Gryffindor has many admirable qualities: courage, boldness, determination, and a deep regard for honor.
Translated less flatteringly? Recklessness, a complete disregard for consequences, stubbornness, and an unhealthy obsession with pride.
Human nature is complex—contradictory traits often coexist in the same person. It's simplistic to define someone using only a few adjectives.
But the existence of the House system at Hogwarts tends to amplify these traits, especially during the formative years of a young witch or wizard's life, gradually shaping them to fit the ideals of their House.
Most Gryffindor students had already been thoroughly marinated in these ideals.
So when word spread that Harry Potter and Ron Weasley had dared to sneak out of bed at night just one week into their first year, the general reaction among the lions was admiration and praise—they thought the two boys were incredibly brave.
Only a few, like Percy Weasley, frowned in disapproval.
Percy wanted to scold his brother and Harry—but even he got too caught up in the storytelling to speak right away.
Then came the real shocker: Malfoy never even showed up to the duel.
The Gryffindors exploded.
The insults flew fast and furious—each more scathing than the last.
But alongside the outrage was a wave of fierce pride.
See? Slytherins don't even have the guts to face the righteous Gryffindors in a duel. They talk a big game, but when it comes down to it, they don't even dare to show up.
Watching his classmates burst into cheers and jeers, Harry suddenly felt a chill run down his spine.
He was in awe—and a little afraid—of Tom Riddle.
A Slytherin who understood Gryffindor psychology so well, he could manipulate it effortlessly…
That was terrifying.
If Tom knew what Harry was thinking, he'd probably just shrug and say there was nothing impressive about it.
Manipulating hotheads and blockheads? Any halfway clever person could do that.
Once the noise settled a little, Harry raised his voice dramatically.
"I'm not telling you this to brag," he said solemnly, "but to warn you. If Malfoy—or any Slytherin—challenges you to a duel, don't fall for it. They're cowards. They won't show up."
The Common Room erupted with laughter and applause.
That line? It was perfect.
But make no mistake—it hadn't come from Harry or Ron. It was a Fred-and-George original. There was no way those two boys had the brains to come up with it on their own.
Worried that warning others might ruin the secrecy of their little scheme? No need.
This was Gryffindor.
If you were a true lion, how could you not take this opportunity to drag Slytherin's name through the mud and ridicule Draco Malfoy in public?
Sure enough, the moment Harry finished speaking, a few students darted out of the Common Room.
No prizes for guessing what they were off to do.
Harry and Ron exchanged a victorious glance.
It worked!
…
For the entire weekend, the story of Draco Malfoy backing out of a duel swept through the castle like wildfire.
The Gryffindors turned into walking megaphones.
Whenever they ran into friends from Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, they'd launch into a dramatic retelling of Harry's speech, complete with sound effects and exaggerated gestures.
When they crossed paths with Slytherins?
Sarcasm. Sneers. Biting remarks that made no sense unless you already knew the backstory—leaving the snakes confused and increasingly frustrated.
Of course, it's human nature to enjoy a bit of drama.
Hufflepuffs took the whole thing in stride, giggling along on the sidelines.
But Ravenclaws?
They got involved.
See, Slytherin and Ravenclaw had their fair share of history.
You think Slytherin won the House Cup six years in a row by playing fair?
Gryffindor sabotaged themselves just fine without help.
Hufflepuffs were too neutral to matter.
The only real competition came from Ravenclaw. And if Ravenclaw had a Head of House who shamelessly favored their own students like Snape did, the Cup could've easily gone to the eagles.
So when Ravenclaw students saw an opportunity to kick Slytherin while they were down, you'd better believe they took it.
Hard.
They used their greatest weapon—research.
One particular Ravenclaw girl, unkempt and bookish, her glasses reflecting a determined gleam, stood at the center of a growing crowd, clutching a thick tome.
"Draco Malfoy's behavior," she began, voice crisp and authoritative, "isn't a fluke. It's a family tradition. There's a pattern to this."
She flipped open the book dramatically.
"Draco's great-great-great-grandfather once dueled a Muggle knight. Before the duel, he fed the knight's horse a powerful laxative—senna pods. The poor beast couldn't perform the next day. Malfoy won by default. Disgusting."
Gasps and whispers echoed through the crowd.
"And his great-great-great-granduncle? Bribed his way through a duel with a famous wizard—rigged the bets, pocketed the winnings. That stunt funded an entire Malfoy manor expansion."
By now, the crowd had expanded to include students from all four Houses.
Mouths hung open. Eyebrows climbed toward hairlines.
What they'd thought was just Draco being a coward… turned out to be ancestral cowardice.
The girl turned another page with relish.
"And get this—they brag about being a pure-blood family with no Muggle ties. But their land? It was granted to them by William the Conqueror. That's right—their current estate is thanks to a Muggle king."
Cheers erupted.
"And in the 16th century, Lucius Malfoy the First tried to woo Queen Elizabeth I. When she turned him down, he allegedly cursed her. What kind of pure-blood family regularly rubbed shoulders with Muggle monarchs?"
Some stories carry no weight on their own, but once shared, passed around, and stacked atop each other…
They become crushing.
With every whispered rumor, every shared anecdote, the Malfoy family's carefully polished image cracked and crumbled.
Fueled by this new intel, students roamed the castle looking for lone Slytherins—eager to deliver mocking jabs and petty insults with giddy delight.
Even the Slytherins eventually figured out what was going on.
Their faces turned darker by the hour.
…
By Monday morning, the snakes could hardly lift their heads at breakfast.
The other three Houses stared openly, exchanging grins and whispered jokes.
Most of the Slytherins would've gladly traded their toast for an invisibility cloak.
Tom Riddle, however, remained perfectly composed—leisurely spreading butter on his bread like none of this had anything to do with him.
Then Malfoy walked in.
The Great Hall exploded.
Boos. Jeers. Laughter.
Draco's face was sheet-white.
He didn't even make it to the table. Grabbing two slices of bread, he turned and fled.
The teachers at the High Table exchanged puzzled glances. Something was clearly wrong.
Dumbledore arched a questioning eyebrow at Snape.
Snape's jaw clenched. He rose stiffly and gestured for a Slytherin prefect to follow him out.
In the Entrance Hall, the prefect explained everything.
Snape nearly fainted.
The Slytherin reputation… destroyed.