Every single third-year was staring at him, their gazes filled with a mixture of shock, anger, and betrayal. Could it be that everything they had worked so hard for—all the recognition, all the achievements—was now wiped away because of him?
Harlan suddenly understood why Alex hadn’t exposed his cheating right away. Instead, he let the third-years enjoy their success first, only to strip it all away in front of them. The pain of losing what they had already grasped was far worse than simply never having it in the first place.
Every stare felt like a dagger, pressing into his skin, filling him with shame and guilt. "I accept the Prefect’s decision," Victor finally said. His gaze lingered on Harlan, not with hatred, but with quiet determination. "This is my fault as well. I should have noticed Harlan was struggling and offered help instead of focusing solely on grades and awards," he admitted. "I was too blinded by achievements and forgot to support my classmates."
"Harlan wouldn’t have resorted to this if we had paid more attention. The third-years are a team, and when one of us falls, we all share responsibility," Victor declared, looking around at his peers. The sincerity in his words struck a chord. The third-years, who had been burning with resentment just moments ago, looked at Harlan again—this time with less hostility and more understanding.
The tension in the room shifted. "Victor... I'm sorry!" Harlan choked out, tears welling in his eyes. The crushing guilt in his chest was unbearable. He sobbed uncontrollably, unable to stop himself.
Alex nodded, acknowledging Victor’s sense of responsibility. "Accountability is important," he said. "But discipline is discipline. And when rules are broken, consequences must follow." His sharp gaze swept over the room.
"All boys from Slytherin, stand up." A ripple of movement spread as every male student in the house reluctantly got to their feet. "Harlan, this is your second offense," Alex stated. "According to the rules, punishment escalates. As a result, every boy in this school will share your punishment. And if you break the rules again, the entire student body will bear the consequences." His voice was cold. "All boys—get ready for fifty push-ups."
A collective shudder ran through the group. Those who had just barely recovered from their previous punishment now faced another round. Their arms were already sore, muscles trembling, yet they had no choice. No one dared to protest. As Alex began counting, they forced themselves to comply. Sweat quickly pooled beneath them, their bodies screaming in protest. Pain, exhaustion, frustration—it all mixed together as their arms burned with every push-up. The sound of labored breathing and stifled groans filled the air. Then, just as they thought it might be over, Alex spoke again. "I'm getting tired of counting."
For a brief moment, hope flickered in their hearts. Was he going to let them off? But Alex didn’t tell them to stop. Instead, he walked slowly through the exhausted students, stopping next to Harlan. Squatting down, he looked at him with a chilling smile. "Harlan, you’ve got a strong physique. A few push-ups should be nothing to you." His voice was almost mocking.
Harlan’s stomach twisted. A sense of foreboding crept up his spine. "What… what do you mean, Prefect?" he stammered.
Alex smirked. "Since this punishment is too easy for you, you can help me count the rest. That should save me the effort."
Harlan’s heart nearly stopped. Before he could react, Alex grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. "I counted to twenty-three. You take it from twenty-four."
A chill ran through Harlan’s entire body. "M-Me?!" His voice cracked with panic. He had already been the target of resentment, but now Alex was making him the one to enforce the punishment?
The boys still struggling through their push-ups turned their tired, sweat-soaked faces toward him. Their eyes burned with frustration. Some glared at him outright. Others simply stared, exhausted but clearly not forgiving. Harlan swallowed hard. "Hurry up. Speak louder!" Alex’s sharp command jolted him like a whip.
"Y-Yes, Prefect!" His voice shook. "T-Twenty-four… twenty-five… twenty-six…" His voice trembled, barely above a whisper.
"Too fast," Alex interrupted. "And your voice is too weak. Do I need to teach you how to count properly?"
Harlan felt his whole body go numb. His knees almost gave out, but the weight of a hundred stares kept him standing. "Start over," Alex ordered.
The overwhelming humiliation made his head spin, but he had no choice. "Twenty-four," he said louder this time, his voice cracking. "T-Twenty-five…"
Each number was like a slap to his own face. Every time the boys groaned from exertion, every whimper of pain, it felt as if a branding iron was searing his soul. His throat was dry, his lips trembling. "Thirty-four… thirty-five…" By the time he reached forty, his vision blurred with tears. His breath hitched as sobs escaped his throat, but he forced himself to continue. "F-Forty-six… forty-seven…"
After enduring what felt like an eternity of punishment, each and every student looked as exhausted as a stray Kneazle caught in a storm. Even though Harlan hadn't physically completed all the punishments himself, he was in an almost trance-like state, standing motionless until his third-year classmates finally carried him back to his seat.
With the discipline session concluded, Alex took the opportunity to formally announce the end of the monthly meeting. Along with it, he stripped the third-years of all their previously earned rewards, reallocating them to the fourth-years. The top three individual rankings were also updated, with Joey, the fourth-year leader, now holding the highest honor. But within Slytherin, there was no celebration. No one was basking in the joy of victory. Instead, there was only a collective sense of relief—an exhaustion so profound it felt like they had just emerged from a battle. This monthly meeting had dragged on so long and had been so nerve-wracking that each minute felt like a year.
The lesson had been learned. From the very next day, no one dared to test their luck. It was as if the first-day-of-school nervousness had returned—only this time, it wasn’t the fear of the unknown, but the fear of their own prefect.
Among them, the one who changed the most was undoubtedly Harlan. Gone was the cocky, smooth-talking troublemaker. Instead, he had transformed into a silent, wide-eyed student who now treated self-discipline like a religion. Whether it was during lessons or daily routines, he held himself to the strictest standards, almost as if he were punishing himself.
From that day on, he was the first to wake up every morning. He maintained perfect discipline throughout the day. He was the last one to leave the study hall at night. It was as if he had been reborn into an entirely different person. But it wasn’t just Harlan who changed.
Within Slytherin, students began to take responsibility for their classmates. Every morning, they would remind each other to wake up on time. If someone was being too loud during meals, they were immediately shushed. If someone was moving too much in the common room, a quick reminder would be given. And this wasn’t limited to students of the same year. Older and younger Slytherins alike began watching out for each other. No one wanted to be responsible for collective punishment ever again.