In the end, Harry didn't get into a fight with Malfoy—his teammates hauled him away before he could throw a punch.
The suspension from last term still haunted the not-yet-graduated players.
More importantly, they all remembered one simple fact: Harry couldn't beat Malfoy in a fight.
"That's right, just like that."
Malfoy's mouth never stopped. He leaned fully into his worst instincts.
"Poor little Potter, running back to hide in his godfather's arms."
He grinned viciously, so much so that the teammates restraining Harry instinctively loosened their grip.
Fortunately, someone more level-headed shouted, "Do you all want to end up without a Seeker?"
At that, everyone tightened their hold again.
And so Harry was carried off like a stubborn piglet, still kicking furiously in Malfoy's direction.
When John arrived, he caught sight of Harry being dragged away, legs flailing stubbornly.
"So? What was that all about?" John asked, noticing the rest of the Gryffindors glaring daggers at Malfoy.
"Nothing. Just told Potter to run back into his godfather's arms," Malfoy said with a shrug, looking like he deserved a hex to the face. "After all, Harry Potter's still a little baby."
"Draco, do me a favor—when you go out, remember to carry your wand. Always."
John genuinely worried Malfoy might get hexed the moment he stepped outside; the boy's talent for hitting people right where it hurt was honestly terrifying.
After sitting down, John asked, "Tryouts today?"
"This afternoon," Malfoy said irritably. "Gryffindor took the morning slot because they had 'more applicants.'"
John wasn't surprised at all.
With Harry's name attached to the team, Gryffindor Quidditch had gained a surge of supporters. Everyone wanted a closer look at the so-called Chosen One.
He sliced his baguette into bite-sized pieces with a dinner knife and popped one into his mouth.
At the staff table, only Professor Flitwick was present, but he was so short he was nearly invisible from afar.
Malfoy, curious, finally asked what John had been busy with lately—he'd rarely seen John around.
"Just something simple," John said casually. "I need to repair Neville's weapon."
After the battle at the Ministry, Neville had fully awakened his sword-saint talent.
The Sword of Marvolo had been damaged in that fight, and John planned to forge him a new weapon.
Malfoy had considered fighting the way John did, but doing so would weaken him rather than strengthen him.
So he'd had no choice but to give up on the "John-style" combat approach.
After finishing breakfast, John headed back to the Constellation Society.
John glanced at the closed gatekeeper's office and thought, "He really is taking the Fool's plan all the way to the end."
He stepped into the Constellation Society and unlocked the armory.
Beneath the round table lay a massive workshop.
John had made many pieces of equipment here. He took out the broken Sword of Marvolo.
Though this replica had been skillfully crafted, it was still several tiers below the true Sword of Gryffindor.
Thinking of the runes engraved on his own sword, John suddenly had a new idea.
Flames ignited within the armory; a block of glowing red metal took shape under the hammer's strikes.
John picked up the heated sword blank. Beneath his skin, such high temperature felt only mildly warm.
||I grant you the power to cut through magic, and coat you in a shell of mithril.||
||I grant you the magic to summon flame, and fuse you with the tooth of a fire dragon.||
||I grant you the belief to guard the one behind you, and wrap you in the heartwood of oak.||
With John's ancient whispers, the sword blank became cloaked in mithril, transforming into a gleaming silver blade.
Strange patterns appeared across its surface, like a script one could not decipher.
Seeing this, John reached into his satchel and took out a small box filled with powder.
The powder drifted onto the blade, and the bright silver gradually dimmed.
A black-gold sheen spread across the sword's surface.
It was a new kind of material, functioning similarly to a magic circuit.
Only by using the Philosopher's Stone's ability to alter matter had he been able to create it.
With that, the final step was complete.
The black-gold sword rested quietly on the table, the three sigils along its body glowing faintly.
John reached out and picked it up; a solid weight pressed into his palm.
He swung it twice, nodded in satisfaction.
Next step—deliver it to Neville.
He was about to slip it into his small satchel when a thought struck him, and he halted immediately.
"Almost forgot.. it can cut through magic."
If he put it inside, it might tear the bag apart.
John crafted a scabbard for the sword using cherrywood.
Once it was sheathed, he carried it out of the armory.
"Something like a true-name blessing," John murmured, rubbing his chin in thought. "This method lets you imprint abilities directly onto a weapon."
The premise, of course, was understanding the spell deeply enough. For example, John had inscribed the Fire Charm onto this blade in exactly that way.
…
By midday, John found Malfoy sitting across from him, looking far too pleased with himself.
"You'll never guess—Gryffindor's tryouts were absolutely spectacular."
From that expression, John knew nothing good had happened. He didn't respond, but Malfoy launched into the story anyway.
"They changed their Keeper. It's that bloke from the train—McLaggen."
"Who?" John asked, surprised. "Weasley didn't make the cut?"
"You didn't see the look on that guy's face." Malfoy snickered. "McLaggen saved five shots. Ron Weasley saved five shots. They went into a tiebreaker… and his hands started shaking. He let in a goal."
Nervousness and self-doubt had always been Ron's weaknesses—last term had made that painfully clear.
But who would've thought McLaggen—the guy who once bet he could eat a doxy—had a skill level nearly identical to Ron?
Add in his bizarre sense of confidence, and with a crowd watching the tryouts, he ended up beating Ron.
However…
How did Malfoy know all of this so clearly?
John shot Malfoy a sidelong look, half amused. "You went to watch?"
"No!" Malfoy denied instantly—but under John's all-seeing stare, he grew stiff and awkward. "I was… gathering information."
As expected, Potter and Malfoy truly were destined nemeses—bordering on soulmates.
Malfoy jerked his chin, signaling John to look over.
At the Gryffindor table, Ron sat there being comforted by Harry.
Hermione looked absolutely miserable.
"What else happened?" Just from the look on Hermione's face, John knew it wasn't something simple.
Malfoy thought for a moment, then clapped his hands. "I heard from Blaise—apparently he accidentally bumped into Granger. And she was muttering something at the time, what was it again…?"
Blaise?
John remembered Blaise bragging about trying to chase Ginny. And to be fair, he really had been trying these days.
Every gift he sent Ginny could be found in the rubbish bin. Every bouquet he delivered ended up there too.
Ginny simply wasn't having it—at all.
He had, however, gotten into a fight with Dean Thomas.
Should've mentioned this earlier—Dean was Ginny's current boyfriend.
The two of them were currently dating.
As for pursuing someone who already had a boyfriend, Blaise had declared with absolute righteousness, "Love doesn't follow a queue. The one who isn't loved is the real third wheel."
Perhaps that was the secret behind his mother becoming a widow seven times.
This time, he'd gone to watch the tryouts purely because he was chasing Ginny—making him one of only two Slytherins present.
Why only two?
Because no one, not even Malfoy, knew which corner the cat—himself—was hiding in.
John didn't know the details.
Originally, Hermione had been planning to cast a Confundus Charm. But Blaise bumped into her at the crucial moment, breaking her focus and causing McLaggen to win.
John wasn't aware of any of that. He narrowed his eyes slightly, his mind drifting to something else entirely.
Ever since Harry lost his status as the Chosen One of this world, the people around him don't seem nearly as lucky.
…
Slytherin's tryouts were scheduled for the afternoon, and they were nowhere near as lively as Gryffindor's.
Gryffindor's morning tryouts had been so bustling that students from every house came to watch—and some from other houses even tried to sneak into the tryouts themselves.
In contrast to "righteous" Gryffindor, "evil" Slytherin looked downright empty.
There were still plenty of applicants, though, and Malfoy stood at the center of the Quidditch pitch.
He stood with his hands on his hips, radiating arrogance.
Goyle and Crabbe stood beside him, lecturing the students who'd come to try out.
"Listen up. We're Slytherin—we don't want trash, only elites."
The moment Malfoy opened his mouth, he pulled aggro from the entire house.
"What's that supposed to mean? You calling me trash?" a seventh-year Slytherin snapped.
"Hey, hey—don't misunderstand. I'm not targeting you," Malfoy said quickly, waving his hands with feigned innocence. "What I'm saying is... everyone here is trash~~ Heh~."
For a split second, every Slytherin's fists clenched at once.
He was unbelievably punchable.
"Slytherin has only one goal—championship. Anything less is an insult. Is that clear?"
Malfoy's voice grew sharp. "We believe in strength above all. Only those with real power deserve to stand on this pitch. We don't need cowards who shrink back."
In the crowd he was berating, a familiar figure stood among the applicants.
But Malfoy didn't seem to notice and kept rambling on.
Once he finally finished his tirade, Slytherin's tryouts officially began.
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