Hermione bit her lower lip nervously, noticing a faint silver light flashing now and then at the tip of Malfoy's wand, which only deepened her unease.
Ron, too, looked astonished, muttering in disbelief, "…Is that really Malfoy?"
The three of them hadn't been idle lately. With nearly twice as much study time as most students—and under Hermione's strict supervision—both Ron and Harry had improved rapidly.
Could it be that Professor Greengrass had also taught Malfoy those spells?
On the dueling platform, Malfoy's spells poured down in a relentless barrage, while Harry dodged swiftly from side to side.
Though he didn't cast often, his movements were calm and confident. From time to time, he countered, forcing Malfoy briefly on the defensive.
Finally, when Malfoy tried to cut off Harry's retreat with a Binding Spell, Harry caught the fleeting instant when Malfoy's wand hand drew back after lifting.
He didn't choose a complicated spell—just the simplest one, performed with perfect timing.
"Expelliarmus!"
A focused red beam shot out, slicing precisely through the narrow opening in Malfoy's magic and ignoring his hurried attempt to defend.
Whoosh—bang!
A sharp crack rang out.
Malfoy's wand, struck as if by an invisible force, flew from his hand, spun high through the air, and landed with a thud in the dust at the edge of the platform.
The entire arena went silent.
Malfoy stood motionless, his right hand still frozen in a casting stance, though now it grasped nothing.
The sharp, focused look on his face seemed to freeze, then crumble like a mask breaking apart, revealing a flash of raw disbelief and loss.
Whispers began to ripple through the stands.
Malfoy's breathing grew shallow. Sweat plastered his platinum hair to his forehead, and his gray eyes were fixed on the wand lying on the ground—as if he couldn't comprehend how it had slipped from his grasp so easily.
Perched atop the lamppost, the raven tilted its head, its dark pupils sweeping across the arena. Then, with a low, rasping caw that broke the heavy silence, it spread its wings and flew off without a backward glance.
There was no thunderous applause.
Instead, a long-suppressed wave of cheering and chatter broke out from the Gryffindor side, while the Slytherins remained quiet, the air thick with uneasy murmurs.
Malfoy drew in a deep breath, his chest rising and falling steadily.
He slowly lowered his hand, which had been suspended in midair. The brief flicker of emotion on his face was quickly replaced by a composed calm.
He didn't curse in frustration as he once might have, nor did he make excuses. Without even glancing at Harry, he stepped off the platform, his movements heavy but controlled, and walked straight toward where his wand had fallen.
Under the weight of countless watching eyes, he bent down and quietly picked it up.
Then, taking out a silk handkerchief, he carefully wiped the dust from the wand's surface.
Finally, he tucked his wand safely into the inner pocket of his robes, straightened his back, and let his sharp gaze sweep over the varied expressions of the Slytherins below the platform.
Shrill voices rose from the stands: "Oh, Draco, looks like Potter still has some luck left, doesn't he?"
A girl beside Daphne drawled, "Or maybe Professor Greengrass's detention dulled your skills?"
A few girls around her immediately let out suppressed giggles.
An older Slytherin boy, arms crossed, spoke with a condescending air. "Chasing after dueling rankings? What a pointless waste of time. Pure-blood honor is what truly matters, Draco. You should focus on more respectable pursuits instead of rolling in the mud like some foolish lion."
"Exactly. Now that you've lost, people will think Slytherin's weaker than Gryffindor. It's really—" another voice muttered bitterly.
The taunts clearly reached Malfoy's ears.
Once, he would have exploded in fury and snapped back with venomous words.
But now, there was no anger in his gray eyes—only a deep, cold detachment.
He didn't even pause, merely cast a single, icy glance in the direction of the voices, as if looking at a pile of noisy rubbish.
The last faint glimmer of camaraderie with his housemates quietly went out.
Besides that pathetic notion of lineage, what else do you have left?
Stupid, arrogant, useless fools—drunk on the glory of their ancestors!
The thought echoed sharply in his mind, filled with a disgust and determination he had never felt before.
He no longer cared about their opinions; their jeers were nothing more than the buzzing of insects, incapable of disturbing him in the slightest.
Pushing straight through the crowd and across the ivy-covered bridge, Malfoy walked toward the entrance of the Slytherin common room without a single glance back.
Goyle followed silently behind him, like a moving wall, shielding him from the cutting stares and whispered taunts.
When the heavy stone wall slid open and then closed again, it sealed away all the noise and malice from outside.
Malfoy leaned against the cold stone, drawing in a deep breath of the damp dungeon air.
Defeat was never pleasant—especially losing to Potter.
But what suffocated him even more was the stale, arrogant, self-satisfied atmosphere that had filled the stands.
His eyes flicked to the silent Goyle beside him, then drifted to the empty armchair in the corner that had once belonged to Crabbe. A strange, unfamiliar loneliness rose quietly within him.
Yet right behind that feeling came something far stronger—an almost burning hunger for power.
His hand tightened around the wand in his pocket, its cold surface a vivid reminder of the lesson he had learned tonight.
He didn't need those so-called pure-blood companions who only knew how to sneer. What he needed was power—the kind of strength that would let him stand at the very top, forcing everyone to acknowledge him.
Like Professor Greengrass.
He didn't stay any longer. Turning toward the stone staircase that led to the boys' dormitory, his steps were steady and resolute.
"Training's canceled for today," Malfoy said without looking back. "Go review your studies, Goyle. The final exams are coming."
...
It had been a long time since he'd been home.
Although his mother sent him candy by owl every week, Malfoy hadn't eaten a single piece.
Back in the quiet dormitory, he opened a drawer and took out a piece wrapped in bright red paper. Peeling it open, he put it into his mouth whole.
A familiar sweetness spread across his tongue.
Suddenly, he missed the warm fireplace at Malfoy Manor more than ever.
All the things that had once kept him awake at night—the Chamber of Secrets, the confusion, the doubts—seemed to trouble him far less now.
Father… had clearly made a mistake. Perhaps more than one.
But no matter what, he would never intentionally harm his own son.
Malfoy was certain of that.
______
Note:
So yeah, Malfoy finally gets it.
He's knows how Sagres walked straight into Malfoy Manor and made his role model— Lucius Malfoy — bow like a servant. He knows now that the whole Chamber of Secrets mess was due to his own father's foolishness.
And then there's Professor Greengrass— a half-blood disowned by the Greengrass family, who got mocked for years, and yet, look at him now. The guy's so powerful that even the so-called "noble" pure-bloods and the Ministry just want to stay out of his way.
That's the turning point for Draco. All those years of pride, lineage, and fancy talk about blood purity? Useless. In the end, what really matters — what everyone has to respect — is power.
~~~~~~~
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