The Great Hall erupted.
Not with shouting—at first—but with the sharp scrape of chairs, the hurried thud of footsteps, and the unmistakable pressure of authority crashing down all at once.
Professor McGonagall was the first to reach us.
Her robes billowed as she strode forward, eyes blazing, wand already in her hand. Behind her came Professor Flitwick, Professor Sprout, and a moment later several other staff members, faces caught between shock, disbelief, and anger.
The shattered remains of the Gryffindor hourglass glittered across the stone floor like spilled rubies.
"ALASTAIR SALVIUS–P!"
McGonagall's voice cracked like a whip.
"What," she demanded, every word clipped and furious, "have you done? What possible reason could justify the destruction of school property?"
I met her gaze calmly.
I didn't raise my voice.
I didn't flinch.
Behind me, the first years shifted slightly. A few were pale. A few were tense. But none stepped back.
They stood.
"Professor," I said evenly, "this is my protest against favoritism shown by Headmaster Dumbledore."
The words landed hard.
Flitwick inhaled sharply.
Sprout's lips pressed into a thin line.
McGonagall's eyes widened—just a fraction—before her expression hardened further.
"Favoritism?" she repeated. "Alastair, this is not how one lodges a protest. You should have come to me. Or to Professor Snape. You do not respond to injustice by creating chaos."
I inclined my head slightly.
"And what would that have achieved, Professor?" I asked.
That gave her pause.
"You and Professor Snape," I continued calmly, "would not confront the Headmaster openly. Not over house points. Not over a fight that conveniently punished only one side."
A murmur rippled through the watching students.
"So," I said, "students take matters into their own hands."
McGonagall stared at me, anger warring with something else—recognition, perhaps.
"Alastair," she said, more quietly now but no less firm, "you are crossing a line."
"Yes," I replied. "Intentionally."
Her jaw tightened.
"Professor," I added, before she could respond, "there's something else you should understand."
The hall had gone completely silent.
"While I may be kind like my mother," I said evenly, "I am principled like my father."
That—that—hit.
McGonagall's breath caught, just for a moment. The name, the implication, the weight behind it—it all registered at once.
Before she could answer—
Footsteps echoed behind us.
Slow.
Measured.
Severus Snape emerged from the edge of the hall, black robes cutting through the tension like a blade. His face was set in its usual cold mask, eyes dark and unreadable.
"Mr. Salvius–P," he said flatly.
Every head turned.
"Headmaster Dumbledore has summoned you to his office."
I nodded once.
"As for the rest of you," Snape continued, gaze flicking briefly over the gathered first years, "you will wait in my office."
No one argued.
Snape's eyes lingered for half a heartbeat longer—long enough for the message to be clear.
Do not move.
I turned back to McGonagall.
"I will accept whatever punishment follows," I said calmly. "But I will not retract what I did."
Her eyes searched my face.
"Go," she said.
I followed Snape without another word.
Behind us, the professors began restoring order, the shattered rubies already being gathered by magic—but the damage was done.
Not to the hourglass.
To the illusion.
We reached the Headmaster's office.
The gargoyle slid aside with a low grind of stone, and we stepped into the familiar circular chamber. Shelves of silver instruments whirred softly, portraits of former Headmasters pretended to sleep, and behind the vast desk sat Albus Dumbledore.
He looked exactly as the world expected him to look.
Calm. Kindly. Calculating.
The sort of man outsiders trusted instinctively—and underestimated dangerously.
"Mr. Salvius–P," Dumbledore said mildly, folding his hands atop the desk. "May I call you Alastair?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"So, Alastair," he continued pleasantly, blue eyes sharp behind half-moon spectacles, "I hear you wished to make a protest against my supposed unfairness… and favoritism."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Tell me—when have I ever shown favoritism?"
I met his gaze without blinking, my voice steady and level.
"Oh, so you've been fair to all houses, then?"
The smile didn't fade, but something tightened behind his eyes.
"Then why," I went on calmly, "are Slytherins consistently treated as suspects rather than students? Why are we branded a 'dark house'? Is ambition itself a sin, Headmaster?"
I didn't pause.
"If ambition is evil," I continued, "then why do you ignore the fact that dark wizards have risen from every house? Or should I remind you that the man who betrayed the Potters was a Gryffindor?"
Behind me, Snape's jaw clenched audibly.
"And the wizards who attacked my family," I added quietly, "came from all four houses. So tell me—why is Slytherin blamed for every stain on wizarding history?"
Dumbledore leaned back slightly.
"Let us not dwell on the past," he said smoothly. "I have always spoken for unity."
"Then let us speak of the present," I replied immediately. "Why was only Slytherin punished for today's incident at lunch?"
His expression sobered.
"As the aggressors," Dumbledore said, "Slytherin students lost points. Gryffindors were assigned detention."
I tilted my head.
"By aggressors," I asked, "do you mean those who won the confrontation—or those who initiated it?"
Silence.
"Because," I continued evenly, "I know on very good authority that Slytherin did not fire the first spell."
"I questioned students before reaching my decision," Dumbledore said, tone firm now.
"Which students?" I asked.
That stopped him.
"There were only Slytherins and Gryffindors present," I continued. "So tell me—did you question both sides, or only the ones whose answers aligned with your expectations?"
For the first time, Dumbledore did not immediately respond.
I didn't let him recover.
"There's no need to think further," I said calmly. "I will be writing to the Board of Governors. And to the Daily Prophet. You may explain your version of 'unity' directly to parents."
Snape's eyes flicked toward me—sharp, warning—but I continued.
"And as for unity," I said, "speaking about it does not create it. Action does."
"My study club," I went on, "was a step toward inter-house cooperation. One you dismissed."
I looked him straight in the eye.
"Had that proposal come from a Gryffindor or a Ravenclaw student, would it have been rejected so quickly?"
The silence stretched.
"I will submit the structured proposal you requested," I said. "But if you reject it again without legitimate cause, I will escalate this matter publicly."
I turned slightly toward the door.
"You may inform Professor Snape of my punishment."
I took one step—then stopped.
"One more thing, Headmaster."
Dumbledore looked up sharply.
"Your role here," I said quietly, "is that of an educator. Not a grandmaster arranging pieces on a board for some future savior."
The air shifted.
"We are not pawns," I continued. "And we are certainly not sacrifices for your greater good."
At those words—
Dumbledore's face froze.
The warmth vanished entirely.
His eyes locked onto mine, and I felt it—the subtle pressure, the invasive brush of a mental probe sliding toward my thoughts.
I smiled faintly.
"Professor," I said softly, "I would advise against that."
The pressure halted.
"You already attempted this once," I went on, "at the orphanage."
That landed like a curse.
"If it were to become known," I continued calmly, "that you used Legilimency on a student—an heir of an ancient family, no less—imagine the consequences."
I stepped closer, voice low but unwavering.
"As for what you were looking for," I added, "the P family line holds many secrets of this world."
I straightened.
With that, I turned and left the office without waiting for dismissal, the gargoyle sliding shut behind me.
The chessboard had been challenged.
And the Headmaster knew it.