"I'm not a coward! I'm not!"
Draco Malfoy shouted, his voice echoing sharply through the empty corridor as he glared at the word spelled out on the floor in fallen leaves.
His face, blotched with red, twisted in a mask of rage—a rage that, beneath the surface, was tinged with humiliation and something painfully vulnerable.
"Who is it? Who's messing with me?!"
Furious, Draco yanked his elegant wand from his robe and brandished it wildly, casting every spell he could remember in every direction. Wind, sparks, and flashes of light ricocheted through the corridor, but no hidden prankster appeared—only chaos and debris left in his wake.
"Why? Why does everyone pick on me?!"
He swung his wand again and again, each accusation louder and more desperate. His voice grew hoarse; his nose stung, and his eyes burned. At last, the tears spilled over, hot and silent, streaking down his pale, flushed cheeks. The dam broke, and he crumpled, sobbing like a child.
"Why... Why? I'm Draco Malfoy! I should be the pride of Hogwarts... I'm not a coward, they're just bullying me... They're all awful... They're all bullies..."
For all his pride, he was still just an eleven-year-old boy. After weeks of pressure from the "tyrant" Qin and the sting of his own failed schemes, his nerves had been stretched to the breaking point. He'd been so anxious about retaliation, he could barely stand to stay in the Great Hall.
Now, with a stranger tearing away his last defenses, Draco finally collapsed—venting his panic and humiliation as any child would, through tears and angry words.
In that moment, Draco Malfoy felt utterly fragile.
Maybe he really was nothing more than a useless coward, a mediocre weakling, a failure who could do nothing but cry.
After a long while, his sobs faded. He let his wand fall, stopped shouting, and simply slumped against a pillar, sliding to the floor. Tear tracks still glistened on his cheeks as his silver-grey eyes stared blankly at the deserted corridor.
Maybe being a failure wasn't so bad after all.
A bitter smile twisted his lips.
Sitting there, he began to mutter to himself, voice thin and shaky:
"Are you still there? If you want to humiliate me, just do it... I know I can't beat you, I can't even find you... I hate this place, I hate Hogwarts, I hate Harry Potter, I hate Qin, I hate everyone... I want to leave, go to another school, never see any of them again..."
But there was no reply. Only a stray breeze drifted through the corridor, ruffling his messy blond hair.
"Probably gone... Heh, why would anyone bother with a coward like me..."
He gave a hollow, self-mocking laugh, lifting his pointed chin to stare up at the ceiling, eyes empty and lost.
"Shhh... shhh... shhh..."
Just as Draco convinced himself the mysterious tormentor had left, a soft rustling rose from the floor.
He frowned, looking for the source—and saw the pile of leaves shifting across the stone tiles.
The leaves slid together, forming new letters, then new words.
The stranger hadn't left.
Draco stared at the message now spelled out before him, heart pounding.
[Done crying?]
He scrubbed at his face, uncertain how to respond. His heart was still raw with shame and indignation.
But the mysterious presence seemed in no hurry for an answer. The leaves began to move again, spelling out a new line:
[There's no shame in crying when you're young. It's better than regretting when you're grown.]
Draco stared at the sentence, not quite grasping its meaning, but sensing a strange weight behind it. Was it his imagination, or was there a hint of concern in those words?
Was this person... comforting him?
[You feel like you've lost your pride and self-respect, haven't you?]
"Do I even have any left?" Draco muttered, the light in his eyes dimming.
[You should ask yourself whether you ever truly possessed pride and self-respect.]
"What's that supposed to mean? Are you saying I was never worthy of pride?" Draco snapped, his earlier hope flickering out. Maybe this person wasn't here to comfort him after all.
[The pride you cling to comes from your family's long history, from so-called pure blood. But those are hollow things, not true sources of pride.]
The message was long, appearing in four segments, like lines of a film subtitled in rustling leaves.
Draco read it all, confusion clouding his face.
His family's glory and pure wizarding blood had always been the foundation of his pride. Now, someone was telling him it was all just empty vanity.
"You... you're wrong..." he protested weakly.
He wanted to insist that family and bloodline were the only things worth being proud of—but then he remembered: neither Qin nor Harry had ever cared about those things.
[You've realized it yourself, haven't you? Neither Qin nor Harry Potter gives a damn about your family or your blood.]
It was as if the stranger could read his mind. Draco shivered, a cold dread settling over him. Was this some kind of Legilimency?
"Then what is true pride?" he asked, almost pleading.
[True pride comes from within yourself, not from anything else.]
"From myself?" Draco echoed, uncertain.
[Exactly.]
"I... I don't know..."
He dropped his gaze. He wanted to say he didn't know what about himself could possibly be worth pride. Compared to someone like Qin, he felt small and weak—what pride could he claim?
[You feel weak, don't you?]
Draco nodded silently.
[Admitting your weakness is the first step to pride. You've already taken that first step.]
The words were simple, yet they struck something deep inside him.
A faint spark stirred in the ashes of his heart.
"Admitting your weakness is the first step to pride..." Draco murmured, as if testing the phrase on his tongue.
[That's right. There's an Eastern saying: 'To recognize your own shame is a rare kind of courage.']
"An Eastern saying..." Draco repeated, finding wisdom in the unfamiliar words.
[Where the saying comes from doesn't matter. What matters is understanding that there's nothing wrong with admitting your weakness.]
"Thank you... I think I understand, at least a little," Draco said sincerely.
Mockery or not, he felt he'd gained something from this encounter—perhaps, the courage to acknowledge his own weakness.
The leaves shifted again, spelling out a new line:
[You might be wondering—what's the second step to pride?]
"What is it?" Draco blurted out.
[It's strength. Power. Becoming strong by your own hand. Gaining the strength to surpass others.]
His eyes widened, a new fire kindling in their depths.
What did this person mean? Why was he saying these things? Could it be...
[So, Draco, do you want the power to make yourself strong?]
Excitement and wild hope surged through Draco's heart.
…
…
"Slow down, will you..."
Hermione chided Qin Yu, who was devouring his lunch like a starving wolf. She watched him scarf down the ham sandwich she'd handed over, then—without thinking—lick the breadcrumbs from her fingers.
The gesture made her cheeks flush, but thankfully, no one seemed to notice. That realization helped her regain her composure.
"I was starving…" Qin Yu said, finally swallowing, looking like he'd just come back from a duel with a dragon.
"What were you even up to? You were only gone a little while, and now you're acting like you haven't eaten in days," Hermione asked, curiosity piqued.
He'd been eating lunch when he suddenly announced he had something to do. When he came back, he looked absolutely famished.
"How do I put this… Well, I just put on a disguise and made an alt account. You know, running an alt is exhausting," Qin Yu replied, deadpan.
"Honestly, what nonsense are you spouting now…" Hermione sighed. She was used to his strange metaphors by now.
"I want that one…" Qin Yu pointed at another dish.
Seeing how hungry he was, Hermione didn't press further. She simply handed it over.
Qin Yu wolfed it down in a couple of bites.
Just as he was about to sneak a lick from her now food-dusted fingers—purely to avoid waste, of course—her hand darted away.
She shot him a smug look, as if to say: Hah! Not this time!
Qin Yu raised an eyebrow.
Still a bit hungry, he thought. After all, guiding (or perhaps, misleading) a certain little brat had taken some effort—not only had he relied on advanced Disillusionment Charms to stay hidden, he'd also had to dodge a barrage of random spells and painstakingly shuffle leaves around to send messages. The things he did for these kids…
He pointed at another treat, and this time, when Hermione passed it over, he snatched her finger along with it—giving it a playful, not-too-hard bite as payback.
Hermione flushed bright red, puffing her cheeks in indignation and letting out a huffy little snort.
"Just you wait!" she muttered, her voice low but fierce.
——Dimensional Wall——
(A bit more Draco than usual for the sake of continuity. Emotional scenes aren't my strong suit, but I hope this does the job. Anyway, summer's over—happy new school year, everyone!)
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