Hermione didn't hold back. "I believe I made it perfectly clear at the start of term: Years One through Four are under the Disciplinary Committee's jurisdiction, not something a Ravenclaw prefect like you should meddle in."
No way was she backing down.
This was about the Committee's authority.
Her blunt dismissal, showing no courtesy whatsoever, made the dispersing crowd of young witches and wizards pause. Sensing drama, they stopped in their tracks.
They lined up, ready to watch the show.
Gossip was the same in any world.
"So, you're saying you don't take me, a prefect, seriously?"
A dangerous glint flashed in Alex's eyes.
The Disciplinary Committee's existence was a sore spot for prefects. Nobody liked having another layer of authority above them. Once you tasted power, it was hard to let go.
Several prefects were already plotting to put the Committee in its place.
Of course, Slytherin prefects weren't among them. Being a Slytherin prefect already meant you held real power in the wizarding world.
Hermione just stared at him, her silence speaking volumes.
Alex smirked, his arrogance on full display, as he pointed his wand at her. "Well then, looks like I need to teach Miss Granger a lesson."
"Respect your seniors. Fear the strong."
'If that Dursley kid were here, I might be a bit worried, but Granger? Just a Muggle-born. What's she gonna do if I make a move?'
Alex's gaze dripped with contempt.
At worst, he'd get a slap on the wrist from a professor, but it'd make it harder for the Committee to keep control. Power would fall back into the prefects' hands.
If those Slytherin losers hadn't clammed up as a group, Ravenclaw wouldn't even need to step in.
The idea of losing a duel? Not even on his radar.
He was a sixth-year. She was just a second-year.
---
In a Slytherin room at Hogwarts, two figures—one tall, one smaller—sat across from each other.
The bullying incident with Luna was something Dudley had deliberately left to Hermione and the others to handle, as a way to train their skills. He'd only step in if they couldn't manage. But Harry had been dragged off by Lockhart to "help" with something, and Malfoy, who was supposed to join Hermione, had been pulled aside at the last minute.
By his father, Lucius Malfoy.
Lucius had a row of seven broomsticks lined up beside him—brand-new Nimbus 2001s, the latest model.
The Nimbus 2000 and 2001 might only differ by a number, but the price gap was more than double, and the performance was leagues apart.
"Father, I don't need these," Draco said, not even glancing at the brooms.
His father had come to him with a plan: donate the brooms to get Draco a spot on the Slytherin Quidditch team.
A backdoor deal?
Common in Slytherin, sure, but Draco now despised that kind of thing.
He believed he didn't need Quidditch to prove himself.
"Draco, joining the Quidditch team is just the first step," Lucius said. "Then you become captain, then prefect, and eventually Head Boy."
"Honor and power—you'll have it all."
Lucius painted a grand picture, his voice brimming with pride. "The Malfoy family has been prefects for generations. Trust me, this will serve you well in the future."
He knew his son. He'd raised Draco to crave glory, just like him.
"I said, Father, I don't need to resort to those tactics," Draco replied, looking his father in the eye. "And I have zero interest in being a prefect."
"Even if you donate those brooms, I won't join Slytherin's Quidditch team. I'm already part of the Disciplinary Committee."
Lucius scoffed, his tone dripping with disdain. "The Disciplinary Committee? That's just a child's game. Get a grip, Draco. Dumbledore must've lost his mind to allow it."
"You're wrong, Father. It's not a game," Draco said, shaking his head. He walked to the window, gazing out at the dark depths of the lake below, his voice calm but firm in a way Lucius couldn't comprehend. "D taught me things—things I'd never learn at home."
"I don't know what kind of spell that boy's put on you to make you trust him so blindly," Lucius snapped, anger rising at the thought of his son admiring someone else.
"Dursley? Just a Mudblood."
"Father!" Draco's face paled even further, his expression turning deadly serious. He fixed his father with a look he'd never used before. "I'll let that slide this time, but I hope there's no next time."
His tone left no room for argument, his demeanor so stern it was as if he were the one lecturing.
The son schooling the father?
Lucius was livid. The audacity!
He couldn't fathom how, in just one year, his once-obedient son—who'd idolized and imitated him—had changed so much.
All because of that Dursley!
And the Carrows, too—how could they align with a Mudblood like him?
A bunch of kids, blind to reality. They'd regret it.
Draco couldn't keep going down this path.
He was a pure-blood, a noble Malfoy! Not some disgraceful Weasley!
Draco could tell his father wasn't listening.
But he would not let him say those things again.
Draco's dreams, his ambitions—they'd be realized alongside D.
He made up his mind.
Turning to face his father, he said, "Father, didn't you once follow someone when you were young?"
Then Draco slowly uttered a name.
"…"
When that name left Draco's lips, Lucius's anger was doused like a fire under a deluge. A chill ran through him, as if he'd been plunged into ice. His eyes widened, staring at his son in disbelief.
How dare he?
How dare he say that name?
"Madness… chaos… bloodthirsty…"
As Draco spoke, Lucius felt a faint pain from the mark on his arm.
"And most importantly, you, his followers, and he himself all failed."
"That proves your choice was wrong, Father. The Malfoy family nearly lost everything because of it."
"I won't follow your path."
"The Malfoys will not fail. I, Draco, will not fail. And Mr. Dursley will never fail."