“What’s going on?” Neville muttered, instinctively leaning closer to Silan’s side of the desk.
“I’m…
I’m sorry.” Chris Nott’s hands were clenched into tight white fists, his face entirely flushed a deep crimson as the words were practically ground out from between his teeth.
Since the absolute day he was born, he had never suffered such a humiliating public ordeal.
Yet, with Silan sitting directly in front of him, he didn’t dare let a single shred of his boiling rage leak out.
Draco Malfoy, who had been lazily passing the time by staring intently at Harry, caught wind of the bizarre standoff and instantly perked up, his eyes widening with absolute glee.
“Nott is bloody well apologizing to Longbottom!” “Blimey…
a Slytherin is actually bowing their head to a Gryffindor?” “It’s Silan Prewett!
He’s the one who orchestrated this!” “What an absolute disgrace to the noble house of Slytherin!” As the spectacle unfolded, the surrounding Slytherins were instantly overcome by a wave of profound humiliation and fury.
In their eyes, even though it was Nott physically uttering the words, the display dragged the reputation of their entire house straight through the mud.
To make matters infinitely worse, the recipient of the apology was a Gryffindor!
The realization made their blood boil with unprecedented resentment.
“I apologize, Mr.
Longbottom,” Nott squeezed out, his voice flat.
“I should never have spoken to you with such unprovoked disrespect.” Neville’s brain completely stalled for a moment.
He stared blankly at the thoroughly defeated, slouching figure of Chris Nott, entirely incapable of processing the reality before him.
Having spent the better part of his life being passed around as a universal punching bag, when on earth had anyone ever offered him a formal apology?
To have it happen today–and from a Slytherin, no less–made him feel as though he had stepped cleanly into a bizarre dreamscape.
Blinking stupidly, Neville glanced over at Silan.
He knew with absolute certainty that this miraculous turn of events was entirely due to his magnificent friend.
“Right…
well, I accept your apology,” Neville managed a small nod, formally concluding the matter.
The surrounding student body erupted into an absolute storm of frantic whispering.
A Slytherin actively groveling before a Gryffindor was an anomaly of historic proportions.
Dozens of completely bewildered young wizards began eagerly badgering their neighbors, desperate to uncover the sequence of events that had triggered such a breakdown of house politics.
How on earth could an arrogant, pureblood Slytherin willingly bow down to a Gryffindor?
Furthermore, to do it before Neville Longbottom–a pathetic, easily bullied squib-like boy?
It defied all logical reality.
“I’m telling you, I witnessed the entire thing with my own two eyes!” a nearby first-year whispered conspiratorially, his face brimming with absolute smugness as he addressed an eager crowd of listeners.
“Last night, in the Slytherin common room, Silan Prewett…” The handful of students who had been present for the dungeon showdown began gleefully recounting the tale, naturally embellishing the details to dramatic extremes with every repetition.
According to their escalating narratives, Silan Prewett had unleashed a sequence of terrifyingly advanced dark magic that had nearly severed Chris Nott’s soul from his body, leaving Nott so utterly paralyzed with fear that he had practically wet himself on the spot.
“Pfft, you think that’s wild?” another young wizard lowered his voice to a hushed, dramatic crawl.
“I heard a rumor that even Prefect Rosier was completely brought to his knees!
Prewett was fully prepared to slaughter him right then and there!” “Blimey!” the listeners gasped in unison.
“No bloody way!
Prefect Rosier is a fifth-year student!” “How could a mere first-year overpower an upperclassman?” “I told you, he’s a dark wizard!
He commands forbidden magic!” “What dark magic?
I plainly saw the spell; it was just a standard Severing Charm.” As the chaotic mass of conflicting rumors, wild speculations, and grand theories collided, the entire classroom dissolved into a deafening roar of chatter, with everyone desperately debating the true depth of Silan’s power.
The sheer volume of the commotion quickly overwhelmed the room, to the point where even Professor McGonagall’s notoriously strict aura failed to suppress the noise.
“Harry, why is our desk vibrating?” Harry asked, casting a puzzled glance at the wooden surface.
“The desk isn’t vibrating, mate.
*I* am,” Ron replied, his voice shaking with visible terror.
“We were literally gossiping about him behind his back on our way to class.
You don’t think he’s going to blast a dark hex straight through my skull, do you?” “He doesn’t strike me as that sort of person…” Harry offered dryly.
Hearing the frantic theories rippling through the classroom, Hermione turned to look at Silan, a flicker of genuine shock dancing in her eyes.
However, she completely bypassed the grand rumors of dark magic, choosing instead to focus entirely on his immediate well-being.
“You aren’t hurt, are you?” she asked anxiously, leaning across the desk.
“What on earth happened last night?” “I am perfectly fine,” Silan replied with a soothing, effortless smile.
“We merely engaged in a brief, friendly exchange of magical theories in the common room, and everyone instantly managed to strike up a roaring hit with one another.
Think of it as a traditional, highly enthusiastic Slytherin orientation ritual–it simply operates on a slightly different frequency compared to the other houses.
Backed by the incredibly passionate cooperation of our peers, Mr.
Nott experienced a profound moment of personal reflection and felt a deep, overwhelming desire to deliver a formal apology to Mr.
Longbottom.” [Silver-Tongued: Proficiency +1]** *Even this triggers a mastery point?* Silan mused wryly.
*I am literally speaking the absolute, unvarnished truth here!* Hermione shot a deeply skeptical, curious glance over at the bald Chris Nott.
*Well…
who would have thought?
The aggressive brute actually possesses a functioning conscience capable of self-reflection and reform.* Up at the podium, Professor McGonagall remained entirely motionless, though her sharp ears were meticulously cataloging the fragments of gossip bouncing around the room.
Although the young wizards were clearly prone to massive, dramatic exaggerations regarding the dungeon duel, she managed to piece together a highly accurate picture of the core events.
She concluded that Silan had simply taken a courageous, unyielding stand to defend his friend from a malicious bully.
Granted, he had utilized a minor offensive charm to settle the dispute, but Nott had merely parted with a few locks of hair–hardly an administrative catastrophe.
*Silan truly is an exceptional, exemplary boy,* McGonagall thought to herself, a lingering trace of resentment surfacing in her chest.
*That senile, completely broken Sorting Hat…
how on earth could it have blundered so spectacularly as to throw him to the snakes?!* “Thank you, Silan.
Genuinely…
thank you so much,” Neville blurted out, his face completely flushed with a radiant, joyous glow.
He leaned his entire upper body across the desk gap, reaching out to give Silan’s shoulder a firm, grateful pat.
In his personal memory bank, his existence had been an unbroken timeline of endless teasing and bullying, without a single soul ever offering a word of remorse.
Yet, the public apology itself wasn’t the crown jewel of his day; the realization that he possessed a fiercely loyal, terrifyingly competent friend like Silan filled him with a profound sense of pride and security.
To Neville, that bond was infinitely more precious than any spoken apology.
“You need to be incredibly careful from now on, Silan,” Hermione warned, casting a sharp, disapproving glare toward the cluster of muttering Slytherins at the back.
“I can practically feel the venomous, ill-intentioned looks they are throwing your way.” “I honestly haven’t a clue what the Sorting Hat was playing at.
Why on earth would it place you in Slytherin?
Do you suppose Professor Dumbledore simply forgot to perform its annual cleaning?
Perhaps centuries of accumulated dust have caused its cognitive functions to completely break down.” Hermione huffed, her face painting a picture of intense, lingering frustration.
She had remained thoroughly bitter about their separation since the sorting ceremony.
“Do not lose sleep over it, Hermione.
As I said, I have already struck a perfect harmony with them.
Everything is fully under control,” Silan remarked with absolute, carefree indifference.
One would have to be an absolute blockhead to assume the pureblood factions of Slytherin would simply roll over and accept defeat.
But then again, that was precisely what made the game so thoroughly entertaining.
No matter how much systemic wealth or political leverage those pureblood dynasties commanded, Dumbledore’s massive, absolute presence at the school guaranteed they couldn’t resort to lethal measures.
At worst, they would simply continue to trade blows until a dominant hierarchy was established.
Since the stage was set, he was more than happy to let the storm rage with absolute fury.
After all, the greater the tempest, the more astronomical the prize.
He only hoped these coddled aristocrats possessed enough capital to meet his steep prices.
But before he could comfortably scale his operations, Silan resolved to thoroughly expand his magical repertoire and elevate his baseline lethality.
Relying solely on the elementary curriculum outlined within *The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1* was vastly insufficient for his long-term ambitions.
“Hermione, would you care to accompany me to the library after our lectures wrap up?” “Absolutely!” Hermione’s eyes flashed with immediate, competitive fire.
“When our first formal examinations arrive, I am fully prepared to completely shatter your scoring record.” “Then I highly advise you to start applying yourself immediately.” “Your confidence is grander than Merlin’s absolute beard,” she countered smoothly.
The two of them locked eyes, breaking into a synchronized, familiar chuckle.
Throughout their primary school years, they had locked themselves in an endless, brutal academic arms race, with the coveted number-one rank constantly shifting between the two of them.
Of course, this dynamic was the result of Silan’s meticulous, deliberate calculation; constantly pinning a brilliant young girl to the runner-up slot would have utterly crushed her motivation.
Allowing her to taste victory periodically served as a brilliant catalyst to fuel her drive, while simultaneously forcing him to constantly sharpen his own progress.
To Silan, it was a perfectly engineered win-win scenario.
Sitting adjacent to them, Ron Weasley listened to their casual arrangement to spend their free time in a library with a look of profound, unadulterated horror.
“Is there genuinely a breed of human being that willingly enjoys frequenting a library?
What, is the furniture there simply more comfortable for taking a nap?” “Why don’t you tag along and discover the mystery for yourself?” Silan offered with a smirk.
“Blimey, no thank you.
I can experience the exact same sensation right here,” Ron muttered, promptly collapsing his upper body flat against the wooden desk.
“The absolute second the professor begins moving again, be a mate and wake me up.” — Almost there let’s go.