On the Quidditch pitch, the Slytherin team's resolve began to waver. They were shielding Malfoy because he was a fellow housemate, because of the power of the Malfoy family behind him, and for the sake of face and advantage.
But now the situation was clear: they didn't believe they were any match for Eda, especially with the Gryffindors standing firmly at her back. If they kept dragging this out, they would inevitably be beaten soundly by the Gryffindors. At that point, not only would they lose face—they'd lose everything.
Still, they couldn't just hand Malfoy over without reason. They needed something to justify it, something to "convince" themselves. And every Slytherin present believed Eda would give them that reason.
And indeed, Eda did not disappoint. She gave Flint a reason he could not refuse.
"I just came up with a plan to take a little trip to Azkaban," Eda said. "Would you like to help me with it?"
A threat. A naked, blatant threat.
Everyone knew Eda wouldn't actually do such a thing, but no one was willing to gamble their life on it. Flint had thought she would throw him a rope to climb down gracefully, but instead, she kicked him straight off the slope and sent him rolling to the bottom.
Flint stepped aside, exposing Malfoy behind him.
Malfoy's expression turned uneasy.
Backed by his family name, he had always been brazen and arrogant. But when faced with someone even more arrogant than himself—Eda—he had no idea what to do.
Malfoy shut his eyes, bracing himself for the beating he was certain was coming. He would tell his father everything that had happened today.
But after a while, no pain came.
He cautiously cracked his eyes open and saw Eda, standing in front of him, turned around and asking something.
"What was his name again?" Eda asked, glancing back.
That indifference stung worse than a fist to the face. Malfoy felt his dignity had suffered a crushing humiliation.
"Draco Malfoy," Ron said, his head lowered, not daring to meet Eda's eyes. The wand he carried had been a gift from her, and yet in just over a year, he had managed to break it.
"Oh, right." Eda turned her head back, fixing her gaze on Malfoy. "I heard that last year you challenged Harry to a wizard's duel. Since you're a pure-blood, I imagine you must be quite skilled at dueling. Recently, I've been feeling a bit itchy for a fight myself. How about we have one, in front of the whole school?"
The last person who had fought Eda one-on-one was Quirinus Quirrell—and he had died.
The last person she had invited to a duel was Gilderoy Lockhart—and he had refused.
Now it was Draco Malfoy's turn, and he was even less likely to accept.
"Why so quiet?" Eda asked. "Don't tell me you're afraid? You're supposed to be a noble pure-blood. Where's your honor? Where's your pride? If you don't even dare accept a duel challenge, what right do you have to look down on others, to sneer at them as—Mudbloods?"
Draco Malfoy's face flushed red.
His fists clenched tightly, but still he said nothing. His lip was bitten so hard it had begun to bleed.
"Looks like I overestimated you," Eda continued, pointing at Hermione. "How about this then? You just insulted Hermione, and she's in your year. Why don't the two of you duel instead?"
Hermione Granger—the second coming of Miss Know-It-All, the bookish prodigy, the girl who could turn any story into Hermione and Two Useless Boys. She was someone Malfoy simply couldn't beat.
In front of the entire school, if he lost to Eda, Malfoy could at least find an excuse: it wasn't that a pure-blood like him lacked ability, but rather that Eda, the so-called Mudblood, was practically inhuman. But if he lost to Hermione—there would be no excuse.
It would mean dragging pure-blood pride through the mud before all of Britain. And even with the power and influence of the Malfoy family, he would never again be able to hold his head high.
Draco Malfoy still said nothing.
One path was certain death, the other was almost certain death—how was he supposed to choose?
If he picked Hermione, there might still be a sliver of survival, but if he lost, the shame would be unbearable.
"This won't do, that won't do—what exactly do you want then?" Eda stared at the silent Malfoy. "Ah… right, I remember now. Harry accepted your duel challenge last year, but you never even showed up. So in the end, pure-blood 'honor' means nothing to you at all! Umm... Or is that what your noble bloodline taught you? Heh~"
At these words, Flint and the rest of the Slytherins all turned to look at Malfoy. This was the first time they had heard about it, and even they thought Malfoy's behavior was disgraceful—dragging Slytherin's name through the mud.
"Tell me! You don't dare duel a so-called Mudblood, and you stood Harry up after challenging him—this is the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight? This is the greatness of pure-bloods?"
"Studies, magic, spells—what exactly are you better at than Hermione? Isn't your precious bloodline supposed to make you invincible? Weren't you supposed to defeat me without the slightest effort?"
"Other than arrogance, conceit, and hurling the word 'Mudblood,' what else has your noble pure-blood heritage taught you?"
"For a thousand years, your kind have done everything to exclude, insult, and attack Muggle-born wizards. So why is it that Muggle-borns still thrive, while pure-blood families disappear one after another?"
"Answer me, Draco Malfoy!" Eda's voice rang sharp and unyielding. Her questions weren't only directed at Malfoy—they were meant for every Slytherin standing there.
"I …I don't know…" Malfoy stammered, his body trembling. These questions had struck hard at his still-forming worldview, shaking it to the core.
Eda's thunderous questions left every Slytherin present stunned. They were students, still inexperienced, their entire understanding of bloodline and the world shaped by their families, their parents, or those around them.
Never before had anyone challenged them with such questions, from this perspective, in this way.
Eda's gaze swept over the Slytherins opposite her. Under her eyes, each one of them lowered their heads. None could answer her, none could even face their own hearts.
All along, the bloodline they had been so proud of—their so-called honor—was it truly this fragile, this easily shattered?
Eda steadied her emotions and continued, "Magic blossoms only within the souls of a few. It is a gift granted to us by heaven. We are the minority among humankind, and we ought to stand together, to cherish every wizard beside us, to celebrate each new witch or wizard born. And yet you—what have you done?"
"Looking down on others because of their blood does not make you superior. It only makes you more pathetic, because apart from that bloodline, you have nothing else worth pride."
Born noble, or born equal—this question had been debated for thousands of years.
Eda was no saint, and even if she were, it wasn't something that could be solved in a few words. She wasn't Martin Luther King, nor would she devote her life to such a dream, fighting to erase discrimination.
She wasn't that great.
But that didn't stop her from holding a great dream in her heart.
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