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Hermione bit down on her lower lip, her nerves stretched tight. Every so often the tip of Malfoy's wand gave off a faint flash of silver, no more than a quick shimmer, yet it set her heart beating harder with a rising unease she could not push aside.
Ron looked just as startled. He muttered under his breath, almost as if he doubted his own eyes. "…Is that really Malfoy?"
The three of them had not been idle lately. With nearly twice as many hours to practice as most students and Hermione's relentless oversight urging them on, Harry and Ron had improved at a remarkable pace.
Could it be… Professor Greengrass had taught Malfoy those same two spells as well?
On the dueling platform Malfoy unleashed one incantation after another in a relentless stream. Harry answered with quick footwork, dodging left and sliding back, every movement smooth and precise.
He cast far less often, yet each motion carried a quiet confidence, and when he did strike back the sudden riposte drove Malfoy into frantic defense.
At last, when Malfoy tried to seal Harry's escape with a Binding Charm, his wand lifted for the briefest instant before he could draw it back. In that tiny pause, Harry moved.
He chose no elaborate counter. A single word and a swift motion were enough.
"Expelliarmus!"
A concentrated beam of scarlet light shot across the space, threading through a narrow gap in Malfoy's rushing spells and paying no heed to the hurried gesture of his half-raised shield.
"WHOOSH—CRACK!"
There was a sharp whoosh followed by a crack that rang through the air. Malfoy's wand wrenched free from his grip as though struck by an invisible giant. It spun high above, tracing a bright arc against the fading light before dropping with a dry thud into the dust at the edge of the platform.
Silence swept through the entire arena.
Malfoy stood frozen where he was, his right arm still lifted in the shape of a spell that would never land, his palm suddenly and completely empty.
The sharp, focused look on his face went rigid, then cracked apart like a broken mask, leaving only shock and a flicker of wounded disbelief he could not quite hide.
Low whispers began to ripple through the stands.
Breathing hard, Malfoy stared at the fallen wand. Strands of pale blond hair, damp with sweat, clung stubbornly to his forehead, and his grey eyes locked on the piece of wood lying in the dust as though he could not accept how easily it had been torn from him.
On the lantern post, the raven tilted its head, its black eyes sweeping slowly over the hushed crowd. Then it gave a short, rasping caw that broke through the silence before lifting its wings and vanishing into the high rafters.
Still no applause came.
At last the Gryffindor side broke loose with cheers, loud and sudden after long restraint, voices tumbling together in bright, breathless excitement. The Slytherin table remained weighted down with silence, broken only by a thin scatter of murmurs, low and uneasy.
Malfoy drew in a steadier breath, his chest rising once before he let it fall.
He lowered the hand that had been frozen in mid-air. The fleeting trace of loss on his face disappeared behind a calm expression he seemed to force into place.
There was no angry curse as there might have been in the past, nor did he offer any quick excuse to save pride. He did not even spare Harry a single glance. Instead, he stepped down from the platform with slow, deliberate strides and walked straight toward the spot where his wand lay.
Under the weight of every watching eye he bent down and picked it up without a word.
From his pocket he drew a silk handkerchief and brushed the dust away from the polished wood in slow, careful strokes.
At last, when the wand gleamed once more, he slid it securely into the inner pocket of his robe, straightened to his full height, and let his gaze sweep across the faces of his housemates. Their expressions were caught somewhere between surprise, embarrassment, and a guarded admiration that none of them dared to voice aloud.
Some shrill, mocking voice immediately called from the Slytherin seats. "Oh, Draco, it seems Potter still had a bit of luck after all, don't you think?"
Another girl near Daphne Greengrass stretched her words into a languid drawl. "Or… perhaps Professor Greengrass's detention drained the sharpness from your talent?"
Several girls around her smothered their laughter behind their hands.
One tall upper-year Slytherin boy folded his arms and spoke with cool superiority. "Chasing some so-called dueling ranking? What a pitiful waste of time and effort. Pure-blood honor is what matters, and that truth never changes. Draco, you would do far better to spend your energy on pursuits that are truly worthy, instead of rolling in the dirt like some foolish lion."
"That's right," another voice muttered in a low, complaining tone. "Lose a duel like this and people will start saying Slytherin cannot even stand against Gryffindor."
Every taunting word reached Malfoy with painful clarity.
Once, he would have erupted in rage. He would have lashed back with something sharper and more poisonous than anything thrown at him, and he would have done it without the slightest hesitation.
Now, his grey eyes carried no spark of anger. They held only a depthless coldness, a distance that shut the world away and left nothing for anyone to read.
He did not even pause in his stride. He only slid a glance toward the voices from the corner of his eye, a glance so cold and detached it might have been directed at a swarm of buzzing refuse.
Whatever fragile hope he had once held for friendship among his housemates guttered out and died.
Aside from that thin trace of bloodline, what else do you have left?
Fools, arrogant and useless, drunk on the faded glory their ancestors once earned.
The thought struck through his mind with both final disgust and a new, unyielding resolve.
He no longer cared for their opinions. Their mockery was nothing more than the whine of mosquitoes, powerless to touch him.
Without a single turn of his head he moved straight through the crowd, across the hanging bridge draped in green ivy, his steps steady and unbroken as he walked toward the entrance of the Slytherin common room.
Goyle silently followed behind him, a solid wall of muscle that blocked curious stares and muffled whispers like a moving fortress.
The heavy stone door slid shut behind them with a grinding thud that sealed away every echo of noise and malice from the hall.
Malfoy leaned back against the cold wall and drew a long breath of the cellar's damp, chill air.
Defeat was a bitter thing, all the more so when the victor was Potter.
Yet what suffocated him more than the loss itself was the staleness he had sensed in the stands, that reek of arrogance and self-satisfaction clinging to the house he once thought his pride.
His eyes slid to Goyle, who stood beside him without a word, a mute bulk of muscle and loyalty. Then his gaze drifted to the empty armchair in the corner of the common room where Crabbe used to sprawl. An ache of loneliness welled up before he could stop it, heavier than anything he had felt before.
Yet almost at once the ache twisted into something hotter. A fierce hunger for strength rose in him, so sharp it felt alive beneath his skin.
His hand closed tightly around the wand in his pocket. The chill of the polished wood bit into his palm, bringing back the evening's lesson with brutal clarity.
He did not need these 'pure-blood companions' who offered nothing but scorn and empty boasts. What he needed was strength, the kind of strength that would raise him to a height no one could ignore, strength that would silence every sneering voice, strength that would compel even his enemies to acknowledge him.
Strength like Professor Greengrass possessed.
Without another glance, Malfoy turned and started toward the stone steps leading to the boys' dormitory, his stride deliberate and unshakable.
"Tomorrow's training is off," he said over his shoulder, his voice calm and final. "Do some reviewing, Goyle. The end-of-term exams are coming."
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It had been a long time since he had gone home…
Although his mother still sent an owl every week, always with a small parcel of sweets, he had not eaten a single piece.
Late at night, when the dormitory lay silent around him, he opened a drawer and took out one candy wrapped in bright red paper. He peeled the wrapper carefully and placed the sweet whole upon his tongue.
A familiar sugar bloom spread across his taste buds, warm and comforting in its simplicity.
Suddenly he longed for the glow of the Malfoy Manor hearth, and the ache of it caught him so vividly that it left him still for a moment.
The things that had kept him tossing and turning at night, the puzzles and whispers of the Chamber of Secrets, no longer pressed so heavily upon him now.
Father… he had obviously made a mistake. Of course, perhaps more than one?
But of one thing Draco Malfoy was certain. Whatever else had happened, his father would never willingly harm his own son.
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[Chapter End's]
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