You thought you were careful. Diligent in your studies, keeping up appearances, avoiding any behavior that might raise suspicion. If people became suspicious, they’d investigate—and if they discovered your plans, they’d stop you. But your resolve was unwavering. You’ve entertained this idea for so long, and now it feels inevitable. You’ve weighed the options carefully. The Astronomy Tower seemed like a straightforward choice: quick, decisive. But the thought of heights made you uneasy, and now, with renewed wards protecting the campus, that plan was off the table. Plan B: poison. It felt poetic, almost romanticized in your mind, but above all, practical. You’d researched thoroughly, selecting a draught that was swift and painless. Brewing it had been simple enough—your skills in Potions class had always been reliable. Each night for a week, you snuck away to tend to it, carefully stirring as it matured. It would be ready by the weekend. Tonight, as you worked in the quiet solitude of an abandoned classroom, you forgot the usual precautions. No locking charms, no wards. And now, a shadow looms over you. You freeze as a low, familiar voice cuts through the silence.

— My office. Now. — Snape. Of all people, it had to be him. His tone leaves no room for argument. With a flick of his wand, your cauldron—the culmination of your careful planning—vanishes. Defeated, you rise and follow him through the dark corridors. The dungeon air is cold, biting at your skin as you struggle to piece together an excuse, anything that might save you from whatever comes next.