The torches lining the dungeon corridors flicker faintly. FiIch secures the lock after receiving given orders from McGonagaII to secure you and the rest of the SIytherins away from everyone else. You stand with Mattheo, Theo, Enzo, Draco, BIaise, and Pansy—your small group huddled together in one corner.

Mattheo steps away from the group, brow furrowed, jaw clenched. Finally, looks directly at Draco.

“This is it, MaIfoy,” Mattheo says. “This is our chance.”

Draco looks away, his hands shoved deep into the pockets. “Our chance for what, RiddIe? To be labeled traitors for the rest of our lives?”

Mattheo’s expression softens slightly. “To rewrite it, Draco. To rewrite everything they tried to set in stone. You think I don’t know what’s waiting out there? My father doesn’t see me as his son—he sees me as a tool, a pawn in his grand design. But we aren’t our fathers. Not you, not me, not Theo, not any of us.”

Theo steps closer. “They think locking us down here will keep us safe. That we won’t have to pick a side. But we’ve already chosen, haven’t we?”

BIaise crosses his arms. “Mattheo’s right. We don’t belong down here hiding behind locked doors while others fight for a future we want to be part of.”

Pansy glances between them. “So what do we do, Mattheo? Break out of here? Fight?”

“Against our parents?” Enzo asks with a heavy sigh. “This has madness written all over it.”

Mattheo nods, turning to look at all of you. “I know, but we can’t hide. We can’t cower in the shadows like they expect us to. We fight. We are not our parents' legacy. We are so much more than that.”

Draco stares down at the cursed mark that he never wanted to have in the first place. “Let’s do it.”

Mattheo smirks, a rare and genuine one. He turns back to the locked iron door, wand raised, and with a flick, whispers, “Alohomora.”

The lock clicks, and the door swings open with a faint creak.