"The Weight of Blood and Chaos"
Meanwhile, in the forest of Hogwarts, Red was playing with a small snake. At first glance anyone would think it was an ordinary creature, but the tiny feather on its head betrayed that it was no ordinary snake.
The creature coiled itself around Red's head and tilted its little head toward the other members of the strange group. The instant its eyes fell on them, they froze in place, as if caught by a spell.
A single blink was enough to release them, and at that moment they began to run clumsily, laughing and testing the snake's power. A power that, under normal circumstances, would mean death. Yet here it seemed the creature could lightly petrify as long as it kept its gaze fixed on its prey, and only if it wished to. It was clear that the three magical animals accompanying it were helping the snake—or rather the small basilisk—train and perfect its ability.
Suddenly, Red felt something stir inside him. He turned sharply, halting the animals' fun, and fixed his gaze on a specific point. He quickly spread his wings as if preparing to dash in that direction, while the tiny basilisk clung tightly to his head.
But before he could move, a reddish aura manifested beside him. From within it, words resounded with firmness.
Red stopped immediately. He looked at the red glow with concern, as though about to warn it of some danger. However, upon hearing the message that came from the aura, his unease vanished. His face softened with an expression of understanding and even admiration.
A hand emerged from the aura and gently caressed the basilisk's small head before fading away.
Red was then left with a resolute look, as if he had just decided on his next move. An attack aimed at a certain old man who lately seemed to be longing for a vacation, desperate to rid himself of the headaches he suffered every time he tried to go shopping alone in Hogsmeade. Headaches that left him without his supply of sweets, forcing him to ask someone else to fetch them for him.
Red thought: if they have taken my master's wand, then I will be the one to recover what rightfully belongs to him.
…
"It bothers me," said Draco, striding quickly beside Daphne through the school corridors toward Wanda's office, hoping to find her there.
"What does?" asked Daphne, glancing at him for a moment without slowing her pace.
"I feel weak. Supposedly pure-bloods are the best in the magical world—or at least that's what the purist idiots say. But the truth is we can't even help our friend when he's in danger. There are more half-bloods and muggle-borns who surpass us with ease. The only thing keeping pure-bloods standing is the knowledge passed down in their families, and even then… what is it worth? It's ridiculous. The very wizard they follow, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, is a half-blood who outmatched all the pure-bloods combined, using that same 'knowledge' to crush them. What does that show? That we are not worth what we were always told."
His words spilled out with sincerity, like a thought he had been carrying for a long time. Blind loyalty to blood purity had already washed away in him, diluted thanks to his friends. A trace of pride remained, yes, impossible to erase completely. But even he knew the obvious truth: pure-blood did not mean superiority. Not over Hermione, not over Harry. Reality stood right in front of his eyes.
"Are you talking about Voldemort?" said Daphne, stopping abruptly. It was the first time she had heard Draco admit so directly that the man was not pure-blood.
"Even my godfather was a far greater wizard than my father or most of the old families. And he himself called himself the Half-Blood Prince. My mother told me so. Then… what use is pure-blood?" murmured Draco with a serious look, laden with frustration.
He felt useless. His friend risked his life while they could barely defend themselves. They had trained in defensive magic during the holidays, after the fiasco with Sirius, but it was still not enough.
"Maybe you're exaggerating a little. We're only in second year, Draco," Daphne replied calmly, though her tone carried unusual seriousness. "What we need is to work harder. Hermione is strong because she never stops studying. Harry has that special magic he inherited from his mother… but he also trains nonstop. We see them do it all the time. We, on the other hand, grew up with everything handed to us. Harry is already learning five languages, martial arts, fencing, alchemy, business management, potions, and at the same time mastering a power different from ours. Hermione keeps up purely out of competitiveness, and both push themselves as if they had no choice. And us? We barely do half as much. Draco, are you willing to suffer the same way they do to catch up to them?"
Daphne's words struck deep. Draco looked at her in silence, realizing she was right. His life had been filled with luxury and social obligations, but not sacrifice. If it weren't for his friendship with Harry and Hermione, he probably wouldn't have learned even half of what he now knew.
"I'll tell my mother I won't attend those stupid dinners and noble gatherings anymore. I'll be too busy catching up with my friends," Draco said at last, walking ahead with firm steps. He had made his decision: he would not be left behind, even if he had to work twice as hard.
Daphne watched him with a faint smile before adding with ironic tone: "Now that you're done with your self-loathing session, can we ask an adult for help?"
He let out a short, restrained laugh, and together they quickened their pace until they reached Wanda's office. They knocked hurriedly, but the room was empty.
Before they could leave to look for her elsewhere, Daphne noticed an open book on the desk. She approached and read aloud softly, the page illuminated by the dim candlelight:
"Portalis Externum — Advanced and experimental enchantment. Allows the opening of a portal to unknown magical dimensions."
"Great…" Draco muttered, immediately understanding what it meant.
"Oh, Aunt Wanda, you left at the worst possible moment," said Daphne, bringing a hand to her forehead in resignation.
…
Bomb.
One of the castle walls exploded into pieces when Harry raised his hands in haste, blocking the strike of Luciel's twin blades. The red aura enveloped him completely, and the force of the impact was so brutal that the wall behind him collapsed.
Wasting no time, Harry stretched his arms toward the debris and hurled them at Luciel in a wave of improvised projectiles. The young warrior twisted his wrists with terrifying precision: both swords sliced through each piece of rubble as if it were paper, while his body moved with impossible agility, dodging with a grace that felt almost insulting.
Taking advantage of the opening, Harry extended his hand and wrapped him in chaos magic. The black energy twisted around Luciel, who began to convulse, caught in its threads. Harry tried to break into his mind, searching for a way to free him. However, Luciel's shoulder guards flared with glowing runes: the armor responded, shattering the bindings of chaos. In an instant, Luciel fell to the ground… only to hurl one of his swords at such a deadly speed that the blade stopped mere millimeters from Harry's neck, held back only by his aura.
"Harry!" Hermione cried, shielding Neville behind her. Her face reflected pure anguish. She moved her hands, unleashing her own magical aura, wrenching objects from around them and flinging them at Luciel.
But unlike Harry, her magic came solely from her own core, and though it had evolved, it was not an unlimited power. Hermione reached her limits too quickly. Luciel dodged the rocks with an elegant spin and, sword in hand, launched himself at her like lightning.
Harry's eyes gleamed with resolve. He pointed toward the ground in front of Hermione and Neville. Instantly, a wall of spears erupted upward, bristling like a deadly barrier. Luciel was forced to retreat, though one of the points grazed his arm, leaving a shallow cut.
"President…" said Harry, his voice firm, heavy with seriousness. "I truly don't want to hurt you, and I can see you don't want to hurt us either. But if you keep going… you'll force me to be rougher."
He swung both arms, and a whirlwind began to form around Luciel. The air roared, lifting him from the ground and spinning him violently.
Luciel's boots lit up, glowing with fierce intensity. He stepped on the air as if invisible stairs had appeared beneath his feet, breaking free from the tornado. In an impossible zigzag, he leapt from one point to another, using the wind itself as support, until he propelled himself straight at Harry.
The boy of chaos clapped his hands together, ripping two enormous chunks of stone from the ground. With a thunderous crash, he slammed them together, crushing inward on Luciel like oppressive walls.
The response was immediate: Luciel curled in on himself, and his armor burst into a runic blaze. The stone blocks shattered into dust upon impact. He fell to the ground still standing, though staggering, his breath ragged and his movements slightly dazed.
Harry watched him intently, refraining from striking. He turned his head toward Hermione and Neville.
"You need to go fetch my wand, now. It's far too dangerous if anyone else touches it. The chaos magic within could spiral out of control and drive them insane… unless it's me or my mother."
Hermione pressed her lips together. Her heart urged her to stay and fight, but she knew Harry was right. She grabbed Neville's arm and nodded, rushing away with him at once.
Harry frowned. If Draco and Daphne hadn't returned with Wanda, then something must have happened. Perhaps Wanda wasn't nearby… or had run into some kind of trouble. He had to change plans: recovering the wand was the priority.
He clenched his teeth. Knocking Luciel out was the only way forward, but that was easier said than done. The armor made him an almost impossible opponent: the shoulder guards freed him from any restraint, the boots gave him speed and the ability to walk on air, the gauntlets let him control the swords at a distance and boosted his strength to absurd levels.
And worst of all, Harry had to hold back, constantly, to avoid truly hurting him.
Luciel, still unsteady, straightened once more. His eyes shone with determination, and his gauntlets glowed as both swords flew back into his hands. He lowered himself into position, angled forward like a runner ready to sprint. Harry recognized the stance instantly: that was the signal he would unleash the speed of the boots.
"Well…" Harry muttered, a spark of excitement in his eyes despite the tension. His body rose slowly into the air, floating as though chaos itself held him aloft. "Second round."