells, shouting loudly.
"Stupefy!"
"Petrificus Totalus!"
"Everte Statum!"
And several more times and more. They attacked each other in panic, dodged, beams of spells flew to the sides, but Justin and I stepped back into the opening to the staircase to the Owlery, and were safe.
After a couple of moments everything quieted down, and I was the first to lean out of the opening, examining the carnage. Well, nothing critical. Except perhaps the brown-haired boy stood on his feet swaying, and the next moment fell unconscious. The final chord of the contour's action. It seemed to the boys as if where one of their colleagues stands, I or Justin stand, starting to cast spells at them. No specifics, no illusions or deception; light confusion, a mental message, and the brain will complete the necessary image. Always worked. But a "last hero" always remained too; specifically for him, there is a simple sleep spell in the contour.
"Let's go, Justin."
We left the opening and headed further along the corridor.
"What was that anyway?"
Hmm. Well, technically, in textbooks for the second year there is a similar spell for single targets, designed for throwing off aggression of various swamp spirits and ghosts from oneself.
"DADA, second year. You should have covered it."
"M-m-m... That's unlikely..." Justin shook his head while we left the place of the skirmish with a hurried step. "We had a terrible teacher."
"Yes? Hmm... Come to think of it, among Hermione's textbooks I didn't see DADA for the second year. But I saw a series of novels by a certain Lockhart. Not bad adventure novels. Except too much self-admiration."
"Exactly. He taught DADA. Terrible teacher. Then it also turned out that he appropriated the described feats."
"So what?" I was surprised. "Those are just books."
"But he passed them off as real. Even received awards for them."
"In that case, that is indeed an unworthy act. One thing is for the sake of literature. Another is personal fame and profit."
When we almost reached the common room, Justin inquired:
"Will everything be fine with the Slytherins?"
"Don't know."
"Eh-h-h?"
Stopping by the barrels, one of which is the entrance to the House common room, I looked at the comrade.
"From my actions—nothing. But someone might help them in spoiling their own health. If finds them earlier than they wake up."
"They, of course, are not the best people..." Justin knocked on one of the barrels, and the passage opened. "But I don't wish them downright evil either."
"But they wish it to you. And to me. And to the likes of us."
"Shame. By the way..." Justin stopped in the very passage, lowering his voice to a whisper. "...what if they ask us?"
"Speak as it is. Pure truth, but kind of cutting out the unnecessary."
"A-a-ah, got it. Father told me about similar things."
We finally entered the common room. I wish I could say that everything was as always, but no. Some meeting was clearly taking place here. And our Head of House, Pomona Sprout, was here too. It seems she wears buttoned-up clothes, a fully wrapped dark brown robe, and a hat from under which twisted graying curls stick out not only at classes.
Our appearance did not go unnoticed. The Head turned around, and the expression on her face was benevolent but strict.
"Ah, Mr. Granger, Mr. Finch-Fletchley, you are the ones I was looking for."
"And we you, Professor," I immediately took matters into my own hands.
"Tell me on the way, let's go."
The Head briskly walked toward us, or rather—to the exit, well, and we followed her. No sooner had we left the common room than I continued the conversation.
"Four students from Slytherin are lying at the entrance to the tower with the Owlery. We didn't know what to do and headed to the common room with a quick step; suddenly prefects are here, you, or someone who knows how to find... another 'someone'. More competent."
Intentionally speaking simpler than usual, I showed slight confusion regarding the situation.
"And where are we going?" asked Justin. "Don't we need to provide help to the guys?"
"The Headmaster asked to bring you, gentlemen," the Head answered kindly, continuing to walk ahead of us. "But now I at least have guesses about the reasons for such a thing. And why didn't you undertake anything yourselves? Left them lying there?"
"We didn't know what to do," I shrugged, although only Justin saw it. "It seems to me that in such a case one shouldn't touch someone with hands or magic without diagnostics. One can lie down next to them or make it even worse for the victim."
"Correct assumption," the Head nodded. "Pity that such thoughts are rarely guided by. But can I be sure of you? Whatever happened to those guys, you didn't do it?"
"Undoubtedly, Professor Sprout," I nodded to the woman who turned around for a moment.
Justin performed a similar maneuver, except silently. Silently we covered the entire remaining way up, to the entrance to the Headmaster's office. A very interesting entrance, I must note, for a high niche with a huge magical statue of a gargoyle that moves aside and opens a passage to a spiral staircase upon pronouncing the correct password is quite unusual for these places. Yes, there are many passages in Hogwarts about which I heard or already walked with others, but the gargoyle so far remains in the top of scale and complexity; this is not a bow to a portrait, not scratching a painted pear, not knocking on a barrel and other dances with a tambourine.
In light twilight, flooded with mystical blue light, the Headmaster's office looked extremely amusing; that is exactly what a person unfamiliar with the quirks of old wizards would say. Time after time, from shard to shard; everywhere this manner of cluttering everything with beautiful, atmospheric, mysterious, and absolutely useless at both first and second glance magical junk was traced. Usually, it is good if every fifth thing can bring real benefit. But, be that as it may, everything was indeed atmospheric; both antique furniture and incomprehensible spinning or hovering gizmos. And the huge antique globe between two armchairs standing by the stairs up is beyond praise! I want the same for myself. Simply because, and that's it! After all, I am a sort of old man myself.
The Headmaster, gray-haired and bearded as before, sat at his desk, tapping fingers on it. Opposite him stood Professor Snape, and a bit further, near the armchairs, but not daring to sit, stood the recently met Slytherins. They had an unpresentable appearance, and in this appearance anyone would recognize long-suffering victims of hooligan lawlessness.