Lockhart spoke, his wand tracing elaborate patterns in the air. Anthony tried to stop him.
Malfoy, leaning on his broom, tried to scramble away. But the Weasley twins reacted faster than the Slytherin team. They grabbed him from both sides, half-dragging, half-carrying him straight to Lockhart.
Lockhart flashed his dashing smile. Then, a tremendous noise drowned out Anthony's cry of "Professor Lockhart—!"
A collective gasp swept the field. Malfoy's neck swelled grotesquely, straining against the collar of his Quidditch robes. His face turned a sickly grey-green. The next second, he gagged. A torrent of slugs spewed from his mouth.
Even the Slytherin players took a step back.
Hagrid said, unperturbed, "Right. Best t' get 'em out, that's the way."
Malfoy, unable to hold his broom, dropped to his knees. He vomited again and again, retching so hard he couldn't straighten up. The grey-haired boy from earlier watched, a mix of disgust and fascination on his face. Click. Click. Click. He snapped photo after photo.
"No, Hagrid," Anthony said. "It's not about the slugs anymore." Malfoy gave a weak cough, seemingly empty. But his neck remained—a sagging, swollen mass of flesh piled upon his shoulders.
He looked like a snowman built by an overly cautious child, someone who'd packed a wagonload of snow between head and shoulders, terrified the head might roll off. From a distance, you might mistake it for a haystack.
But beneath the robes, his body was still slight and skinny. His pointed chin, framed by that monstrous neck, looked absurd. Pathetic. He'd kept his head down until now. Anthony only just noticed the split lip, the dark purple bruise blossoming on his left cheekbone.
"Please stop taking pictures," Anthony said. "Can someone fetch Madam Pomfrey? Professor Lockhart?" He fixed Lockhart with his sternest glare, wishing he could channel McGonagall.
"Oh, Draco," Lockhart said, not looking at Anthony. "Why did you try to hold them in? If you hadn't tried to keep all those slugs bottled up in your belly and mouth, they wouldn't have stretched your throat so. But the important thing is, you've stopped being sick. Do remember that. Off you pop to Madam Pomfrey, have her… ah… adjust the proportions."
He strode away, light on his feet.
Anthony remained on the pitch, dealing with the slugs now slowly crawling across the grass and the chattering Gryffindor students. Malfoy seemed drained, limp. Hagrid scooped him up effortlessly—Malfoy flushed with humiliation, the occasional slow slug tumbling from his robes with a wet plop onto the pitch. The Slytherin team followed, glowering at any passing student who looked like they might tag along.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Anthony asked, Vanishing another sluggish traveler, "would someone care to tell me what actually happened?"
Someone snickered. Then another. Soon, the Quidditch pitch echoed with the cheerful, roaring laughter of Gryffindor House. Hermione pressed her lips together, trying to remind them about possible punishments.
Ron shouted over the noise, "Don't care! He deserved it! Calling you that!"
"Professor Anthony," Harry said, "Malfoy cursed at Hermione. Everyone was furious—"
"Wanted to clock him myself," Fred chimed in, wiping blood from his nose. "Flint got in the way."
"I got Miles Bletchley," George said proudly. "Payback for last year's boot."
Neville was practically vibrating, clenching and unclenching his fists as he turned to Ron on his left and Wood on his right. "I got Malfoy! Right in the gut! Three times! And once in the face—aimed for the nose, think I missed, though!" A nasty scrape adorned his forehead, but he seemed oblivious.
"He called me a… a Mudblood, Professor Anthony," Hermione said, her voice brave and clear. "I don't know what it means, but it can't be good…"
"It's foul," Angelina said, putting an arm around Hermione's shoulders. "Don't listen. Don't believe it."
Ron explained to Harry and Hermione, "It's a really foul word for Muggle-borns. Means dirty blood. You know, all that pure-blood rot they go on about. Honestly, reckon the slugs are cleaner than him…"
Anthony looked down at them. He didn't know what to do. Part of him didn't want to encourage violence. The other part found it incredibly difficult to muster any desire to punish them, not when he knew what 'Mudblood' meant.
In the end, he just said, "Professors McGonagall and Snape will be informed of this." He felt a wave of relief that he wasn't Head of either Gryffindor or Slytherin.
…
Neither McGonagall nor Snape seemed particularly moved by the news.
In fact, when Anthony shared a drink with Hagrid that evening, Hagrid told him this sort of thing had been playing out for decades. Five years ago. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.
"Those lot muck up the whole wizarding world," Hagrid grumbled, swaying slightly as he gestured with his tankard. "Pure-blood… load o' dragon dung… Told you the Malfoys were Death Eaters, everyone knows it… Everyone. But no one can ever pin anything on 'em. That fool Fudge…"
"I'm a bit worried about Arthur," Anthony said. "You know he's already on thin ice with Lucius Malfoy over the Muggle Protection Act. Now his sons have sent young Malfoy to the hospital wing. I doubt Lucius will take the news well."
Hagrid's face fell. "Yer right, Henry. Lucius Malfoy'll be stormin' up here. He'll have Ron an' the others expelled."
"He doesn't have that power."
But Hagrid looked even more worried. "No, Henry. He does. He's on the school Board o' Governors. They can even appoint the Headmaster." He sighed heavily, thumping a fresh bottle of brandy on the table. "Another round, Henry!"
Anthony stumbled back to the castle later—carefully quiet as he passed Lockhart's door—and woke in the night to the sound of wind. He went to the half-open window, stroking the cat and rat sleeping together on the sill.
The sky outside was thick with clouds. Purple and white lightning rolled within them. The wind whipped the curtains. Rain hammered against the sill, running down the ledge and the cat's tail to soak into Anthony's bed, making the blankets cold and heavy.
He thought of Hagrid's words. Then of the two Heads of Houses' reactions. He had a fuzzy memory of McGonagall saying something like "Served him right," and Snape deducting points from Gryffindor for "assaulting a fellow student." He even thought they'd been sitting together at the same table in the staffroom, having tea. He couldn't tell if it was real memory or another strange dream.
A flash of lightning lit the sodden grounds, the Forbidden Forest, the distant mountains. For a second, Anthony thought he saw a drenched owl struggling against the wind, flying into the distance. He shut the window tightly, moved to a dry spot on the bed, and fell back asleep.
…
Despite Hagrid's assurance that Madam Pomfrey fixed Draco Malfoy right up ("Some potion for tightenin' skin or other"), news spread the next day that Malfoy, after a night in the hospital wing, was refusing to leave. He lay in bed, moaning about a terribly sore throat.
This news came, surprisingly, from Wood.
On Sunday morning, Fred and George complained that after Anthony left the pitch yesterday, their Captain had drilled them on new tactics until one in the afternoon. They hadn't expected another dawn training session today.
Now, Wood was delivering a rousing speech to the entire Gryffindor team at the long table. "Lads, ladies. This is an unprecedented opportunity. The Slytherin Seeker hasn't even practiced with his team, and now he's lounging in a sickbed. They've got Nimbus 2001s. So what? We've got the hardest-working, most dedicated players. The strongest team spirit. We are the best Gryffindor squad in years. If someone could just land a few more punches on that Slytherin Seeker—"
"Wood!" Professor McGonagall's voice cut sharply from the staff table.
"Right, a few punches ain't enough," Fred agreed.
George added, "We need something Madam Pomfrey can't fix with a wave of her wand."
"Shut it, you two," Wood said. "Where was I… Right. If we can keep the Slytherin Seeker out of their training sessions…"
…
His wish was granted almost immediately. The grey-haired boy with the camera, Colin Creevey, developed his photos. Soon, the whole school saw them: Draco Malfoy with a neck swollen like a turkey's, slugs spewing from his mouth.
Malfoy holed up in the hospital wing, refusing all visitors. Anthony tried once, hoping to talk to him. Malfoy put on a pitiful act, moaning about his grievous injuries, and used it as an excuse to skip all his classes.
Lockhart, meanwhile, became a hero to a segment of the student body. They copied Malfoy's photos and asked Lockhart to autograph them. He obliged happily, which only increased their admiration.
"Think of all his adventures, the books he's written," they said. "Professor Lockhart had to know the right counter-curse. He wanted to punish Malfoy. Remember? He said he'd dedicate his life to fighting the Dark, and he hates discrimination!"
Lucius Malfoy lodged formal complaints with the Board of Governors and the Ministry. He ranted about the Weasleys failing to raise their children properly. He accused Hogwarts of permitting student brawls.
The Daily Prophet ran a story on the incident. Surprisingly, this didn't seem to be Lucius's doing. Professor Sprout told Anthony that Lucius Malfoy had stormed into the newspaper offices and the printing press that very morning, demanding they retract the article immediately, whatever it took.
Too late. As Sprout spoke, Anthony held a copy in his hands.
HOGWARTS ROCKED BY BULLYING SCANDAL A deeply disturbing incident occurred recently at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where a 12-year-old second-year student was subjected to a collective bullying attack by multiple older students. Photographs of the victim during the assault were circulated among students for amusement. Deeply troubling is the school's failure to take appropriate action against the students involved, beyond a token protest by Slytherin Head of House Severus Snape. More alarming still is the school's refusal to provide any form of education or punishment for the perpetrators. A source, who wished to remain anonymous, informed this reporter: 'The bullies have a history of disregarding school rules. The Weasley children, in particular, have a record of tormenting fellow students, often dismissed as mere pranks.' Furthermore, it is alleged that more than one professor was complicit in the incident. Hogwarts appears to be fostering an environment conducive to violence and misconduct, rather than a sanctuary for learning and growth. The school's tolerance and neglect of this behaviour is unacceptable. A concerned mother stated: 'I urge the Ministry to act immediately to address this issue and prevent any future bullying. Our children deserve a safe learning environment. It is our duty to ensure this basic right is upheld.'
Anthony finished reading, astonished. "This wasn't orchestrated by Lucius Malfoy?"
"No," said Professor Burbage, who was also scanning the article. "It reads like him, but if it were, he'd have mentioned Arthur and the Muggle Protection Act. He'd call the Weasleys bullies for elevating Muggles, traitors to wizardkind."
Professor Flitwick added his analysis. "Lucius Malfoy would have kept this within the Ministry and the Board. He wouldn't air it publicly in the paper. Especially not the part about the photographs. He's been demanding we confiscate them all."
"Then who?" Anthony asked, bewildered.
"No idea. Could be Fudge," Professor Burbage mused. "My joining the Wizengamot ruffled his feathers… thinks Dumbledore has too much influence. Maybe he fancies being Headmaster himself."
Regardless of the staff's speculation, most of the school believed the Malfoys were behind the article.
Ron, Fred, and George received a letter from Mrs. Weasley ("Thank Merlin, thought it'd be a Howler"). Upon hearing it was the Malfoys, she merely chided them calmly for being impulsive.
Mr. Weasley wrote to Anthony as well, saying things were awkward at the Ministry, with people giving him curious looks. He couldn't very well wear a sign saying 'My Son Punched a Malfoy.' His tone, however, seemed more combative than worried. Proud, even.
Neville Longbottom got a letter from his grandmother.
"Blimey," Neville said, unfolding the parchment. "Gran's furious." He read on, his eyes widening. "She says… she says they should have put my name in the article too."
───── ⊹ ⊹ ─────
📖Read up to (100+ ) advanced chapters on Patre\on
🔍 Search:p a t r e o n.com/GoldenLong
───── ⊹ ⊹ ─────