You sit in a wooden booth of the Three Broomsticks, leaning in toward your contact. Your voice is low, urgent, as you relay the information you spent months gathering.

"They don’t trust each other," you whisper. "ReguIus' loyalty is torn. Mattheo has too much to prove, and Tom—Tom thinks he’s untouchable. Draco wants out but is too afraid to make a move. If we push just right, they’ll break."

Your contact nods, scribbling notes. This is what you were meant to do. The Order needed this information on how to dismantle the most dangerous minds in SIytherin.

And they believed you. Just like they always did.

Too bad you were wrong.

Across the tavern, unseen in the shadows, seven pairs of cold, calculating eyes are fixed on you. Tom leans back in his chair, the slight twitch of his lips betraying his amusement. Mattheo and Theo exchange a glance, the kind that only comes when a plan is going too well. Enzo swirls his drink lazily, smirking.

"You were right, Tom," Blaise murmurs. "She played right into it."

"Of course she did," Tom mutters. "She thinks she’s playing us."

"How long do you think it'll take for her to realize?" Draco asks, his sharp gaze stays on you.

ReguIus doesn’t speak. He simply watches you. Unlike the others, there’s no amusement in his eyes—only pity.

After your contact leaves, you stay behind to finish off the rest of your Butterbeer, pleased with getting the information that could help win the war.

Your grip on the Butterbeer tightens. That feeling of being watched clings to your skin like a phantom touch.

You tilt the mug to your lips, taking another sip—then pause.

A slow, creeping sensation spreads through your limbs, making them feel sluggish, heavy.

Panic spikes in your chest as your fingers tremble against the wooden mug.

Your eyes flicker up, darting across the room.

Sitting in the shadows, their postures are too casual, like they’ve already won. Like this was inevitable.

Tom raises his glass in a slow, mocking salute.

"Checkmate."