Harry Potter : Cael Vale’s journey to Hogwarts

Hogwarts Castle — The Next Morning

The peaceful hum of morning at Hogwarts shattered like glass under a Bludger.

From somewhere deep in the dungeons came a scream—sharp, panicked, echoing through the stone corridors like a banshee's wail.

A second scream followed. Then another.

By the time the fourth hit, half the castle was awake—and laughing.

Slytherin Boys' Dormitories

Marcus Flint woke up to darkness.

Not the usual sleepy, pre-dawn gloom—but suffocating, sticky, ink-thick shadows clinging to his head like cursed treacle.

His hands clawed at his face—only to sink straight into the murky blackness coating him like a deranged jellyfish.

"WHAT THE—WHAT—GET IT OFF—" His voice came out muffled, distorted inside the dark bubble. He stumbled blindly, punching the air, tripping over his own trunk.

Across the room, Higgins, a scrawny fifth-year, leapt out of bed—only to yelp in agony as a curse fired through his calves like a thousand angry doxies stabbing him with toothpicks.

"BLOODY HELL—MY LEGS—"

He hopped one-footed across the dorm, crashed into a dresser, and collapsed in a heap, still clutching his knees.

Urquhart sat up groggily, blinking sleep from his eyes—then froze, horror dawning.

His arms shimmered faintly in the dim light—coiled from wrist to elbow in luminous, green snake scales.

"Oh Merlin, no—" He scrambled for his wand, only to find it slick with slime, oozing over his sheets like a slug had exploded in his bed.

The scream he let out could've cracked glass.

And down the hall, things only got worse.

Sixth-Year Dormitory

Glacius Immobilis, as it turned out, had a time limit.

The two sixth-years, still tangled together on the bed, snapped awake just as the charm wore off—naked, disoriented, and unfortunately surrounded by an audience.

The dorm door stood wide open.

A knot of second-years, third-years, and at least two seventh-years crowded the entrance, gawking like they'd paid admission to a particularly scandalous play.

"Oi, didn't know you two were that close," someone jeered.

One of them—Rosier, maybe?—let out a strangled shriek, yanking the covers up to his chin, face crimson.

The other scrambled for his wand—slipped on the discarded sheets—and hit the floor with an almighty thud, exposed in all his humiliated glory.

Someone wolf-whistled.

Another cackled, "Reckon that's not the wand he meant to grab."

Gasps. Snorts. Howling laughter. The whole Slytherin house was either screaming or doubled over at this point.

And it wasn't over.

Shoes burst into flames. Robes itched like they'd been hexed with a dozen Wrackspurts. Foreheads bloomed with boils that, when reflected in the mirror, spelled "MUDBLOOD LOVER" backwards in angry, red pustules.

Cael's twisted little touch of irony.

Frey awoke last—the smug, polished look he usually wore already cracking at the edges.

The moment he sat up, white-hot pain needled through every joint, leaving him gasping, limbs locking up like he'd been hit with a malfunctioning Body-Bind.

"W-What—what—" His voice cracked, eyes wide with panic, breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts.

He looked less like a cocky Slytherin prince and more like a squashed spider flailing on his sheets.

By now, the Slytherin common room resembled a battlefield after a particularly messy prank war.

Boys stumbled down from the dorms—some limping, others glowing, a few still mid-vomit thanks to Lee Jordan's enchanted sweets sneakily distributed at breakfast yesterday.

The humiliated sixth-years stormed in, robes half-on, still bickering:

"You set me up, you absolute git—"

"I didn't! You think I planned to be hexed starkers in front of half the house?"

Urquhart huddled by the fire, glowing arms hidden under a cushion, rocking like his life depended on it.

Flint's voice roared from somewhere inside the still-stuck darkness engulfing his head.

"WHO DID THIS? I'LL HEX YOU INTO NEXT WEEK—"

He swung blindly, fists knocking over chairs, books, possibly a terrified first-year.

The whole room descended into shouting, accusations, someone in the corner threatening to hex their own cousin—it was pandemonium.

Until the door creaked open.

Professor Snape entered first, robes billowing like the world's angriest bat, expression thunderous.

Behind him came Professor McGonagall, lips pursed so tight they could slice steel—and Professor Sprout, valiantly failing to hide her amusement, face practically glowing with suppressed laughter.

Then Dumbledore.

His eyes sparkled with that infuriating, knowing twinkle as he took in the disaster zone: glowing scales, cursed robes, slime-drenched bedsheets, sixth-years cowering behind furniture, Frey locked in a contorted, trembling heap.

Snape's voice sliced through the din like a Severing Charm.

"Explain."

Silence.

Not a soul moved.

The sixth-years pointed fingers. The fifth-years shouted. Seventh-years muttered wild conspiracies about Gryffindors, Peeves, or possibly a vengeful house-elf uprising.

But no one had evidence. No culprits. Nothing.

Dumbledore's gaze lingered on Frey, on Flint's flailing darkness-clouded head, on Urquhart curled like a traumatized hedgehog under a cushion.

"Curious," Dumbledore mused, stroking his beard. "A prank so… strategically executed. One might say… surgical."

McGonagall's eyebrow arched sky-high—clear as daylight she was already mentally filing this under potentially justified mayhem.

Sprout gave a suspicious cough that sounded suspiciously like a snort of laughter.

Snape looked two seconds from spontaneous combustion, nostrils flaring like a wild Hippogriff, but with no evidence, all he could do was seethe, spinning on his heel, robes snapping behind him as he stalked off.

Gryffindor Common Room — Later

News of Slytherin's downfall spread faster than a firework in a broom cupboard.

By lunchtime, the entire castle was abuzz.

Fred and George lounged in armchairs, grinning like cats who'd swallowed an entire owlery.

Lee Jordan acted out the sixth-year "incident" for a giggling crowd of second-years, dramatically diving onto a couch with his boxers on his head for extra flair.

Even a few Ravenclaws hovered nearby, snickering behind their books.

Cael sat near the window, quiet, satisfied, watching the chaos ripple outward like dropped ink in water.

For once, Slytherin weren't the ones striking the Arrogant ones .

And Frey?

Well, judging by the way he shuffled past at dinner—stiff, pale, and glaring daggers at his mashed potatoes—he wouldn't be strutting anywhere for a long, long time.