"What did you say…" Wilkes stammered, still reeling from the shock of the raw, brutal strike that had just taken down Mulciber, the reality of Anduin's sudden, cold violence setting in.
Before any of the remaining six could fully register the danger, before the five boys still standing could even properly raise their wands in a unified defense, Anduin glared, a wave of palpable, focused magical intent washing over the narrow corridor. He brought his hands together in a sharp, non-verbal clap.
Vibrato!Impedimenta!
The sound that followed was not a spell-word, but a horrific whirring, crushing resonance that seemed to originate from the air itself. Two immense, unseen hands of pure magical force slammed into the group. The speed was absolute; the pressure was physical. They were caught in an invisible vice.
The combined effect was devastating. Three of the Slytherins, including Travers and the two fourth-years who had been struggling to maintain their balance, instantly lost all structural integrity.
Their legs buckled beneath them, their spines compressing as the pressure wave crushed them into the stone floor, the sickening crunch of bones and the tear of muscle muffled only slightly by the force itself. They screamed, a high-pitched, desperate sound of acute pain and sudden helplessness, their wands scattering across the cold tiles.
Wilkes and one other student, a thick-set sixth-year named Avery, were marginally faster. They endured the initial wave of force, managing to keep their footing, their faces contorted in agony and desperation. They finally got their wands up, pointing them wildly at the figure of Anduin, who stood serene and untouched in the center of the carnage.
But Anduin was already past them. His body was a study in pure, unadulterated efficiency. Before Wilkes and Avery could utter a single syllable of a hex, two blinding flashes of light—two high-velocity, invisible non-verbal spells—slammed into them. These were not Disarming Charms; they were raw, concentrated bursts of kinetic energy stripped of their usual incantation safeguards.
Wilkes's body was hurled backwards, smashing into the stone wall of the abandoned bathroom. Avery was spun violently, his wand torn from his grip by the sheer force of the blow, and he collapsed, instantly incapacitated, his body twitching uncontrollably from the neural shock.
The entire assault had taken less than four seconds. Seven Slytherins were now either unconscious, writhing in pain, or temporarily paralyzed. Anduin's magic was not chaotic; it was surgically precise.
"Accio—all wands," Anduin commanded, raising his left hand in a slow, precise gesture.
Seven wands, of varying styles, woods, and ages, rose from the floor where they had fallen or been dropped, flying instantly into Anduin's waiting palm. He caught them effortlessly, tucking them into his belt. He had learned the fatal necessity of total disarming after his encounter last Christmas.
The young wizards lay on the ground, some moaning in low, distressed tones, others screaming in agony. Their high-backed arrogance had been utterly shattered by the sheer, overwhelming power of one boy who refused to use a single conventional, dueling hex.
"Help! Please, someone help us!" the fourth-year who hadn't been knocked out but had lost the use of his legs cried out hysterically, realizing the terrifying isolation of their location.
Travers, despite the agony radiating from his compressed torso, was still stubbornly defiant, fueled by pure, ingrained hatred. "Anduin, you filthy bastard! You're dead! When my father hears about this, you are finished!" he screamed, his voice strained and ragged.
Anduin ignored the threats and the insults. He walked slowly, methodically, toward the prone, agonizing figure of Wilkes, his laughter a cold, mocking sound that scraped across the silence.
"Do not trouble yourselves with shouting, boys," Anduin said, his voice carrying clearly in the enclosed space. "I have already placed a powerful Shielding Charm over the entire room, layered with a Muffliato variant. No one outside of this corridor—not a student, not a professor, not even a ghost—will hear your cries. This is a private conversation."
Wilkes, recognizing the finality of his isolation, glared up at Anduin, terror mixing with his deep-seated pride. "What—what are you planning to do? I warn you, if you dare to touch me, if you show any disrespect, you will face consequences that even Dumbledore can't prevent! Apologize and leave now, you Mudblood, or I swear—"
Anduin's patience snapped. He brought his boot down, not kicking, but placing the heel with cold, deliberate force directly onto Wilkes's sternum. The pressure was immense, robbing the boy of the air he had been struggling to draw.
"Did I not apologize to you from the very beginning?" Anduin hissed, his voice dangerously low. "I apologized for my own error in leaving scum like you alive and functional. Now, you will tell me everything you know. You will cooperate, or you will regret the brief reprieve of consciousness I have granted you."
Wilkes grasped weakly at Anduin's boot, his eyes starting to water from the pressure on his chest. "Tell you what? I know nothing!" he choked out, still clinging to his defiance.
"Do not insult my intelligence," Anduin said, pressing harder, driving the pain deep into Wilkes's lungs. "I want to know everything about the attack on the Longbottoms. The names of the Death Eaters involved. The location of the attack. And more importantly, the identities and whereabouts of the other Dark Lord remnants who are still operating outside of Azkaban. I know the pureblood networks at this school feed information outside. I am certain that you, the self-proclaimed leader of the new House order, know everything."
Anduin's suspicion was well-founded. He had hesitated to act against the pureblood faction before precisely because he was wary of provoking a backlash from their powerful, high-ranking families outside the school. But the attack on Frank and Alice Longbottom—the kind, heroic family he cherished—had completely overridden his tactical caution. It was a tragedy too personal to ignore.
The Death Eaters were no longer Voldemort's powerful army; they were desperate, vicious fanatics, and Anduin knew they had to be neutralized immediately. He needed intelligence, and Wilkes was the only available source. The pressure from the pureblood world could wait; he was prepared to abandon Hogwarts entirely if necessary.
Wilkes seemed to grasp the terrifying reality of Anduin's rage. The fear in his eyes finally overtook his bigotry. He knew his gloating earlier had been a fatal mistake.
"You're worried about those naïve fools? They chose their side, and they suffer the consequences! Instead of worrying about them, you should be worrying about your own pathetic life, you miserable bastard—AAGH!"
Wilkes' defiance was cut short by a brutal kick to the stomach—a sudden, agonizing blow that sent him arching his back and clutching his abdomen, vomiting a thin stream of bile onto the stone floor.
"It seems your stomach is weaker than your resolve," Anduin observed, withdrawing his foot. "I admire stubbornness, Wilkes, truly I do. But I hope for your sake you can maintain this spirit, because we have a lot of time to spend together."
Anduin smiled, a truly feral expression. He waved his wand at the other six captured Slytherins.
Six of the prone boys instantly shot upwards, held tight in the iron grip of a non-verbal Levitation Charm, suspended upside down from the ceiling like grotesque decorations. This was the highly modified, silent version of the Reverse Bell hex, a nasty, disorienting charm Sirius had taught him in passing, designed for sheer humiliation and discomfort.
Anduin then pulled a small, thin square of parchment from his pocket. He looked down at Wilkes, whose face was pale and slick with sweat.
"I should offer my apologies again," Anduin murmured, sounding genuinely detached. "I have never employed this particular Muggle technique on a child before. It is not… pleasant."
He cast a silent spell to bind Wilkes's hands and feet tightly to the floor and walls, rendering him completely immobile. Wilkes looked around wildly, a fresh wave of terror surging through him as he realized the cold, clinical nature of his impending torture.
"What are you doing?! Let me go! I'm warning you! Ugh!"
Wilkes's screams were abruptly choked off. Anduin, with the same surgical precision he used to apply runes, placed the piece of paper over Wilkes's mouth and nose. He then muttered the incantation: "Aqua Clara Fons." (Water clear as a spring)
A thin, continuous stream of perfectly clean, clear water materialized from the tip of Anduin's wand, soaking the paper. The paper instantly adhered to Wilkes's face, sealing off his mouth and, more critically, his nostrils.
Wilkes's thrashing became immediate, desperate, and utterly pathetic. He was drowning on dry land, his lungs burning, his mind screaming in absolute panic as the water filled his mouth and throat. He was thrashing like a fish dragged onto the shore, his entire body convulsing in a desperate fight against suffocation.
Travers, suspended upside down and watching the horrific spectacle, finally found his voice, a raw, terrified shriek. "You muddy wretch! What are you doing?! You'll kill him! Do you want to kill him?!"
Anduin simply glanced at the upside-down boy, his face unreadable. He tapped his wand towards Travers. "Sona Expellere." (Sonic Exorcism, or the silencing charm)
Travers's screams vanished instantly, cut off mid-shriek. He could still thrash, he could still open his mouth in a silent, gaping O of terror, but no sound, no matter how hard he tried, would escape his lips. He was forced to witness the ongoing torture of his leader in complete, soundless horror. The other five suspended Slytherins were similarly struck silent, their eyes wide and disbelieving.
Wilkes thrashed, his body tightening in a final, frantic convulsion. His eyes rolled back into his head, and his limbs went slack.
Anduin waited precisely three agonizing seconds longer than necessary, then silently flicked his wand. The water ceased, the paper tore loose, and the bindings vanished.
Wilkes gasped, his lungs dragging in air in massive, ragged, choking sobs. He coughed violently, bringing up water and bile, his body racked with involuntary tremors. He was alive, but the experience had ripped his mind apart.
"So, do you feel more communicative now, Wilkes?" Anduin asked, his voice careless, as if he were discussing the weather.
Wilkes finally managed to look up. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face was contorted not just with pain, but with pure, animalistic hatred and terror. He inhaled a stuttering breath and spat a wad of foamy saliva at Anduin.
But the moment the saliva left his mouth, Anduin hit it with a chillingly precise, non-verbal Freezing Charm. The spittle froze instantly in the cold air, becoming a small, sharp shard of ice, which Anduin then guided with a tiny flick of his wand back to Wilkes's face, embedding itself painfully in his cheek.
"I admire those with a strong will, as I am one of them," Anduin said, a terrible grin spreading across his face. "But I assure you, we will have plenty of time to find the limits of yours."
Anduin began his process. It was methodical, cold, and utterly detached. He would cast the binding charms, apply the wet parchment, and initiate the drowning, holding the victim until they were seconds from total unconsciousness.
He would revive Wilkes, wait until the boy had regained just enough strength to feel the pain, and then immediately begin the cycle again. For the first few cycles, Anduin asked no questions at all. The torture was not for information; it was for conditioning, to destroy the will to resist.
He executed this routine seven times in a row.
By the eighth cycle, Wilkes was no longer fighting. His body merely twitched weakly at the onset of the waterboarding, his resolve utterly pulverized. He didn't have the strength left to scream, fight, or even curse. He was nothing but a broken, gasping thing, lying in a puddle of his own sickness and tears, his mind destroyed by the constant, agonizing threat of suffocation.
The six inverted Slytherins watched in mute horror, suspended like pendulum weights above the spectacle of their leader's total annihilation.