We speak now of Harry and the others, who, seeing Draco stay behind, were deeply suspicious.
Draco prided himself on his pure blood and was usually arrogant and dismissive, always flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.
Today, with the classroom in chaos and those two oafs having fled, he stayed. What was he plotting?
"Harry, what do you think he's doing?" Ron whispered, staring at Draco. "I feel like this guy is up to no good."
Hermione mused, "You don't think he's planning to ambush us, to get revenge for the bookstore?"
Draco, seeing the three of them staring, felt nervous, but he put on a brave face. He made two fists and shadow-boxed.
"What are you looking at? Haven't you ever seen fists the size of sandbags?"
Ron snorted. He yanked off his robe, rolled up his sleeves, and exposed his bare arms. "Have you ever seen arms as strong as a turkey's?"
Harry drew his saber. "Brother, pay him no mind. You two handle these blue sprites. This one will keep an eye on this scoundrel."
With Harry guarding them, Ron and Hermione relaxed and unleashed their full skills.
Ron took out his wand and cast a wind spell. A divine wind whipped through the room, sweeping two or three pixies straight into the cage.
Harry, catching this from the corner of his eye, praised, "Brother, you are truly a prodigy of both magic and martial arts! This one did not know you had such means!"
Hermione, freezing a pixie mid-air, shook her head. "No, Harry. This is Ron's true level."
Listen, reader: Why was Ron's magic so lacking before, yet so mighty today? There is a reason.
Charlie's old wand was broken, wrapped in tape, a candle in the wind, unable to channel magic.
Furthermore, its unicorn-hair core was famously loyal. Though Ron held it, it pined for Charlie. How could it give its full power?
As the saying goes: To do good work, one must first sharpen his tools. Now that Ron had a wand that suited him, his skills were unhindered, his full magic unleashed.
The nearby pixies, seeing their comrades captured, swarmed.
Ron cast several fire spells, but the pixies were as slippery as oil, dodging every blast.
As the blue sprites closed in, he calmly put his wand away, clenched his fists, and charged.
With several dull thuds, the pixies, like rotten peaches hitting a hammer, flew backward, rolling on the ground.
Seeing this display, Harry was moved to compose a verse:
His fists like meteors chasing the moon,
His body an iron tower rooted deep.
The pixies have a thousand wings,
But Weasley has overwhelming strength.
Ron was magnificent. Hermione, not to be outdone, also sprang into action.
Her toes tapped, like a swan skimming water; she vaulted desks as if they were flat ground. Her waist twisted, a dragon weaving through trees; she slipped through chairs and vanished. The pixies swarmed, but could not touch the hem of her robes.
Hermione dodged, her wand jabbing, every spell hitting its mark.
When three or five clever pixies dove to bite her arm, her wrist flicked. The wand was like a viper's tongue: jab the eye, poke the throat, strike the groin. In an instant, they were all on the ground, wailing.
In the time it takes to burn half an incense stick, every pixie was captured.
Harry applauded. "Bravo! Big Sister and Brother have true skill! This one enjoyed the show!"
Ron wiped his sweat. "Come on, Harry. During the summer, Hermione and I together couldn't beat you."
Hermione sighed. "It's true. Harry's stamina is endless."
As the three joked, Draco, still at his desk, ground his teeth. The black diary in his robes felt like a hot potato.
He had stayed behind on his father's orders, to plant the Dark artifact on a Weasley.
But Harry's tiger-eyes had been fixed on him, giving him no opportunity.
Just then, the door opened. Lockhart entered. Seeing the pixies caged, he beamed.
"Excellent, little wizards! I knew I could count on you!"
"Ten points to each of you, for your respective houses!"
Seeing Lockhart, Harry's smile vanished, his doubts returning.
This scoundrel writes well, a walking encyclopedia. He's seen great things. How can he not handle these little sprites?
He rested his hand on his saber, his gaze sharp.
"What is it, Harry? Is there something on my face?"
"Professor, why did you only tell us to handle the pixies, while you oiled the soles of your feet and slipped away?"
Lockhart had a speech prepared. "Oh, Harry, you know, dealing with these pixies is as simple for me as dealing with that Yeti in the Himalayas."
"It's just that I was so worried about you children, I was distracted, and they snatched my wand."
"You understand. A wizard is nothing without his wand."
Ron, hearing this, rubbed the new muscle on his chest and rolled his eyes, not believing a word.
Harry nodded slowly and sheathed his saber. "It is as you say. A horse stumbles, a man makes mistakes. This matter cannot be blamed on the Professor."
"Exactly, Harry! That's exactly it."
Lockhart spouted more flowery nonsense, shooing the three out of the classroom.
Three or five days passed peacefully.
Colin Creevey, the first-year, adored Harry and followed him everywhere.
One day at lunch, Colin rushed up.
"Harry, can I take another picture?"
"I learned how to make living photographs! I want to hang one of you over my bed!"
Ron shivered. "He's here again. He's clingier than my sister."
Just then, a commotion erupted from the Slytherin table.
"What is that? A Howler?!"
"Whose is it—Draco? You got a Howler?!"
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